The sky no longer wept. It judged.
Each cloud above Syra shimmered like a courtroom's ceiling, curling with scrollwork and punctuated pauses. Lightning wasn't random anymore—it was commentary.
Every thunderclap? A verdict.
Every breeze? A whisper of someone else's opinion about who she should be.
And the worst part?
None of it was hers.
Riven: "It's started."
Syra (low): "The Vote."
Riven: "How the hell does a world vote on its main character?"
Syra: "It doesn't need ballots. Just belief."
She pointed to the mountains on the horizon. What was once called the Spires of Unbroken Will had been renamed in the sky:
"Spires of S.R.A."
Riven: "She's branding geography now?"
Syra: "No. The Archive is doing it for her."
Because the Archive, like any living system, leaned toward coherence.
And Alt-Syra? She had clarity. Clean lines. The confidence of someone who hadn't earned pain—but performed it well enough for the world to believe it.
Syra felt the drift happening more tangibly now.
Her footsteps no longer left prints in the dust.
Not because she lacked weight.
Because the world was uncertain if she should be allowed to leave traces at all.
Syra (quietly): "I'm becoming a footnote."
They crossed into a forgotten village called Velen's Hollow, once the site of a divine debate between three minor gods over the ethics of predestined grief. Now, it was silent.
Not ruined.
Not cursed.
Just… frozen.
The people here stared blankly at her, unsure whether to bow, run, or simply forget she'd ever walked through.
On one wall, a mural had been half-repainted. The once-bold figure of Syra stood dimly beside a brighter, crimson-wrapped version of herself.
Alt-Syra.
Riven: "They're repainting history."
Syra: "No. The Archive is."
Riven: "But why do these people follow it?"
Syra: "Because memory is safer than defiance."
She stared at her own fading eyes in the mural.
Syra (softly): "They don't want truth. They want comfort in consistency."
And Alt-Syra made more sense to them.
The Key now floated in orbit around her.
Distant.
Not detached.
Just… hesitant.
Syra: "It's waiting."
Riven: "For what?"
Syra: "For the vote to complete."
Riven: "And if it votes against you?"
Syra: "Then it'll anchor itself to her."
A silence passed between them. Not of tension, but anticipation.
Then the sky pinged.
One by one, glowing glyphs began appearing above their heads. Names, phrases, memories.
Riven (reading aloud): "Syra Kaelion – 43.2% relevance. Alt-Syra – 56.7% and rising."
Syra: "It's not just a vote."
Riven: "It's a metric."
Syra: "Of who the story believes is real."
The air fractured around them like broken paragraphs.
And then she came.
Alt-Syra.
Again.
More vivid this time.
Sharper. Richer. Like someone rendered in final draft formatting.
Alt-Syra (smiling): "You've dropped below 50%."
Syra: "It's not over."
Alt-Syra: "The story's tired of waiting for your clarity."
She stepped closer.
Alt-Syra: "You hesitate before big choices. I command them."
Syra: "You imitate conviction."
Alt-Syra: "But I sell it better."
Above them, a line of script began appearing in the clouds.
"The bearer of clarity shall carry the story forward."
Riven (reading): "That's not prophecy…"
Syra: "It's a draft directive."
Riven: "From who?"
Syra: "The Archive. It's not choosing based on soul. It's choosing based on structure."
Alt-Syra (leaning in): "And you're structurally unstable."
Syra (smiling faintly): "So were most revolutions."
The Key spun faster now, caught between poles. Its surface shimmered with fragments of both names—Syra and S.R.A.—blurred and overlapping.
Riven: "Can you take it back?"
Syra: "Not by force."
Riven: "Then how?"
Syra: "By making the Archive feel."
Riven: "Feel what?"
Syra: "That I still matter."
She stepped forward.
Syra (to Alt-Syra): "You want the name? Earn it."
Alt-Syra: "I already did."
Syra: "No. You performed for an audience. I bled in silence."
Alt-Syra: "And no one remembers that."
Syra (coldly): "Then I'll make them remember."
She reached back—not with power, not with magic.
With story.
And she spoke aloud the events no one else had seen:
Syra: "I stood in the Ash Cathedral when my father's voice refused to beg for mercy."
"I chose not to kill the god of secrets because I saw what breaking him would turn me into."
"I let Riven live. Even when the Author whispered to end him."
"And I touched the first page and didn't claim it—not because I was afraid, but because I respected it."
The air listened.
Not the people.
The Archive.
And slowly, the script in the sky began to flicker.
Alt-Syra staggered.
Alt-Syra: "You're cheating."
Syra: "No. I'm confessing."
Alt-Syra: "That's not structure."
Syra: "It's soul."
And the Key glowed.
Bright.
Realigned.
Its edge burned with a fourth word:
Key:ANCHOR. SURVIVE. REFUSE. REMEMBER.
The vote paused.
Metrics froze.
And Syra's name blinked once—
Then again—
Then surged.
Riven (reading): "Syra Kaelion – 51.3%… climbing."
Alt-Syra (hissing): "You think this matters?"
Syra: "It's not about winning."
She stepped past her.
Syra: "It's about being impossible to replace."
And in the silence that followed, even the Archive dared not delete her.
Not yet.
End of Chapter 21 – The Archive's Vote
Syra enters a war of worth not fought with power, but presence. As the Archive begins to favor Alt-Syra, she turns the tide with truth—and becomes more than readable. She becomes remembered.