Morning came with a sky the color of ash. Thin sunlight slipped through Custiel Morvain's curtains, painting his room in pale stripes. He hadn't slept. The night replayed itself again and again—the whispering books, the ghostly child, the shadowed devil with horns like black fire.
And the mark.
He lifted his sleeve. The sigil still glowed faintly red, its threads crawling over his forearm like veins of living coal. Even when the light dimmed, the burn remained. It wasn't just a mark anymore. It was alive.
Custiel splashed cold water on his face, staring into the cracked mirror above the basin. His silver-gray eyes looked hollow, bruised with exhaustion. "It was a dream," he whispered to his reflection. "It has to be."
But dreams didn't leave burns.
The sound of a fist on wood startled him. "Custiel! You're late again!"
It was Head Librarian Maevra, his guardian. Her sharp voice carried through the house like the crack of a whip.
"I'll be there," he called, tugging on his worn black coat. The fabric was frayed at the cuffs, but it hid his arm well enough. For now.
The library's main hall smelled of paper and ink, familiar scents that usually calmed him. Today, every sound was too sharp: the creak of the shelves, the shuffle of pages, the scratch of quills. He felt the whispers lurking beneath it all, waiting.
Maevra stood at the front desk, glasses perched low on her nose, hair tied in a severe bun. She scowled as he entered.
"You look like death, boy," she said, tapping her ledger. "I'll not have you haunting my halls like a sleepwalker. Shelves seventeen through twenty-two need sorting. Go."
Custiel muttered an apology and slipped away between the towering stacks. Normally, he lost himself in the rhythm of organizing books, but today every title seemed to hum faintly as he touched it. He froze when one book shivered beneath his hand.
Not here. Not now.
"Custiel?"
He spun around.
Elira Veylen stood a few steps away, auburn hair tied back with a ribbon, green eyes sharp with curiosity. She balanced a stack of books against her hip, her smile tilting with mischief.
"You look worse than usual," she teased. "Don't tell me you've been hiding in the Ashen Wing again."
Custiel stiffened. "Why would you think that?"
Elira shrugged. "Because no one else has the nerve. And because whenever you disappear for hours, you come back looking like you've seen a ghost."
Her words hit too close to truth. Custiel avoided her gaze, sliding a book into place. "Stay out of that wing, Elira. It's dangerous."
Her brows arched. "Dangerous how?"
He opened his mouth but stopped. What could he say? That the books whispered? That a child's ghost begged him for a last wish? That a devil of silence marked him as its vessel?
Elira watched him carefully, the teasing gone from her expression. "Custiel… if something's wrong, you can tell me."
The mark on his arm pulsed under his sleeve, as if laughing.
He forced a brittle smile. "Nothing's wrong. Just tired."
By evening, the whispers grew louder.
He sat alone at the sorting desk, candlelight flickering across piles of old tomes. His arm burned under his coat. The voices pushed at the edges of his thoughts, overlapping, pulling.
Grant it.Let me see him again.I never said goodbye.One wish. One price.
"Shut up," he hissed, clutching his head. The candle guttered, shadows lengthening like fingers across the floor.
A book slid off the pile with a heavy thud.
Custiel froze. Slowly, he turned. The book's cover was black, the title etched in shifting red letters: "Echoes of the Bound."
His mark flared.
"No," he whispered. "Not again."
The book opened. Pages fluttered until they stopped on one, ink bleeding across the paper to form words:
I wish… he would forgive me.
A woman's voice echoed in his mind—broken, pleading, heavy with guilt. The candlelight flickered wildly.
From the page rose a shape: a woman in tattered clothing, hair hanging loose, eyes hollow and rimmed with shadow. She reached toward him, hands trembling.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, let me be forgiven."
Custiel's chest constricted. He could feel her grief as if it were his own. The Archive wasn't just showing him memories—it was making him feel them.
The woman's shape flickered, splitting into two: one weeping, one snarling with rage. The second lunged, claws forming where fingers had been.
Custiel stumbled back, knocking over his chair. "No—!"
The shadow-claw slashed at him. He raised his arm instinctively. The sigil blazed crimson, and the creature shrieked, dissolving into smoke before it could touch him.
The book slammed shut.
Custiel fell to his knees, panting, the mark still burning. The whispers ebbed, but the silence left behind was heavier than stone.
From the corner of his vision, he saw movement.
Someone was watching.
At the end of the aisle stood a man, tall and thin, with silver-streaked hair and spectacles glinting in the dim light. He wore a robe ink-stained and frayed, a quill of bone tucked into his belt. His eyes were sharp, too sharp, as though they pierced straight through Custiel.
"You opened it," the man said softly. "So the Archive has chosen you."
Custiel's blood ran cold. "Who are you?"
The man stepped forward, his voice carrying the weight of countless pages. "I am Tharos, Archivist of the Ashen Wing. Keeper of records forgotten by time."
His gaze slid to Custiel's glowing arm. "And you, boy, are its new vessel."
Custiel staggered back. "No—I didn't choose this. I don't want it."
Tharos smiled faintly, though it never touched his eyes. "Choice is an illusion. Wishes cling to you now. You cannot silence them."
Custiel shook his head, heart pounding. "Then I'll resist. I'll burn them, destroy them all—"
The Archivist's smile vanished. "Burn the Archive?" His voice sharpened like a blade. "Foolish child. Every soul bound to those pages would be lost forever. Do you want that on your conscience?"
Custiel faltered. The memory of the child's plea, of the woman's sorrow, pressed against his mind.
Tharos leaned closer, whispering like ink seeping into paper. "You are not cursed, Custiel Morvain. You are chosen. Keeper of the unkept, guardian of the Archive's truth. Embrace it."
From deep within the library, the horned shadow stirred. Custiel felt it even without looking—the Devil of Silence, watching, waiting.
The mark on his arm burned brighter.
And for the first time, Custiel understood: his life no longer belonged to him.