The ink bled like black veins across the parchment.
Eryndor Vale ran his fingers along the brittle edge of the manuscript, careful not to tear the fragile surface. The candlelight flickered above him, casting jagged shadows across the stone walls of the archive. For seven years, he had worked in these vaults beneath Blackspire's Grand Athenaeum—seven years sifting through mundane trade ledgers and genealogical scrolls. Yet this page… this page was different.
The words were written in a script he didn't recognize. Not the flowing elegance of imperial scholars or the jagged glyphs of the Northern tribes. This was older—primal, as if the language itself resisted being known. A chill crept through his fingertips as he traced a sigil at the bottom of the page: a black sun, half-devoured by jagged teeth.
"This shouldn't be here," Eryndor murmured.
He glanced over his shoulder. The other scribes had long since departed, leaving the archives to their usual silence. No footsteps echoed down the stone corridors, and the heavy iron door to the upper floors remained sealed. He was alone.
A wiser man might have closed the manuscript and reported it to the Curators. But Eryndor Vale was not a wise man—he was a curious one.
He turned the page.
A sharp tremor shuddered through the air, and the candle's flame guttered. The words on the parchment seemed to twist, shapes curling like smoke beneath his gaze. He tried to pull his hand back—but it wouldn't move. His fingers clung to the parchment as though the page itself refused to let him go.
A whisper bloomed in his mind. Cold, distant, and heavy.
"Who breaks the seal… binds the soul."
Pain lanced through his palm, searing like fire. He bit back a cry as black threads surged from the page, coiling around his wrist and burrowing into his skin. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, too loud—too fast. The sigil of the black sun burned bright, embedding itself in his flesh.
The manuscript fell to the floor.
Eryndor staggered backward, clutching his wrist. The threads of shadow faded—but the mark remained, etched deep into his skin. His breathing quickened as the voice echoed again, louder this time.
"The last god stirs… and you are mine."
The vault door groaned.
Eryndor froze, heart pounding. Heavy boots echoed down the corridor—measured, deliberate. He snatched up the fallen manuscript, shoving it beneath his cloak. Whatever this was, it wasn't meant to be found. Not by him. Not by anyone.
The door swung open.
A woman stepped inside, her silhouette framed by the cold blue light of a magelamp. She wore a black leather coat etched with silver runes—a Weaver Knight. Her platinum hair fell loose over one shoulder, but her golden eyes burned with the cold clarity of someone who had seen too much.
Selene Drayven.
Eryndor's stomach tightened. The Order of Weavers did not visit archives for casual inspection—they came to silence things that should never be known.
"You're not authorized to be here this late, Archivist Vale," Selene said, her voice calm but edged with steel. "What are you hiding?"
Eryndor swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her gaze.
"Nothing," he lied.
Selene's lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. She took a step closer—and in the depths of his mind, the voice stirred again.
"Soon… the seals will break."