The harbor of Veylan roared with its usual chorus—iron bells clanging from the docks, gulls shrieking overhead, the slap of waves against barnacled stone. Fishmongers bellowed prices in competing cadences, their voices tangling with the hiss of frying oil and the crack of crates being pried open.
"Three silvers for a redfin! Fresh as the tide, I swear it!" one man shouted, his voice rasping like rope dragged over wood.
"Liar—yesterday's catch, salted and stinking!" a woman fired back, her laughter swallowed by the crowd.
Kael threaded through the press of bodies, his satchel thumping against his hip, but his ears caught something no one else seemed to notice. Beneath the market's din, another voice whispered—low, deliberate, speaking in a tongue he didn't know. It came from nowhere and everywhere at once, like ink bleeding through parchment.
He stopped short, staring at the air above the rooftops. For a heartbeat, a tower shimmered there, translucent and trembling, its bells tolling a sound that didn't belong to this city.
"Kael!" a dockhand barked, nearly colliding with him. "You dreaming on your feet again?"
He blinked, forcing a smile. "Just listening."
"Listening to what? The gulls cursing us all?" The man laughed and shoved past, leaving Kael alone with the echo of that impossible bell still ringing in his skull.
The market's noise swelled and broke like surf—vendors shouting over one another, gulls wheeling and crying, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Kael let the tide of bodies carry him forward, his satchel pressed tight against his ribs, until something cut through the din.
A bell.
Not the iron harbor bell that tolled the hour with its dull, familiar clang, but a sharper, higher note, ringing from somewhere above the rooftops. He froze mid‑stride. The sound was clear, deliberate, and wrong—Veylan had no tower that could make such a tone.
"Move, boy!" a carter barked, shoving past with a wheelbarrow of salted fish.
Kael muttered an apology, but his eyes stayed fixed on the skyline. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw it: a spire of pale stone, translucent as smoke, shimmering against the blue.
Its outline wavered, as though drawn in ink that hadn't dried.
The bell tolled again, and no one else even flinched
The bell's echo refused to fade. It thrummed in Kael's skull like a struck wire, each vibration tugging at the edges of his sight. The spire above the rooftops sharpened—arches of pale stone, banners rippling in a wind that didn't touch the harbor. He could almost make out figures moving along its balconies, silhouettes pacing as if they belonged to a city no one else could see.
"Kael!"
The voice snapped him back. A fishmonger leaned over his stall, scales glittering on his forearms, a grin splitting his weathered face. "You'll go blind staring at clouds, boy. Or worse—someone'll lift that satchel of yours while you're dreaming."
Kael forced a laugh, though his throat was dry. "Just… thought I heard something."
The man snorted, slapping a gutted redfin onto the block with a wet crack. "Aye, you and your sounds. Last week you swore you heard chanting in the tide. You've got an ear for ghosts, not coin."
The crowd surged between them, but Kael barely noticed. The air had grown colder, a thin draft threading through the heat of the market. He rubbed his arms, shivering, though no one else seemed to feel it. Above, the phantom banners still fluttered, their colors bleeding faintly into the sky like ink soaking through parchment.
The bell struck again, sharper this time, and the world seemed to stutter. For an instant the cobblestones beneath Kael's boots weren't the same ones he'd walked all his life—they were darker, slick with rain that hadn't fallen here, carved with patterns no mason of Veylan would recognize. The market square rippled, two streets trying to occupy the same space, one fading in and out like a half‑remembered dream.
Kael staggered, colliding with a man who hadn't been there a heartbeat before. The stranger's cloak was soaked, dripping onto stones that were bone‑dry. His eyes widened in equal shock, and he barked something in a language Kael had never heard—harsh, clipped syllables that carried the weight of command.
Then the man flickered, his outline breaking apart like smoke in a draft. Kael reached out instinctively, but his hand passed through nothing. The stranger was gone, leaving only the echo of his words ringing in Kael's ears.
A woman nearby frowned at him. "You drunk already, boy? It's barely noon."
Kael swallowed hard, forcing his hands to still. "No… just lost my footing."
