The Atrium of Shattered Affidavits was not a place that welcomed visitors. It did not forbid them either. It simply misplaced them, occasionally.
It stood halfway into a cliffside, built from legal loopholes and the bones of expired contracts. Paperwork fluttered like leaves from dying trees. There was no door, only a sign that said: KNOCK ONCE. THEN APOLOGIZE.
Ilyan knocked. Then mumbled a sorry.
The wall blinked — literally — and opened.
Inside, clerks scribbled without looking, quills moving in tandem like synchronized insects. A stream of echoing whispers drifted down the halls, where every voice spoke in tones of defeat, remorse, and bureaucracy.
Ashwen stepped through with a sneer. "Place smells like guilt."
"That's the ink," Groat sniffed. "Distilled from perjury."
They passed aisles of broken desks and verdicts sealed in glass. A child-shaped receptionist directed them to the Sub-Sub-Basement of Invalidated Testimonies.
"There," Groat pointed. "The Vault of Forgotten Witnesses."
The vault door was a cube of obsidian, floating midair. Around it orbited fragments of language — shards of unsaid words and misremembered truths. A plaque below read: WITNESS #17 — DESIGNATION: THE FORGOTTEN.
Ashwen frowned. "So how do we get it to talk?"
Groat cleared his non-throat. "You don't."
The vault cracked open without warning. Mist coiled outward, and something stepped forth: a form made of overlapping silhouettes. It had no face, only the outline of where one should have been. It hummed softly, a sound like a sigh caught in a spider's web.
"...Who speaks for the forgotten?" it asked in a voice borrowed from someone Ilyan once knew.
"I do," Ilyan said.
The Witness tilted its head. "You have passed. But what name did you carry to your end?"
"Ilyan," he answered.
The Witness paused. Then spoke again. "Then you are owed. The testimony is yours. But it is not easy to hold what others discard."
Ashwen crossed her arms. "He's used to that."
The Witness reached out, its fingers parting like smoke. A single word floated between them, wrapped in invisible ink:
PASSAGE GRANTED.
Groat buzzed. "Excellent! With that and the form, we can finalize the submission."
The Witness stepped back into the vault. But before vanishing, it whispered:
"Beware the ones who ask you to forget. They do so because you already have."
Then it was gone.
Silence returned.
Ilyan looked down at his palm where the word still glowed.
Ashwen patted him on the back. "One haunted vault down. Who knows how many to go."
"Let's not find out," he muttered.
"Too late," Groat chirped.
They exited through a different door — one that hadn't existed before. It opened into a descending stairwell lined with wanted posters of people who'd turned themselves in for crimes they almost committed.
As they walked, Ashwen finally asked, "What are you going to do once we hand in the paperwork?"
Ilyan looked ahead, silent for a long time.
"Figure out who I was," he said. "Then decide if that's who I want to be again."
Ashwen nodded. "Solid. As long as you're not about to go full brooding anti-hero."
"No promises."
A snort echoed down the hall.
They turned.
Monsieur Loup was perched upside down on a chandelier that hadn't been there a second ago, balancing a wine glass on his nose.
"Ahh, mes amis. Bureaucracy looks stunning on you both. Have we reached emotional closure yet, or do I need to monologue with jazz hands?"
Ashwen groaned. "Not him again."
"Always me!" he cackled, flipping down with a flourish. "I watched your little Witness moment. Very touching. Very avant-garde. You'd make a lovely tragedy, Ilyan."
"Are you following us?" Ilyan asked.
Loup winked. "Non. I am stalking with flair."
Groat sighed. "Ignore him and keep walking."
"But you love me, little metal monsieur," Loup cooed.
"Not even slightly."
They continued on. Loup pirouetted behind them, tossing out petals from a pocket that should not have held any. The journey to the Ministry of Posthumous Affairs awaited — and with it, the end of one quest and the start of something far more tangled.