The silence in the ink-chamber was absolute.
Izen sat cross-legged in the center of a circle of faded glyphs, his fingers twitching involuntarily as warmth curled through his limbs. It wasn't natural heat—it had a scent, a texture. Like something old and forgotten trying to remember itself through him. His breath came slow, too even, as though he were being breathed by something else.
He lowered his eyes to his hands. The faint violet lines still shimmered faintly beneath the skin. They moved slowly, flowing like oil in a tide he couldn't control. Every few seconds, the warmth flared again—followed by a flicker of discomfort, as if someone else's blood had just pulsed through his heart.
Across from him, Velrith remained still.
Neither man nor woman, neither entirely shadow nor entirely present. Their robe shimmered in the dim light, layers folding over one another like ink-strokes on vellum. They gave off no scent, no aura, but the pressure they exerted on the air was unmistakable—like being observed by an old book that had once been alive.
"You are changing," Velrith said at last, voice liquid and layered. "The bindings have settled."
Izen raised his head, eyes hazy. "It hurts."
"That is good. Change should never come without price."
He closed his eyes, only for a moment, and saw flashes—memories not his. A staircase carved from obsidian, disappearing into a pool of stars. A voice whispering names he didn't know. A woman with silver eyes, speaking in a language his bones remembered but his mind refused to interpret.
When he opened his eyes again, he was sweating.
"What's happening to me?" he asked. His voice cracked. "This… this isn't what I wanted. I didn't want any of this."
Velrith approached slowly, a ripple of shadow moving with each step. "Want? You were born without a shadow. You lived a life without reflection, without echo. And yet something in you still reached for the forbidden. For memory. For power. You touched the Coin. And it touched back."
"I didn't mean to."
"But you did."
Silence settled between them again. In the distance, a sound—a dull pulse, like the beating of some mechanical heart buried deep beneath the earth. Izen couldn't tell if it was real or something echoing from within.
Velrith gestured. "Stand."
He obeyed slowly, legs stiff. The floor beneath him was warm and slightly uneven, like hardened wax. The glyphs surrounding the circle pulsed once, then faded. He felt his balance shift. There was something behind him. No footsteps. No breath. But he could feel it.
Turning slowly, he faced his own shadow.
It wasn't flat.
It stood.
Black-violet and shimmering faintly, the thing rose from the ground like a person peeling off wet silk. It mimicked his posture loosely, a crooked head and slightly bent shoulders, arms hanging too loosely at its sides. Its face was empty—but then it tilted its head and smiled.
A hollow, impossible grin that reached far past where a mouth should have stopped.
Izen froze. "That's—"
"Your Core Shadow," Velrith finished. "Or rather, the shadow you drew to yourself when you bound the Coin. It bears memory, just not yours."
"It has a face."
"Because it has an opinion."
The grin widened.
Izen felt the world lean slightly toward madness.
He clenched his fists, trying to anchor himself in his own skin. "Why is it looking at me like that?"
"It's waiting," Velrith said. "For acknowledgment."
"What do I do?"
"You name it. Or it will name you."
Izen swallowed. His mouth was dry. His tongue felt like cloth.
The thing in front of him wasn't hostile. Not exactly. But it wasn't safe either. He could feel the weight of it now—like it had existed long before him and was simply amused that he had stumbled across its leash.
He stepped forward, eyes locked with the grin.
"You… are Grinless," he said, quietly but firmly.
The grin didn't disappear—but it shifted. Became something more contained. The figure bowed its head slightly, arms folding behind its back like a noble servant awaiting orders.
Velrith chuckled once. "Accepted."
And then, like a page turning without wind, the chamber itself shifted.
The walls widened. The ceiling rose. The glyphs rearranged themselves. Izen blinked. He was no longer in the same room.
Now there were shelves. Hundreds. Filled not with books, but with shadow-boxes—small wooden cases with runes etched onto them, humming faintly with memory. Some were cracked. Some bled mist. Some glowed so faintly that even in the dim, they were almost invisible.
"This," Velrith said, "is the Archive."
Izen turned in place slowly, trying to process it all. "What… what is this place?"
"Where all forgotten things are buried," Velrith said. "Where all Reavers come to write."
Izen looked at his hand again. The violet ink flickered along his veins. A word drifted into his mind: Sequence.
"You said I'm Sequence Nine. What does that mean?"
"It means you have a path. Nine is a stage. A rank. The ninth step in a ladder of forbidden remembrance. As you progress, you will earn more. Each stage grants something new—power, yes, but also burden."
Izen was silent for a long time. Then he said, "And what is Sequence Eight?"
Velrith turned, walking past shelves of humming boxes. "Ask me when your ink stops moving."
He frowned.
The ink on his skin shifted again—just slightly, like it heard Velrith's words.
They walked deeper into the Archive. Grinless followed behind them both, completely silent, its feet never touching the ground. It moved like smoke, like a dream being remembered slowly.
They reached a gate—black iron, carved with the shape of an eye whose pupil had been scratched out.
Velrith stopped.
"You want to live?" the shadow-being asked without turning. "You'll need to bind memories. Echoes. You'll need to Reave."
"And how do I do that?"
