The ink did not flow at first.
Not because it was dry.
But because it knew.
It knew that this sentence would matter more than any before it.
That whatever the Reader wrote would echo not through just the Archive—but through all of existence.
And still, the pen did not tremble.
She held it between her fingers, light as a whisper, heavier than fate.
Aiden stood beside her, silent. No longer the Swordbearer. No longer the Atlas-Bearer. No longer the Wielder of Names or Rewriter of Destiny.
He was what remained after all roles were shed.
He was a presence, not a purpose.
The Reader turned her eyes down to the blank page.
And then—
She wrote.
Not a prophecy.
Not a command.
Not even a title.
Just a single phrase:
"We are not done."
And the page glowed.
Not with light, but with certainty.
Around her, the Archive held its breath.