But his pulse was hammering. He knew what he'd seen. The world was folding, and he was the only one who could feel the crease.
The bell tolled a third time, and this time it was deafening. Kael clapped his hands over his ears, but the sound wasn't in the air—it was inside his skull, reverberating through bone. The sky above Veylan rippled like parchment soaked in water, colors bleeding and running, the outlines of clouds smearing into strange, jagged shapes.
The tower was no longer a ghostly sketch. It loomed in full, pale stone gleaming as though carved from moonlight, its bells swinging in a wind that bent no banners in the harbor below. Kael's breath caught; he could see figures leaning from its balconies, their mouths moving in silent chants.
"Why's he covering his ears?" a child's voice piped nearby.
Kael turned sharply. A small boy tugged at his mother's sleeve, pointing at him. The woman frowned, pulling her son close. Around them, others began to notice Kael's strange behavior—his wide eyes, his trembling hands pressed to his head.
"Drunk," someone muttered.
"Or cursed," another whispered.
Kael staggered back, heart pounding. He wanted to shout that they couldn't hear it, couldn't see it, that the world was tearing open above their heads. But the words stuck in his throat. The bell's toll rolled through him again, and the air itself seemed to split with a sound like paper ripping across the sky.
The ground shuddered beneath Kael's boots, a low vibration that rattled the crates stacked along the market stalls. A chorus of startled cries rose as jars toppled, fish spilled across the cobblestones, and gulls scattered in a frenzy of wings.
Then the air itself split.
A jagged seam tore across the sky, white light spilling through like a page ripped open to reveal another beneath. The phantom tower bled into full solidity, its shadow falling across Veylan's harbor though the sun still blazed overhead. Streets that did not belong here flickered into place—arched bridges, tiled avenues, fragments of a city that pressed against Veylan like two maps laid imperfectly atop one another.
People screamed as figures appeared among them—men and women in strange garb, soaked from a rain that hadn't touched this world, clutching at their surroundings in terror. Some collided with the market crowd, others stumbled through stalls as if half‑solid, their outlines wavering.
"Saints preserve us!" a vendor shrieked, dropping his knife.
"Run!" someone else bellowed, and the square dissolved into panic.
Kael stood rooted, every nerve alight. The bell tolled again, shaking his bones, and the pull of the margins surged through him like a tide. He felt it clawing at him, demanding he act, demanding he write. His fingers twitched, already tracing invisible lines in the air, though he knew the cost.
The world was breaking, and it had chosen him to see the tear.
The tremor rolled outward, striking the harbor bridge. Kael's head snapped toward it just as the wooden span groaned, its supports twisting under the weight of two realities pressing against it. People screamed as the planks tilted, barrels and baskets sliding into the water below.
"It's giving way!" a dockhand bellowed, clinging to the railing.
"Somebody do something!" a woman shrieked, clutching her child as the bridge lurched.
Kael's chest tightened. The pull of the margins surged inside him, a pressure behind his eyes, a whisper in his bones. He knew—without knowing how—that he could stop this. But the cost…
His hand moved before his mind could argue. Fingers traced lines in the air, strokes of invisible ink that shimmered faintly as they hung there. The sound was not of wood splintering but of parchment being smoothed flat, the world itself bending to correction.
The bridge steadied. The tilt eased. Screams turned to gasps as the structure held, the people clinging to it spared from the plunge.
Kael staggered, clutching his head. Something slipped away inside him—something small but irreplaceable. He tried to recall his father's voice, the low hum of a lullaby once sung to him, but the memory was gone. A hollow ache spread in its place.
Silence rippled outward, cutting through the chaos. Dozens of eyes turned toward him, wide with fear and suspicion.
"Did you see that?" a man whispered.
"He wrote in the air," another muttered, backing away.
"No man should have that power," someone hissed.
Kael's breath came ragged. He wanted to vanish into the crowd, but their stares pinned him in place. Awe, fear, and hatred mingled in their faces, and he knew in that moment he had marked himself.
