Ilyan, Ashwen, and Loup stepped into the Bureaucratic Archive, a cavernous, dimly lit building that felt less like an archive and more like a maze of endless paperwork. The air was thick with the scent of old ink, the kind of smell that made you want to sneeze and then weep in frustration. As they navigated through rows of cabinets that stretched higher than any reasonable human height, Ilyan couldn't help but wonder how such a place could exist. Was this truly the key to his salvation?
A small, wheezing noise broke him from his thoughts. He looked to his left, where an ancient, paper-thin figure was hunched over a massive filing cabinet, sifting through stacks of paperwork with surprisingly swift hands.
"Ah," the figure muttered, noticing their approach. "Another lost soul looking for Form 27b, I presume?"
Ilyan felt a jolt of surprise. "You know about it?"
The figure grinned, revealing more teeth than seemed appropriate. "Oh, I've seen it all. The paperwork of life and death, it's all connected, you see? Just a matter of getting the right signature, in the right hand, at the right time."
Ashwen raised an eyebrow. "You make it sound easy."
"Easy?" The figure wheezed again, almost coughing up a lung. "Nothing in this world of documents is easy. It's bureaucracy, my dear girl. The highest form of art and torture combined."
The figure motioned to the filing cabinets. "But if you're serious about this, you'll need a key. The Archivist keeps it hidden in the restricted section. Good luck getting past her."
Ilyan sighed. "Of course. We'll deal with the Archivist."
The figure's eyes sparkled, clearly amused. "Ah, you will. You see, you're not just looking for a form. You're looking for the approval of the dead."
The air was thick with the scent of decay and something more—a subtle tension that clung to the damp walls of the tavern. Ilyan pushed the door open and immediately felt the change. The air was cooler, stale like forgotten memories, and the dim light cast long shadows across the room. The sign above the door flickered intermittently, as though it too was unsure whether it should exist at all.
Inside, the tavern was sparsely populated, with only a few souls in various states of being half-present, their eyes dull, as if the weight of what they had seen in life had made them leave parts of themselves behind. At the bar sat a wiry old man with an unsettling, knowing grin. His eyes were an odd shade of green, almost too bright for someone who had seen as many years as he had. A large, faded black feather was tucked behind his ear, and he seemed to be having a quiet, one-sided conversation with a candle, which, instead of melting downwards, was melting into thin air, its light flickering as if fighting to hold onto life.
"You're looking for a witness?" The man's voice was slow and thick with an almost musical French accent, but it carried an odd weight. His words had a peculiar, rhythmic cadence, as if they were carefully placed. "I am your witness, but there is a cost, non?"
Ashwen, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow. "What kind of cost?"
The man's smile widened, almost imperceptibly, before he turned his gaze to the flickering candle, deep in thought, as if deciding whether or not to answer. He then placed a small glass of something dark and swirling in front of him, watching the liquid move in patterns too intricate to describe.
"Nothing in life comes without a price, mon ami," he said, his voice dipping into a tone of eerie playfulness. "But sometimes... sometimes the price is what you've forgotten." He motioned for them to sit.
Ilyan exchanged a quick look with Ashwen before taking a seat. Loup, as always, stood at the edge, observing the exchange with one eyebrow raised, like a cat who wasn't entirely sure whether it should pounce.
"You've seen many souls pass over," Ilyan said, trying to get to the point. "And you're willing to sign the form to confirm my death?"
The old man nodded slowly, but his eyes were sharp. "I have seen thousands pass... hundreds of ways. But you, Ilyan, are not like the others. You're different. You are neither truly dead nor alive, and that... that complicates things."
Ilyan felt a cold knot twist in his stomach. "What does that mean?"
"Oh, come now," the witness said, his fingers drumming on the bar absently. "You know what it means. This is no ordinary case. You see, the world of the dead doesn't simply accept you back with open arms. You must earn your place again. And I? I am the one who determines whether your passing was... worthy." He said this last word with a grin, as though it were some sort of private joke only he was in on.
Ashwen leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "If you're so knowledgeable, then you know that he's already been returned to life. What's the point of this form then?"
"Ah, that, my dear Ashwen, is where you are wrong." The man's voice was gentle but sharp, like a razor tucked in velvet. "The form... is not simply a form. It's a key. A form of approval from the Ministry. A final confirmation that you're not a mistake. A bureaucratic safety net to keep souls like yours from slipping through the cracks." He looked at Ilyan, his eyes twinkling with something between mischief and melancholy. "What you've forgotten, my friend, is that not all forms can be easily filled. Some of them... demand more than you're ready to give."
Ilyan straightened, swallowing hard. "What does it demand?"
The man sighed, leaning back on his stool. "A memory. A piece of your soul. A sacrifice of sorts." He turned his eyes toward the glass of swirling liquid in front of him, as though contemplating it with deep affection. "You see, the form requires you to relinquish something in order to be fully signed and processed. It's a rule... a cruel one, but a necessary one. Because no one truly dies without paying the price for that death."
Ilyan's heart skipped a beat. He had long suspected that his return to life was not as simple as it seemed, but the idea of giving up something precious in exchange for the Ministry's approval unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.
Ashwen crossed her arms. "What kind of memory are we talking about here?"
"Ah," the witness's smile widened, and he finally turned his gaze to meet Ashwen's. "That, my dear, depends on you." He gestured toward Ilyan. "He must choose. You see, in life, there are those who forget to live, and then there are those who live only to forget. A memory buried is often the one that controls you the most." He looked back at Ilyan. "Do you remember, Ilyan of the Recently Dead, what you've forgotten? What part of you was left behind when you came back?"
Ilyan closed his eyes for a moment, trying to grasp at the fading threads of a past he couldn't fully recall. His hand tightened around the relic in his satchel as the weight of the words pressed down on him. He felt a sudden urge to know—to uncover whatever was buried inside him, locked away by the very act of his return. But the fear of what that might reveal was nearly as strong.
The witness leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "If you choose to forget the truth, then your past will remain just that... forgotten. But if you wish to remember, then be prepared to pay the price. Not everything is meant to be uncovered, but then, that's what makes life—and death—so interesting, isn't it?"
Ilyan finally spoke, his voice quieter than before. "How do I make the choice?"
The witness stood slowly, almost theatrically, as he reached for a dusty old ledger resting on the bar. He slid it over to Ilyan with a knowing glance.
"This is where it begins," the witness said softly. "Sign the form, and you will have your answers. But remember... once you do, you may find that the truth is a heavier burden than you are ready to bear."
The tavern was silent as Ilyan reached for the form. The weight of his decision hung heavily in the air, palpable and suffocating. His fingers brushed the parchment, the smoothness of the paper almost mocking him with its simplicity.
It was a small act, signing a form. But in this world of convoluted bureaucracy and shifting realities, the simple task had become something much more dangerous.
Ilyan looked at Ashwen, her expression unreadable. He took a deep breath. "I'm ready."
The witness nodded, finally stepping aside. "Then let's seal your fate."