The seam spat Kael into a wide cavern lit by pale fireflies that clung to the ceiling. Stone desks stood in rows, some broken, some buried in dust. The air smelled of old ink and wet parchment.
He felt the Compass tug hard at his chest. The Key burned faint in his palm, like both wanted him here.
At the far end, figures sat hunched over desks, scratching with broken quills. Not Walkers. They didn't move right. Skin gray, hands ink-stained. They wrote with no paper, quills digging into the air. Each stroke left faint letters that vanished a breath later.
Kael's throat burned. He forced a rasp out: "Scribes."
The system whispered back, calm as ever:
[Room Detected: The Scribe's Hollow] Rule: Trade memory for record. Condition: Records last longer than names.
Kael swallowed. More trades. Always trades.
He stepped closer. One scribe's head snapped up. Its face was a smear of ink, eyes two blank holes. It held out a quill, tip dripping black.
Kael didn't take it. He'd given a memory already at the Cathedral. The hollow in him still ached.
The scribe hissed, voice thin: "Name fades. Ink stays. Trade."
Kael rasped, "And if I don't?"
The scribe leaned closer, paper breath brushing him. "Then Hollow writes you anyway."
The word made Kael's chest seize. He clenched the Key tighter.
He looked at the desks — piles of broken papers, scraps with half-words, lines crossing each other. A story, maybe, but no one to read it.
The Compass buzzed hot against him. He pulled a scrap from his cloak — one of Seren's notes. Don't answer. Not here. He folded it slow. She had trusted him with her words. He couldn't pay with his own name. Not yet.
But he had another choice.
He pressed the Key against the desk. The stone cracked, a thin seam opening. He whispered rough: "Bend."
The Key drank at him. His throat burned raw.
The desk shifted. One broken scrap slid free, glowing faint. Kael caught it. The letters on it were shaky but clear:
The Ledger is not only record. It is mouth. It eats, and it speaks. Some pages are written before you arrive.
Kael's breath caught. Before you arrive. The Ledger didn't just track. It prepared.
The system hissed sharp:
Unauthorized retrieval. Echo -2. Debt noted.
The scribes hissed as one, heads snapping toward him. Ink bled from their eyes. The quills in their hands rattled.
Kael stuffed the scrap into his cloak and ran. The Key burned cold in his fist.
The scribes didn't chase with steps. They wrote. Their quills scratched the air and words crawled on the walls around him. Hollow. Hollow walks. The letters tried to pin him in place.
Kael twisted the Key again, cracking stone underfoot. The words shuddered, slipping back into shadow. He forced himself through a seam, chest heaving.
On the other side, silence.
The scrap still glowed faint in his cloak. He pulled it out, read it again. Some pages are written before you arrive. His name. His path. Hollow.
The gong tolled faint through the stone.
BOOOONG.
Kael pressed the scrap against his chest. If the Ledger wrote him, then he would steal its pen.