The path to the old archive was barely discernible, a thin scar through a wilderness that had overgrown everything man-made for centuries. Long blades of grass touched at the boots of John Spart as he walked down the path, crunching with a soft gravel buried beneath the earth.
Fog rolled out of the hills near the town and enveloped the path in a misty haze. The lantern in John's hand cast a feeble glow, and stubborn, like himself.
Behind him, the others followed in silence. No one joked. No one complained. The Archive of Eldwyn stood before him, partially obscured by ancient trees with roots that grasped the foundation of the structure as if with skeletal fingers.
This ancient structure predated the town, predated most historical records. Its history, sparse as it was, spoke of it as having existed before the first settlement was built, by those who considered knowledge a threat if left unsecured. John paused in front of the doors.
They were massive slabs of black stone, covered in symbols which caused his head to hurt if he looked at them for too long. He had seen such markings before, in the manuscript, in the ruins, even on the island itself, where the Aether had caused the sea to boil up from the earth.
This place was connected. John put out his hand and touched his palm to the door. Not sun-warmed stone—this was different. It pulsed faintly, like a slow heartbeat.
He drew his hand back, his breathing shallow. "This place remembers," Dr. Whitmore said quietly from behind him.John nodded. "And it's been waiting."
With an effort, they managed to open the doors. Stone grated against stone, the sound booming far deeper than the dimensions of the building warranted.
Dust fell in thick clouds, and the smell of old air—dry, metallic, and faintly bitter—filled their lungs. Inside, the archive stretched far beyond logic. Shelves towered up out of the darkness, filled with scrolls, tablets, books, and relics of ages no historian cared to officially acknowledge.
Shelves were crooked, some had fallen over. The symbols they bore – upon the pillars, walls, even the ceiling – overlapped one another in a mad scramble to inscribe the same repetition of caution.John felt it again. That pressure in his head. A slow tightening behind his eyes, as if invisible hands turned a key within his skull. Whispers reached him at the edge of hearing, not quite words, yet almost, as if thoughts touched his.
Not yet, he told himself ,Not now! They parted ways, looking around cautiously. Everything felt too noisy: the scrape of boots on the ground, the rustle of ancient parchment pages, the dripping water echoing from somewhere below.
John walked deeper into the archive, driven by something beyond his recognition. His lantern's light danced across a fallen shelf, broken long ago. Back there, somewhat buried beneath the rubble, was a stone slab set into the wall.
His pulse quickened. The slab was covered in dust, but the mark in the center was unmistakable: the mark of the Aether. John wiped the area clean with his sleeve. The stone was cold, unlike the door.
Old Elarian text started spiraling away from the symbol. He swallowed hard and started reading."When the Aether was first touched, history split."John read aloud slowly, translating as he read.
The others assembled around him, captivated by the weight of meaning in his words."One path was chosen. One was buried."Truth was rewritten, and the Aether learned the shape of fear.""In other words," Dr. Whitmore said incredulously. Dr. Whitmore's face had gone pale. "John shook his head. "It does when people lie about it."
The passage talked of an ancient entity older than the Order, their name being The Keepers of Memory. They were not conquerors or fighters; they were chroniclers.
Their purpose was simple and impossible: to recount history as it was, without fear, belief, or hope. Consequently, because Aether was capable of reaction to belief.
When people feared it, it grew violent. When people worshipped it, it demanded more. When people tried to delete it, it learned to hide. "The Order didn't start this," John said softly. "They inherited it. "As he read further, the air chilled even more. The lantern cast its light with a flicker. The shadows cast on the walls appeared to twist and bend in unnatural shapes as if they were alive.
There was a shadow lingering behind John, darker than the other shadows. The text became more disturbing."The Aether cannot be destroyed."It can only be remembered correctly."John felt a tightness in his chest.
Visions filled his head buildings crumbling, waters opening up, people shrieking as lights scorched the sky. Nothing seemed imagined. Everything seemed remembered."The Sleeper," someone whispered.John nodded. "Not a creature. A consequence."
The slab ended with something carved deeper than the rest, a map.Not of land.Of time.Curved lines went back, crossing moments instead of places. In the middle, a point was colored blacker than any other. Under it, one word was carved with brutal emphasis, as if the stone had fought against the act.ORIGINBefore anyone had a word, the ground trembled.Not violently—slowly.
Like something vast shifting its weight far below. Dust fell from the ceiling in steady streams. A deep sound echoed upward, too low to be called a noise, more like pressure on the bones.The archive was not empty.John shut his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. The whispers were clearer now, tickling his mind in an all-too-familiar way.You read us before.You already made that choice."No," he said out loud. "I don't remember."You will.He took a step back, and the shadow behind him moved, just slightly.
It was enough.Dr. Whitmore held his arm. "John. What's happening?"John opened his eyes. "We were wrong. All of us. We've been moving forward, trying to stop what's coming."He looked at the map again."We have to go back."Silence was heavy."You mean research?" someone asked."No?" said John. "I mean history. The moment when truth was altered.
The moment when fear determined what people were permitted to remember."A second tremor hit the archive, and it was stronger. There was the sound of stone on stone, down in the earth.
The Sleeper, however, was not waking.It was listening."John felt it then—a pull, not physical, but deep inside his mind. A door opening just enough to let something look through.
""Whatever waits at the Origin," he said, his voice unwavering despite the terror creeping up his spinal cord, "already knows us. Knows me." The lantern went out. In total darkness, the whispers finally spoke as one.
And far below, in a place untouched by time or light, the Sleeper turned once more in its endless rest—amused, patient, certain.
The echo of stone meeting stone sounded almost like laughter.