The sun over Oakhaven did not burn; it observed.
Kaelen walked the cobbled streets leading to the Upper District, his head lowered, eyes fixed on the rhythmic motion of his own boots. He counted the steps. One, two, three. Counting was safe. Counting was math, and math didn't change overnight.
The wooden horse in his pocket felt heavy, radiating a cold, static hum that numbed his thigh. Every time his skin brushed the fabric near it, a faint line of blue code scrolled across the bottom of his vision, too fast to read.
Ignore it, he told himself. Get to the Library. Check the Census. Paper doesn't hallucinate.
The city was waking up into a performance of aggressive normalcy. Bakers shouted prices that were exactly the same as yesterday. Guards stood at intersections with perfect, uniform posture. It was a high-resolution render of a peaceful morning, but to Kaelen, the edges looked sharp enough to cut.
He reached the Grand Library. It was a monolith of white marble and brass, built into the canyon wall like a limpet. The architecture was strictly Aurelian—no sharp corners, only sweeping curves and domes designed to channel Starlight. It smelled of beeswax and authorized history.
Kaelen pushed through the heavy oak doors. The air inside was cool and still, filled with the scratching of quills and the soft murmur of the Lector-Priests.
He moved straight to the Archives. He didn't wave to the door guard. He didn't stop to admire the statue of the High Pontiff in the atrium. He walked with the brittle focus of a man carrying a bomb.
"Archivist Vance," a passing scribe nodded. "You're early."
Kaelen didn't answer. He reached his station—a secluded desk in the Genealogy Wing—and pulled the heavy, iron-bound ledger for Sector 4: Residential from the shelf.
His hands shook as he opened it. The parchment was thick, cream-colored, and smelled of preservation spells.
V... Va... Vance.
He ran his finger down the list of names written in the flawless, geometric script of the Scribes.
Vance, Kaelen.
DOB: Year 970.
Caste: Ink.
Status: Active.
Marital Status: Unwed.
Dependents: None.
The words sat on the page, black and final.
Kaelen stared at the entry. He re-read it. Unwed. Dependents: None.
"No," he whispered. The sound was swallowed by the library's acoustics.
He grabbed a quill, dipping it in ink, hovering over the blank space next to his name. He wanted to write her name. He wanted to carve Lyra into the paper until the fibers tore.
But as the nib touched the parchment, the ink refused to flow. It beaded up on the tip, trembling like a drop of mercury.
[System Warning: Write Permission Denied.]
[Error: User does not have Admin Privileges to edit the Canon.]
The text flashed in his retina, searing bright against the dim library light. Kaelen dropped the quill. It clattered loudly against the desk, staining the wood black.
"Kaelen?"
He jumped, spinning around.
Bren stood there, holding a stack of requisition forms. Bren, with his ink-stained fingers and his habit of chewing on mint leaves. Bren, who had come to Kaelen's house for dinner two weeks ago and complimented Lyra's stew.
"You look terrible," Bren said, his voice hushed. "Did you sleep in your robes? The Lector will have your hide if he sees you like this."
Kaelen stood up, gripping Bren's shoulders. The contact felt real. Warm. Human.
"Bren," Kaelen said, his voice a desperate rasp. "You were there. Two weeks ago. The dinner. You brought a bottle of honey-wine. You remember."
Bren frowned, his brow furrowing. "I... yes, we had dinner. We talked about the new cataloguing system for the Northern Excavation artifacts. You were arguing that the brass gears were mislabelled."
"Not the work," Kaelen hissed. "The hostess. Who served the stew, Bren? Who laughed when you spilled the wine on the tablecloth?"
Bren's smile faltered. He blinked, slowly. "You served the stew, Kaelen. You've always been a good cook."
"No. It was Lyra."
The name hung in the air between them.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Bren's face went slack.
It wasn't a natural expression of confusion. It was a mechanical failure. His jaw loosened, his eyes widened until the whites showed all around the irises, and his pupils dilated to black saucers. He didn't breathe. He didn't blink. He stood frozen, like a clockwork automaton whose spring had snapped.
A low, buzzing sound emanated from Bren's throat—not a groan, but the sound of audio skipping, looping a single millisecond of silence.
He's crashing, Kaelen realized with a jolt of nausea. I said her name, and he crashed.
"Bren?" Kaelen whispered, stepping back.
The buzzing stopped. Bren inhaled sharply, a ragged gasp as if he had been underwater for minutes. He stumbled, catching himself on a bookshelf. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead.
"I..." Bren looked around, his eyes darting wildly. "I need to... the catalog. The gears. I have to..."
He looked at Kaelen. The friendly recognition was gone, replaced by a primal, animalistic terror. It was the look of a man who had seen a ghost in a mirror.
"Don't," Bren whispered. The word was barely audible.
"Bren, please—"
"Quiet!" Bren hissed. He looked toward the atrium, where the Lector-Priests were patrolling. He grabbed Kaelen's hand, shoving the stack of requisition forms into his chest. "Take these. Sort them. Don't speak to me. Don't speak to anyone."
Bren turned and walked away. His gait was stiff, his movements jerky, as if his body was fighting the commands of his brain.
Kaelen stood alone in the aisle, the stack of papers crutched against his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
They didn't just delete her, he realized. They put a kill-switch in the minds of everyone who knew her.
He looked down at the papers Bren had shoved at him. Standard forms. Requests for ink, parchment, candles. Boring. Mundane.
But the paper on top felt different. Thicker.
Kaelen glanced around. The aisle was empty. He slid the top sheet aside.
Tucked between two requests for quill repair was a scrap of grey paper. It wasn't standard library issue. It was rough, recycled pulp—the kind used in the Slums.
There was no signature. The handwriting was hurried, jagged, the ink smeared as if written by a hand that was shaking violently.
Stop asking.
The name triggers the Sanitation Protocol.
I saw the edit log. They didn't just wipe your file.
Stop before they delete you too.
Kaelen stared at the note. The letters seemed to vibrate.
I saw the edit log.
Bren remembered. Or at least, a part of him did. A part that the System hadn't fully overwritten.
Kaelen crumpled the note in his fist. A wave of dizziness hit him—the Corruption from the toy in his pocket spiking in response to his rising panic. The library shelves seemed to elongate, stretching upward into infinity. The golden light of the lamps turned a sickly, digital green.
[System Alert: Paranoia Threshold Reached.]
[Perception Filter: Degrading.]
He wasn't safe here. The Library wasn't a sanctuary of knowledge; it was a graveyard where the tombstones had been whitewashed.
He shoved the note into his pocket, right next to the wooden horse. Two anchors. Two proofs.
He turned to leave, but the main doors seemed miles away. And standing in the archway of the Genealogy Wing, blocking his path, was a figure in a pristine white coat.
Captain Varrick.
The Captain wasn't looking at Kaelen. He was looking at the shelf where the ledger belonged. He was smiling, a tight, polite expression that didn't reach his eyes.
"Archivist," Varrick called out. His voice was smooth, like polished steel. "A moment of your time? A neighbour reported a disturbance at your residence this morning. Screaming, I believe."
Kaelen's blood ran cold.