The descent led them into silence.
Not the natural stillness of empty space, but an engineered hush—one that tasted like secrets and memory. Even the sounds of their boots on the stone faded as they stepped through the archway marked Archives of the Unspoken.
"I hate this place already," Liora muttered, pressing her palms to her temples. "It's like it's trying to crawl into my brain and rearrange the furniture."
"That's because it is," Vespera said grimly. "This is where forgotten truths are stored. Places like this—memory, shadow, echo—they have rules."
He paused beside a chiseled monolith of obsidian. Etched in faint silver letters:
Do not speak what should remain thought.Do not remember what forgets you.Do not look behind you.
"I'm not fond of rules," Liora whispered.
"Then stay close," he replied.
The air grew thicker the deeper they walked—like trudging through dreams made of smoke. Books pulsed faintly on the walls, bound in leather, hair, and occasionally bone. They passed silent scribes with eyeless faces, scratching endless entries into scrolls that had no end. Each scribe whispered in languages not spoken in centuries, and their fingers moved like spiders across the parchment.
One scribe looked up as they passed. Its voice was the sound of dry ink cracking:
"You should not be here."
"We've earned our passage," Vespera said, raising the badge Hades had bestowed upon them. The scribe recoiled as though burned.
"The Echo walks again," it hissed. "The Archive remembers. So will you."
"What does that mean?" Liora asked.
Before Vespera could answer, the hallway shifted. The stone beneath their feet rolled like liquid, and the walls peeled back into an amphitheater of shadows.
At its center, a throne of silence—and seated upon it, a being made of mirror-shards and candle smoke. No eyes. Just a mouth that opened once and released a sound that made Liora stagger.
A single name echoed in her head: The Archivist.
"Your arrival was written," it said, in a thousand dissonant voices. "But not your departure."
Vespera stood tall. "We seek the Codex of Broken Threads."
"Few remember its name," the Archivist rasped. "Even fewer survive its reading."
"We only need a page," Liora said.
"Then leave a price."
"Everything has a cost," Vespera agreed. "Name it."
The shadows twisted.
"Your truest memory," the Archivist said.
Vespera flinched.
"That's off the table," Liora said quickly. "What about a finger? A firstborn? An unpaid parking ticket?"
But the Archivist was already unraveling.
The walls trembled. Pages flew like birds. A memory slithered out of Vespera's chest, pulled by unseen hands—a day in his youth, too soft, too real. A birthday. The scent of cinnamon. His mother's voice.
He dropped to one knee.
Liora caught him, shouting at the entity. "Stop! We'll find another way!"
But it was over. The memory was gone.
The Archivist's voice softened. "The page is yours."
A parchment fell at their feet. Blank, except for a pulsing silver thread.
They stood in silence, the weight of what had been lost pressing down harder than stone.
They ran.
Out through collapsing shelves and screaming walls. Out through corridors now teeming with echoes—phantoms who whispered their regrets with every footfall.
One phantom clung to Liora's ankle, whispering the same word over and over: "Why?" She kicked it loose with a grunt and didn't stop running.
Outside the archive, beneath a blood-hued sky, Vespera stopped.
"I don't remember what cinnamon smells like."
Liora gripped his hand. "Then I'll remember it for you."
He didn't speak, just squeezed her fingers.
The parchment fluttered, revealing faint writing only Vespera could see.
Liora peered at it. "Well?"
"It's not just a map," he said. "It's a warning."
He held it up, and the silver thread pulsed, glowing brighter with each heartbeat. Symbols rearranged themselves. Names formed, then dissolved. A phrase lingered:
Beware the Echo That Walks.
"That sounds vaguely poetic and completely unhelpful," Liora muttered.
"It's Malrik," Vespera said. "The thread loops back to him. He's been here before—maybe even wrote part of this Codex."
Liora shuddered. "You mean he remembers this place? And walked away?"
"Or never left," Vespera said grimly.
They sat down to rest by a stone spire, the only unmoving thing in the landscape. The parchment folded itself and slipped into Vespera's coat.
"What was that memory?" Liora asked softly.
He closed his eyes. "My mother. She used to make cinnamon bread on my birthday. I hadn't thought about it in decades. It was the only day I ever saw her smile."
"And now it's gone?"
He nodded. "Like it never happened."
Liora looked at him for a long moment. "You gave up something that made you who you are. That's not a weakness, Vespera. That's power."
"Power?" he echoed.
She grinned. "Yeah. Because if you're willing to give that up for this cause—for me—then nothing the universe throws at us stands a chance."
He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Flattery won't get you out of the next metaphysical deathtrap."
"Won't it?" she teased.
Elsewhere...
Malrik stood in a ruined observatory atop a cliff of bone, reading the stars like tarot cards.
"So... the Codex has awakened," he murmured.
Behind him, a woman stepped from shadow. Eyes white as milk, fingers like thorns. Her voice was winter.
"You said they'd die in the Archive."
"I lied," Malrik replied with a smirk. "It's a habit."
She circled him slowly. "You think they can handle what's coming?"
"I think," he said, "they're the only ones who might."
She frowned. "You used to believe in inevitability."
"I still do," Malrik said, folding the star-map. "But sometimes the inevitable just needs... a little nudge."
She vanished in a blink.
Malrik turned to the void. "Let's see what they remember next."