The Blackspire Archive wasn't on any map.
Built inside the hollowed ribcage of a fallen skybeast, it clung to the edge of a cliff like a parasite on bone—its towers jagged, its windows sealed by runes too ancient for even the Codex to translate.
Kael and Elira approached under the cover of fog.
Kael stared at the twisted architecture with unease.
"This place feels… wrong."
Elira nodded.
"That's because the Archive doesn't just store books. It stores memory."
"Temple memory?"
"No. Memory they want to forget."
Inside, the air was thick and cold.
Torches burned blue. Shelves spiraled into impossible geometry—some vanishing into floors, others hanging from ceilings upside down. The Archive was alive, rearranging itself constantly, breathing in the presence of intruders.
Kael tightened his grip on the First Flame.
"We're not alone here."
Elira touched her satchel.
"Let's find the vault and get out. The Codex said the map is bound in a tome called The Ember Vein."
Kael reached out—let the flame in his chest listen.
It pulled him left.
They found the vault at the heart of the Archive.
A circular chamber surrounded by floating memory-crystals—each pulsing with imprisoned thoughts, stolen voices, and unfinished dreams. At the center was a single pedestal.
On it rested a thick, black book bound in what looked like dragonhide.
The Codex hummed in Kael's pack. A line appeared across one page:
"Speak the name. The Archive will open."
Kael stepped forward.
"Ember Vein."
The vault responded.
The book opened.
And the world unraveled.
The room vanished.
Kael found himself floating in a burning throne room—the final moments of Ardarion.
Flame raged outside the windows. Soldiers lay dead. The Flameking knelt before a man in priest's robes, blood pouring from his mouth.
Kael recognized the priest.
He was still alive in the present.
And he stood behind Kael now, in the real world, whispering:
"You've seen too much."
Kael spun, sword ignited—
Too late.
The man raised one hand. Time fractured.
Kael fell through memory.
Thousands of voices screamed in his mind. Each one clawed for attention—old kings, burned scholars, dying children. Their thoughts were his, and he was drowning.
At the center of the storm stood the priest—Inquisitor Malren, one of the Flameking's oldest advisors, thought to have died centuries ago.
But here he stood. Unaged. Undying.
"You stole a soul not meant for mortals," Malren said.
"You've twisted the Codex into something new. Uncontrolled."
Kael raised the First Flame.
"And you betrayed your king. Sold him to the Temple."
Malren nodded.
"And I watched him burn. But he didn't die from their blades."
Kael narrowed his eyes.
"Then how?"
Malren smiled grimly.
"He chose it. He burned himself. Not to escape. But to become eternal memory. He is the Codex now. You haven't been reading his words. You've been speaking to him."
Kael staggered.
Memories from the Codex flashed—each glyph, each whisper, each prophecy—it hadn't been random. It had been a conversation.
A guidance.
The Flameking hadn't scattered himself to hide.
He had scattered himself to awaken again.
Malren raised both hands, summoning chains of fire laced with divine command.
Kael gritted his teeth.
"You fear what he left behind."
"No," Malren said, unleashing the chains. "I fear what you'll become if he finishes awakening in you."
Kael dove forward.
The First Flame screamed as it met the chains—not breaking them, but rewriting them. The divine fire twisted into something older, something raw.
Kael felt the king's presence behind him.
"You're not ready."
Kael whispered:
"Then make me."
The fire surged.
Malren screamed.
And the Archive shattered.
Kael woke, breath ragged.
Elira was beside him, burned but alive. The Ember Vein lay open, its pages glowing.
On the first page, written in gold flame, were the locations of the final six shards.
Kael looked at Elira.
"He's in the Codex. All of him. The King never truly died."
Elira stared at him.
"Then what are you now?"
Kael stood slowly.
"Not him. But I'm starting to remember why he burned the world."