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Chapter 1: The Man Who Burned the Past
The smell of smoke still clung to Cael's clothes, even though the guards had dragged him through three miles of rain-soaked streets to reach the city of iron walls.
The flames had been bright that night — too bright. He could still see them behind his eyelids whenever he blinked, licking at the shelves, eating the pages, turning centuries of forbidden knowledge into black snow that drifted into the night. He had set the fire himself. And yet, as they pushed him forward, he could not decide whether he had destroyed the past or saved it.
The gates of Veyrun rose before him, massive slabs of corroded iron held together by rivets the size of skulls. They didn't swing open so much as groan, like a dying beast forced to wake from a long sleep. The rain turned the ground into a gray mirror.
"Walk," one of the guards hissed.
He walked.
Inside, the prison-city smelled of salt, rust, and blood. The streets were narrow trenches lit by oil lamps that hissed and flickered with every gust of wind. The buildings leaned toward one another like conspirators, blocking out the moon.
This was not a place meant for men to leave.
They took him through corridors lined with cages, past faces that stared out like animals who had forgotten the shape of words. Every now and then, someone would whisper something as he passed — prayers, curse7s, or the soundless hiss of laughter.
They brought him to a stone room with no windows. Only a table.
A man waited there.
He wore the black coat of the Church of the Veil, its collar embroidered with silver thread forming the symbol of the Eye-That-Watches. His head was shaved, his face pale, almost waxen in the lamplight. Only his eyes seemed alive — sharp, bright, amused.
"Cael Draven," he said, as if tasting the name. "Historian. Archivist. Blasphemer."
Cael said nothing.
"You burned the library of Rell's Crossing." The man did not ask. He already knew. "Do you know how many lives you have erased tonight?"
Cael's throat was dry. "Better a fire than a slaughter," he said, his voice low.
The man smiled thinly. "Ah. You think yourself merciful." He leaned forward. "Do you know why we keep books locked away, Mr. Draven? It is not to hoard power. It is to keep the world sane."
Cael met his gaze. "The world was never sane."
The man chuckled softly, almost sadly. "Perhaps not. But after tomorrow, it will no longer be your concern."
He gestured. The guards dragged Cael out again.
They took him down a spiral staircase carved into the rock until the air grew damp and cold. At the bottom was a cell no larger than a grave. The door slammed shut with a sound that felt final.
Cael sat on the damp floor, back against the wall. Somewhere above, thunder rolled.
He should have felt fear. Instead, he felt… quiet.
No one would ever know what he had done tonight. The books were ash, their secrets gone. He had killed history to save the future.
Or so he told himself.
A sound made him lift his head.
A whisper.
It seemed to come from the stone itself, as if the walls were breathing words too soft to understand. He pressed his ear to the damp surface.
"…Cael…"
His blood ran cold.
He jerked back, heart hammering. The whisper came again, clearer this time.
"Find…the Key…"
And then silence.
Only the distant sound of the sea, crashing against the walls of the city.
Cael sat motionless for a long time, staring into the dark.
When the guard returned hours later with stale bread and a tin cup of water, Cael asked him who had been in the cell before him.
"No one," the guard said, frowning. "That cell's been sealed for twenty years."
Then he smirked. "But if you start hearing voices, don't worry. The stone talks to everyone down here eventually."
He laughed as he walked away.
Cael didn't laugh. He sat there long after the footsteps faded, listening to the silence.
The walls did not whisper again that night.
But he knew — deep in his bones — that they would.
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