The Archive awakened at dawn.
Not with thunder. Not with earthquakes. Just a single, deafening silence.
Across the Capital Sanctum, rituals stopped mid-chant. The bell towers froze with their clappers suspended. Even the gods on their marble thrones tilted their heads to listen.
Because above them all, beyond the layers of clouds and light, the Archive stirred.
And far below, in the gutter districts buried under soot and forgotten wars, a seventeen-year-old scribe opened his eyes. His name was Kael Renn. And he had seen the sky bleed.
He stumbled outside barefoot, onto a crooked platform of cracked stone. Slum-born kids scattered around him, pointing upward in awe.
A glowing sigil burned into the clouds—twisting, ancient, and unreadable to most.
But not to Kael.
He could read it as clearly as a page beneath a scribe's lens. It was a Writ.
And it bore his name.
---
Kael had never trained in Writcraft. He wasn't a relic-seeker or an acolyte. He was a copyboy. An ink-stained runt who had spent most of his life transcribing artifact reports for the district's lowest-tier relic guild: the Iron Quill.
He was skinny. Calloused. Quiet. His clothes smelled like old parchment and dried glue. He had no noble bloodline, no crest, no aptitude ranking. He shouldn't have existed in the Archive's records at all.
So when the black-robed officials arrived just before sunrise, with Writ-Seals glowing on their palms, Kael froze.
"You are summoned by the Archive," one of them said. "You are to report to the base tier for immediate evaluation."
Kael blinked. "There's been a mistake."
The official didn't look up from the scroll. "The Archive doesn't make mistakes."
---
The Archive of Kings was a jagged tower that split the skies, its walls carved from blacksteel and whispering stone. Every floor was a dungeon. Every dungeon a trial. Every trial held relics—fragments of power left behind by ancient warlords, godlings, and dead kings.
To enter it was to be chosen. To survive it was to be reborn.
And Kael Renn had never even passed a basic glyph test.
Now, he stood among fifty candidates on a floating platform inside the Archive's threshold chamber. The air buzzed with relic energy. Sigils glowed beneath their feet. A colossal brazier above them held an open relic flame—a living record of those who had come before.
Most of the others wore combat gear or relic-enhanced armor. A few floated midair, whispering Writs already bonded to their souls. One girl held a spear that hummed like a heartbeat.
Kael stood in a patched cloak stitched with forgotten scripture. His satchel held ink pots and a rolled-up journal. He had no weapons. No training.
He didn't belong.
But the sigil in the sky had pointed to him. And so here he was.
---
A Trial Overseer stepped forward, his voice amplified by a floating crystal.
"This is the Summoning Trial. One by one, you will step forward. If the Archive deems you worthy, a relic will respond to your presence and form a bond. If not, you will be escorted out."
Simple enough. Except Kael had never heard of a relic responding to someone like him.
He watched as the first candidate approached. A flame-writ sword flared from the floor, spinning midair. The boy bonded with it instantly, a glyph burning across his chest. The crowd cheered.
Next, a twin pair from the House of Sable stepped forward. A mirror relic rose to meet them, splitting into twin daggers that curved like horns. Again, the bond was immediate.
Relic after relic answered the chosen.
Then, it was Kael's turn.
He walked slowly into the center of the circle, heart pounding so loudly he couldn't hear the gasps around him.
Nothing rose.
The chamber was still.
Silence stretched.
Until—
The floor cracked beneath him.
Everyone reeled back as a second circle of runes ignited around Kael's feet—older, deeper, not part of the trial system. A hidden seal had been broken.
From beneath the Archive's floor, a pedestal began to rise.
Upon it lay a crown.
Or what was left of one.
Blackened. Twisted. Thorned. Radiating memory like heat.
The room filled with static. Several relics that had already bonded began to shake in fear.
Kael's feet moved on their own. He approached the relic like he was sleepwalking.
And as his fingers touched the cold metal—
The world collapsed.
---
He saw an army kneeling in shadow.
A voice like thunder whispering, "Let them forget. Let them fear."
A throne shattered. A name erased. A curse buried deep.
Then—
He was back.
Kael collapsed to his knees, gasping. His hands were seared with black veins. The Overseers were yelling. Chaos erupted around him.
"That's a Lost Writ!"
"It shouldn't be active!"
"Sever the link!"
Kael looked up. His eyes burned pale gold. The Crown was gone—but he could still feel it. Still hear it.
"I remember you," it said in his mind.
"You are mine now."
---
Kael woke up underground. Shackled to a wall. Alone.
His neck still burned. The veins were pulsing with power he didn't understand. The overseers had tried to isolate him, probably to keep the other relics from reacting again.
But it didn't matter.
Something inside him had changed.
He was no longer just a scribe.
Not anymore.
---
The Archive had chosen Kael Renn.
And now?
The Archive would remember why it once feared its kings.