"You go where others won't. You seek what others burn. You walk into broken places. Into minds. Into ruins. And you bring back what they thought was lost."
Izen swallowed hard.
"And what if I don't?"
Velrith turned, the folds of their robe shimmering like oil.
"Then the world will forget you, just as it always meant to."
The gate creaked open without a sound.
It didn't move mechanically—there were no hinges or groans of age—but it parted as if responding to something that wasn't quite physical. Izen stepped through behind Velrith, the air growing noticeably colder. Grinless passed last, the moment its foot crossed the threshold, the runes on the floor flared.
The room beyond was unlike anything Izen had seen before. It was circular, dome-roofed, and filled with thousands of floating fragments—ink-dripping shards, each glowing faintly, suspended midair. They rotated slowly, like orbiting pieces of a shattered thought.
"This," Velrith said, "is a Vault of the Forgotten."
Izen took a cautious step forward. The floor was solid stone, dark with soot. As he moved, the ink fragments subtly shifted position, like they sensed him.
"What are these?"
"Echoes of unrecorded memories," Velrith answered. "Half-thoughts. Dying truths. Things that never found their place in the world's history. We collect them."
Izen frowned. "And I'm supposed to do what? Pick one?"
"No." Velrith pointed to a single shard near the far end of the room. It pulsed violet, its surface rippling like hot wax. "That one. It called to you when you entered the Archive. It will be your first test."
Izen walked slowly toward the shard. Each step made the air feel heavier, like he was walking through thick fog. The ink curled around his legs. Not malicious—curious.
As he reached out, he hesitated. "What's in it?"
Velrith tilted their head. "A piece of someone who was erased. Their name. Their pain. Their fate. You will see it. Feel it. And if you are not strong enough, it will consume you."
Izen's hand hovered over the shard.
Then he touched it.
—
The world dropped out from under his feet.
No warning. No sound. No sensation.
Just silence—deep, raw, absolute.
Then came the screaming.
—
He was no longer in the Archive.
He stood in a burned village under a blood-red sky. Ash fell like snow. Blackened husks of buildings leaned against each other like drunk corpses. Somewhere nearby, a bell rang—slow, deliberate.
And he wasn't alone.
A girl knelt in the dirt. Her hands were stained with soot and dried blood. Her eyes were pale gray, wide with horror. She held something in her lap—something wrapped in charred cloth. A body.
She didn't see Izen. She didn't react to him at all.
"She can't see you," Velrith's voice whispered inside his head. "You're inside her memory."
"Who is she?"
"A name long lost. Find it."
The girl stood suddenly, swaying.
Figures emerged through the smoke—men in silver robes, their eyes glowing faint blue. Binders. They spoke in strange tongues. The girl screamed a word—no, a name—but Izen couldn't hear it.
The air grew hot. The buildings around her collapsed. The silver-robed men raised their hands.
Shadows whipped from their arms like spears.
Izen stepped forward instinctively.
The moment he did, the world froze.
Everything stilled. The ash halted mid-fall. The fire paused mid-flame. The girl stopped mid-sob.
And the shadows? They hovered like knives, suspended inches from her skin.
"You interfered," Velrith said.
"I didn't mean to."
"But you did."
A heartbeat passed. Izen's own reflection appeared before him—not Grinless this time, but a mirror-image. Pale, trembling. Its eyes were wide.
"You cannot change what is past," Velrith said. "Only claim it."
The image shattered.
The world shifted again.
—
Izen gasped, slamming back into his body.
He was in the Vault again. On his knees. Hands shaking. The shard floated before him, now dimmed and pulsing faintly.
He stood. Staggered.
Velrith watched in silence.
"What… was that?" Izen asked, voice hoarse.
"A memory fragment with no anchor," Velrith said. "You touched it. Felt it. Survived it."
"I couldn't help her."
"You weren't meant to. You were meant to carry her name."
"I don't know her name!"
"You do."
Velrith gestured.
The shard floated into Izen's hand. It sank through his skin like ink into cloth. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
Then it spoke.
Seril.
A name.
Not his. But now a part of him.
Something moved behind him.
Grinless flickered, then changed shape. Its outline became slimmer. Its posture more guarded. It copied the girl's bowed shoulders, the trembling hands.
"You've begun the first Scribing," Velrith said. "The Chronicle lives."
"I don't understand what I'm becoming."
"You are becoming a Reaver, Izen Callow. One who bears the forgotten. One who remembers what the world refused to keep."
"I don't want to lose myself."
"You won't. Not yet."
Izen turned toward the Archive's exit, but Velrith held up a hand.
"Wait."
The gate had changed. Beyond it, the chamber was different—more stable. Brighter. And outside that light…
...something was watching.
"Your time in safety is over," Velrith said. "They have felt the binding. The Guild knows."
"Already?"
"You left a trace. All new Reavers do. And Lightless casting a Core Shadow? That will not go unnoticed."
Izen stared at the shadows beyond the gate.
"What do I do?"
Velrith's voice softened, like a teacher before a lesson that couldn't be taught.
"You walk into the world. And you begin to write."
Grinless took a step beside him.
Not a puppet. Not a servant.
A reflection.
Of something Izen hadn't yet become.