Seth Virell hadn't slept.
It wasn't just insomnia — it was the lingering weight of that dream, the one that had carved itself into the marrow of his thoughts. The vision of gods upon impossible thrones, their silhouettes wreathed in cosmic fire and shadows deeper than voidlight, their gazes cutting through realities like editors excising whole chapters from existence. And behind them… or perhaps beyond them… the presence he could not name but instinctively feared.
The dream had left his mind raw, like scraped parchment. Every blink was haunted by afterimages of the seven thrones, their shapes shifting like text being rewritten mid-sentence.
By morning, he could no longer tell if the pounding in his skull was from lack of sleep or the echo of some divine rhythm he was never meant to hear.
He found himself at the corner café again. The same one as before, smelling of roasted beans and faint rain.
The barista — a pale woman with tired eyes — recognized him. She didn't say much, only nodded when he ordered the strongest coffee they had. A thick, dark brew that looked like ink pulled from the spine of a dying manuscript.
Seth drank it in three deep swallows. The bitterness was violent, an electric jolt to his nerves. For a moment, it made him feel human again.
When he stepped outside, the streets were silver-wet from last night's drizzle, puddles reflecting the warped geometry of Aetheros's skyline.
And then—
The air tore.
It wasn't a sound, not really. More like the absence of sound, as though someone had plucked the thread of reality near him and the world skipped a beat.
Seth's vision folded in on itself. The street, the wet stones, the morning bustle — all unraveled like ink running on damp paper.
And when the colors bled back in, he was no longer in Aetheros.
He stood beneath the ribbed arches of the Library of the Broken Spine.
Columns like petrified lightning rose into a ceiling so far above it felt like staring up into an unlit sky. The shelves stretched away in impossible directions, the rows bending and intersecting in ways that suggested the architecture obeyed some private grammar. Books whispered without being touched. Some trembled. Others bled faint trails of black vapor that curled into the air and were quickly swallowed by the gloom.
And there, between two shelves that seemed to be slowly swapping places, stood the Mysterious Figure.
Long coat. Gloves. A wide-brimmed hat casting the face in shadow. The scent of old ink and something sharper, like ozone after lightning.
"Virell," the figure said, voice like paper rasping against paper. "Time for your first assignment."
Seth's pulse spiked — not entirely with fear. Some part of him had been waiting for this. "Assignment?"
The figure tilted its head slightly, as if amused. "You've been given Cipher Nine. You are an Archivist now. It's time to enter your first book and decide its fate."
Seth's breath caught. "Wait. Before that… I need to ask you something."
"Ask."
"The dream," Seth said slowly, "last night I saw… something. Seven thrones. Seven… gods, I think. And… something else. Someone else. A presence I can't describe. Who—" he hesitated, feeling the weight of the question, "—who is the Nameless Author?"
The figure's stillness deepened. "You dreamed of the Nameless Author?"
"Yes."
"That," the figure said, "is the Supreme Being. The hand that wrote every reality into existence. The first and last pen. The one who crafted the spine of all things and set the pages turning."
Seth swallowed. "So… everything comes from them?"
A small nod. "Every word, every city, every god, every you."
The words made Seth's skin prickle. "And the seven thrones? Who are they?"
"The Seven Throne Gods are what the city calls Orthodox. They are the divine editors who maintain the sanctioned text of the living world. They are worshipped openly. They have their churches, their temples, their scribes and priests. Every citizen of Aetheros knows their names."
"And their power system…" Seth frowned, "it felt similar to ours. Like… ranks?"
"Yes. Nine ranks, just as we have nine Ciphers. Nine is the weakest. One is… very far from where you stand now."
Seth's mind turned over the implications. "If they're the orthodox ones… then there are unorthodox gods too?"
The figure's gloved hand twitched — not in nervousness, but like a warning gesture. "You ask too much."
"Which means I'm right," Seth said before he could stop himself.
The figure stepped forward, and suddenly the shadows beneath the hat seemed deeper. "Knowledge is not harmless. You think a few dreams and a little Cipher training make you ready? Let the wrong names pass your lips, let the wrong truths settle in your mind, and blood will spill from your eyes as madness claws into your skull. You'll wake one morning unable to tell which lines are yours and which were written for you."
The memory of waking with his blanket stained red flashed through Seth's mind. His throat tightened.
"You think last night was bad?" the figure murmured. "That was a whisper. The unorthodox will scream at you until your mind breaks and your story ends on a page you will never see."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The books around them seemed to lean in, listening. Somewhere deep in the stacks, a page turned on its own.
Seth forced himself to breathe. "Fine. Then tell me about my assignment."
The figure turned and began walking down a narrow aisle. Seth followed, the sound of his footsteps muted by the carpet of old dust.
"Every book in this library," the figure said, "is a reality. Some are harmless, little closed worlds that will never breach the base world. Others… leak. Their characters, their laws of existence, their poisons and plagues… they seep out into Aetheros if left unsealed. Your task as an Archivist is to enter these books, catalog their nature, alter them if necessary, and decide whether they will continue to exist — or be destroyed."
Seth felt a pull in his chest — fear, yes, but also an almost magnetic curiosity. "And if I choose wrong?"
The figure didn't slow. "Then the wrong story will start writing us."
They stopped before a shelf that seemed to breathe. A single book sat there, bound in some pale leather that reminded Seth uncomfortably of skin. The title was etched in faintly glowing letters that rearranged themselves every time he tried to focus on them.
"This," the figure said, "will be your first test."
Seth reached out a hand — and froze when the figure said, "Once you touch it, the book will know you. It will try to write you back. Every Archivist must learn to hold their own narrative thread… or be absorbed."
Seth pulled his hand back slightly, his mind whirring with everything he had just been told. Orthodox gods. Unorthodox things not to be spoken of. The Nameless Author. And now… the knowledge that every book was a potential reality waiting to spill into his own.
He looked at the book again. Its cover seemed to ripple, as if something beneath the leather was shifting in slow, deliberate movements.
The figure's shadow fell across it. "Decide, Virell. Will you open it?"
Seth's heartbeat thundered in his ears. "I will."
His fingers brushed the cover — and the library dissolved into blinding white.