The Observatory of Unsaid Things vibrates under Ezra's feet, a soundless spire constructed not of stone but of silence—a silence so profound it devoured echo. Every brick was etched with questions that remained unasked, and some breathed their secrets when the wind rushed by.
Ezra gripped the railing, his knuckles white. Down below him, Kael Orien's world stretched out like a blackened map. Jungle creepers wrapped around ruined libraries. Rivers of ink spilled into broken cities. The sky tore open and healed like a book being written and rewritten all at once.
He came to the Redacted Oracle—blindfolded in silver threads, her eyes concealed. She remained before him with unnerving calm, catching a wind Ezra did not.
"You said the Ledger alters history," he responded, his voice raw. "How? How does a book do that?
The Ledger does not rewrite. It shows the version that was always intended to be," she replied. "It does not lie—it just decides which truth to reveal."
Ezra gargled. "And I'm the one who's supposed to read it? Why me?"
The Oracle tilted her head. "Because your mind isn't bound by certainty. You question in all directions. That makes you dangerous here… and a necessity."
Ezra did not have time to respond before a deafening sound rang out in the air—a clanging slamming shut of pages. The air rippled. And then the smell—burning parchment and wet ink.
The Oracle's smile disappeared. "The Inkbound are close.".
Inkbound?" asked Ezra.
But she was already moving away, footsteps swift and silent.
She chased him down a staircase of shifting glyphs. Each step rearranged itself, tipping him off balance, as if the staircase itself were editing his path. They burst into a vast gallery lined with mirrors that reflected not faces, but memories. Ezra turned away—and there he was, a younger him, crying in a school library, his fist wrapped around a torn book nobody wanted to mend.
"Look not too long," warned the Oracle. "Mirrors of memory consume the current."
They entered a plaza of curved obsidian. Figures had gathered at its edge.
And they were not human.
The Inkbound resembled men plunged into letters—skinless, their flesh replaced by writhing script. They had hollow ink wells as eyes, with black tears that sizzled when they struck the ground.
A figure stepped forward. "You carry the Ledger," it stated, its voice like crumpled pages. "Release it. The Forgotten must remain forgotten.".
Ezra took a step back, his satchel now heavier. He felt the Ledger throb like a pulse.
The Oracle remained firm. "He is the Witness. You cannot touch him unless he chooses to be read.".
The Inkbound breathed with a hiss of words, words spilling from their lips like oil. From their arms, they summoned Quillswords—giant steel pen-shaped weapons with dripping tips that oozed poisonous writing.
Ezra panicked. He had no weapon. No magic. No training.
But then—the Ledger snapped open in his hands.
A page flipped by itself.
"To those who remember, the past is a shield."
Not comprehending why, Ezra spoke the line out loud. The words departed his lips and coalesced into a dazzling wall before him. The first Inkbound's sword hit it—and broke.
The monster took a step back, spitting as ink evaporated off of its arm. The others edged forward, but the Oracle raised her hand and spoke a string of words Ezra couldn't hear. A ring of burning commas held the Inkbound back, and they were pushed out into the shadows.
When the silence came again, Ezra was panting.
The Oracle faced him, lips compressed. "The Ledger is reviving more quickly than anticipated."
Ezra gazed at the book in his hand, the letters on its pages rippling like water. "What do they want with it?"
"Not the book," she replied. "You. The Ledger only functions with a genuine Witness. They want to rip your tale from the pages of history before it is even written."
They returned to the Sanctuary of Unmade Truths—a hidden dome inside a petrified-knowledge mountain. Ezra sat at a lectern while the Oracle placed a slender book in front of him: The Codex of Roles.
Inside were the familiar faces of Kael Orien's choices—those called from other worlds. There was the Hero, the Mage, the Betrayer, the Guardian…
But no mention of the Witness was made.
Ezra, is that wrong?" he asked, paging through.
No," the Oracle answered. "It's an overlooked part.
Ezra frowned. "Forgotten like… deleted?"
She nodded. "There were five parts to begin with. There are only four left in the Codex. The Witness was erased long ago—too much to see.".
Ezra stood abruptly. "Then why bring me back?"
That, she whispered, "is what even the Ledger will not answer.".
That night—or what passed for night under a sky of pulsating moons—Ezra dreamed of a throne made of skeletons, the arms covered with scrolls. A voice said:
"Witnesses don't read. In the end, they have to choose what's worth remembering—and what has to be forgotten."
He woke up with ink on his fingers.
The Margin Walker arrived the next day.
A towering figure with silver-stained gloves and a smile like a bad joke, they emerged from a shadow in the wall like peeling through reality.
"You're the Witness, right?" they said. "You look like a guy who proofreads grammar for kicks."
Ezra blinked. "I did, actually.".
The Margin Walker laughed. "Just right. You're going to be needing that attention to detail where we're going."
Where are we headed?" Ezra asked.
"To the Scriptorium Below. Kael Orien's oldest building. If you're going to decipher the Ledger, you'll have to look where the first Words were ever spoken—and why others were hidden out of sight."
Ezra hesitated. "And if I say no?
The Margin Walker shrugged. "Then the Inkbound gain strength. The Ledger sleeps half-asleep. And Kael Orien is just another forgotten footnote in a very dead world."
Ezra gazed down once more at the book. Its cover felt warm, like skin.
He took a deep breath.
"Alright. My turn first."
When the shadow pulled shut behind them and the rain began, phrases from his dream returned to him:
"Not all truth need be concealed."
But Ezra possessed something which the others lacked.
He wished to remember it all—because buried in truth, he believed, was something the past wanted to hide. And he was going to discover it.