The phantom city flickered once more, then receded, leaving only wreckage and confusion in its wake. But not everything vanished. A handful of strangers remained—men and women in sodden cloaks, staring around in horror, insisting in broken tongues that they had been alive only moments ago.
Kael's gaze dropped to the ground. Amid the debris, a scrap of parchment fluttered against his boot. He bent to pick it up, heart hammering.
The words were written in his own hand.
You are already being erased.
The square lay in ruins. Stalls splintered, baskets overturned, the air thick with the stench of fish and smoke. The phantom city had vanished as suddenly as it appeared, leaving only wreckage and the stunned silence of those who had survived. Kael stood in the middle of it all, chest heaving, his fingers still tingling from the glyph he had traced. He tried to summon the sound of his father's voice, but the memory was gone, hollow as an empty page.
A cry broke the silence. Kael turned to see them—half a dozen figures in sodden cloaks, their faces pale with shock. They stumbled across the square, speaking in a language no one here knew. One woman fell to her knees, clutching her head, while another shouted angrily, demanding answers from a crowd that only stared back in fear.
"What are they?" someone whispered.
"They came with him," another hissed, pointing at Kael.
The murmurs spread like fire through dry grass. Dozens of eyes fixed on him, suspicion sharpening into accusation.
"He wrote in the air," a man said, voice trembling.
"I saw it—he stopped the bridge from falling!"
"He brought this on us!"
Kael raised his hands, shaking his head. "I didn't—" The words caught in his throat. He didn't even know what he had done, only that it had cost him something he could never recover.
Then, from the cluster of strangers, one man stepped forward. His eyes were dark, steady, and when they met Kael's, the noise of the crowd seemed to fade. His lips moved, shaping a single word in a tongue Kael didn't know—yet somehow understood.
"Archivist."
The word struck him like a blow. He had never heard it before, but it rang inside him with the weight of truth.
The spell broke as the city guards pushed into the square, shouting for order. Their armor clattered, their spears gleamed, and their eyes locked on Kael.
"You there—step forward!" one barked.
Kael's pulse thundered. Before he could move, a scrap of parchment drifted down from nowhere, landing at his feet. His stomach turned cold as he bent to pick it up.
The words were written in his own hand.
Do not let them take you.
Steel clattered as the city guard pushed through the wreckage, their spears leveled, their faces grim. The crowd parted eagerly, pointing toward Kael.
"There—him! He did it!"
"He wrote in the air!"
"Take him before he curses us all!"
Kael's stomach turned to ice as the ring of armored men closed around him.
A captain stepped forward, his breastplate dented and scarred, his eyes hard. "What did you do, boy? What trick was that?" His voice carried over the square, silencing the murmurs.
"I… I don't know," Kael stammered. His throat was dry, his hands trembling. "I only—"
"Lies," the captain snapped. "You'll answer properly in the cells."
Behind him, one of the soaked strangers shouted something in their broken tongue, pointing at Kael with desperate urgency. The words meant nothing to the guards, but Kael felt them like a weight pressing against his chest.
Something brushed his boot. Kael glanced down. Another scrap of parchment lay there, edges curling as if torn from an unseen book. He bent quickly, hiding it in his palm.
The words were his own handwriting again.
Do not let them take you.
His pulse thundered. Whoever was sending these notes knew what was coming—knew more than he did.
"Seize him," the captain ordered.
Two guards lunged forward. The crowd jeered, some spitting, others hurling curses. A stone clattered against the cobbles near Kael's feet.
"No!" he cried, backing away. His vision blurred, the pull of the margins rising like a tide. The world's edges shimmered, begging to be rewritten.
The guards' hands closed on empty air. Shadows rippled across the square, bending unnaturally, swallowing Kael's outline. For a heartbeat, he felt himself slip sideways, as though stepping between the lines of a page.
When the shadows cleared, he was gone.
Kael stumbled into a narrow alley, chest heaving, the warning note crumpled in his fist. Behind him, the square erupted in confusion—shouts, curses, the captain's furious roar.
He pressed his back to the damp stone wall, heart hammering. The words on the parchment burned in his mind.
Do not let them take you.