----Page 1----
Years later, I returned alone.
The library smelled the same, but the space felt emptier. Dust lay thick over the floorboards.
I wandered the aisles, fingers brushing across spines, until one book pulsed under my touch.
A blank cover. Warm. Alive.
I opened it. Empty pages.
"Weird," I whispered.
"Guess even books can lose their words."
I closed the book, and the air thickened around me. The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. I tried to step back, but a blinding light engulfed me.
°°°°
And then....
When my vision cleared, I was no longer in the library. Gray sky stretched endlessly above me.
My body ached, my chest felt tight, and the stench of sweat, blood, and iron burned my nostrils.
Also, wooden bars surrounded me on all sides. I was trapped in a cage.
And then, I started to panicked.
"What… where am I?" I whispered, my voice hoarse.
Around me, others huddled together. I took them in slowly. One had long, pointed ears and delicate features, pale skin stretched tight over his face. Another had coarse brown fur, a muzzle, and golden eyes.
Some had human-like forms but were bruised and filthy. Chains hung from their wrists, some broken, some still digging into skin. Fear, exhaustion, and emptiness were etched into every face.
A hand nudged me. Rough, warm, and covered in fur.
"You awake, human?"
I flinched. The creature's golden eyes met mine, calm yet wary.
I didn't know what to expect at that very moment, but my body moves on its own, and back away a few inches from him.
"Where am I?" I asked. My voice shook.
"Slave caravan," he said.
"You're lucky you're still breathing."
I tried to sit up, but the world spun around me. My chest tightened as panic rose.
"My book… where's my book?"
The furred creature blinked at me. "Book? The Brutescale warden took it. Said it was trash. Blank cover, right? He couldn't sell it."
I sank back against the wooden bars. The book that had drawn me here was gone.
The wagon jolted violently. My shoulder scraped against the wood. Outside, a reptilian guard barked orders at the drivers. Jagged scales ran down his green arms, his tail flicking behind him as he laughed. The sound made my stomach churn.
The furred creature leaned closer.
"I'm Rynn. I'm… well, you can see for yourself."
He gestured vaguely at himself.
"We're not all human like you. Some of us have fur, some have pointed ears. Most of the ones in here…"
He glanced at the others in the cages.
"…are probably like you. Slaves."
I frowned, staring at him.
"Fur… like you?"
Rynn shrugged.
"Most people do calls us furfolk. But don't mistakes us for the Beastial kin.. although were same demi humans. Beastial Kins were more powerful thsn furfolks. The others? Elves, humans… like I said, most of the ones in here are probably what you'd call slaves."
I blinked.
"You seem… out of place. Like you've never seen any of this before. Where are you from?"
He gave a small, tired grin.
"You're weird. Feels like you're not from this world, human."
"Where am I?" I asked.
"Slave caravan," he said.
"Caught by the Red Chain Merchants. You're lucky you're still breathing."
I tried to sit up, but the world spun.
"My book. Where's my book?"
He blinked.
"Book? The Brutescale warden took it. Said it was trash. Blank cover, right? He couldn't sell it."
My chest sank. The book that brought me here was gone.
The wagon jolted. I fell against the bars, my shoulder scraping wood. Outside, a reptilian guard with scaled green skin and jagged teeth barked orders at the drivers. His tail lashed as he swaggered past, laughing.
The furfolk leaned closer.
"That's Grask. Scalebrute. Likes breaking humans for fun. Don't talk back."
Grask's head turned sharply.
"What are you whispering about, furball?"
He stomped toward us, slamming his club against the bars.
"Think you're better than me, mutt?"
He jabbed the club between the gaps, hitting the furfolk in the ribs.
I clenched my fists, but another slave caught my wrist.
"Don't," he whispered.
"You'll just make it worse."
The furfolk coughed, then forced a small grin.
"Just a friendly chat, warden."
Grask sneered, eyes narrowing at me.
"And what's this? Fresh meat? Haven't branded you yet?"
He motioned for one of the guards to bring a heated iron. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air; one of the elves had just been marked.
Grask grinned, pressing the iron close to my skin.
"Welcome to the food chain, runt."
Before it touched me, another guard called out.
"Already branded, boss! Look!"
He pointed at a branded human in the other cage.
Grask grunted.
"Waste of good iron."
He tossed the tool aside and walked off, still laughing.
The wagon rolled on.
Days passed. I learned the furfolk's name: Rynn. He was older, patient, and surprisingly clever. He taught me fragments of their language.
°°°°
As the days stretched into weeks, the world revealed itself: vast and cruel, ruled by coin and chain.
The Red Chain Merchants thrived, trading lives as currency. In gilded cities, nobles wore collars of silk while others bore collars of iron. The furfolk called these places the Gilded Pits.
Whispers told of the Nullscribes, beings older than kings and faith itself, who twisted truth into lies and erased names from memory.
Their words could become law, their silence a death sentence. Even the Holy Church trembled beneath their parchment seal, and kings bent their knees before unseen pens.
When fear took root, the Tyrant's Hand, a mercenary order forged from chaos, fed upon it, turning terror into profit. It was a world destined to devour itself.
I hated the thought of it.
But what could I do? Could someone as weak as me ever make a difference?
°°°°
Weeks turned to months. Each day was unbearable. Guards screamed constantly, slamming clubs against cages. Grask seemed to take pleasure in tormenting me.
"Still breathing, runt?" he snarled, raising his club.
"I'll make boots out of you yet."
I forced myself to stay still. Don't react.
Rynn's eyes met mine, warning me to endure.
Time blurred. I learned the rhythm of survival. Rynn showed me which scraps of food to take, how to move quietly, and how to stay unnoticed.
Lira, the quiet elf, shared her meager rations and hummed softly while others slept. Siris and Klen whispered stories of distant lands, of freedom beyond the mountains, of life before chains. Their stories were fragile candles in the dark, but I clung to them.
°°°°
It was Siris's turn to bring the rations to the slave merchants, but Klen had overheard the guards talking. They spoke of the merchants' cruelty, and from what he heard, most of them were perverts.
That is why, sending Siris there would have been a terrible decision. Klen made up his mind. He would go instead.
He grabbed the tray of breads, heart pounding, and carried it toward the slave merchants' quarters. Every step was careful, measured, his eyes darting between the guards and the walls.
While walking, he managed to slip one, two, three pieces of bread inside his clothes, tucking them in places that would not be easily noticed.
When he reached the quarters, a merchant barked at him.
"Why are you here? Where is the human girl who was supposed to bring this?"
Klen swallowed, forcing calm into his voice.
"Pardon me, sir, but she is sick. She cannot come."
"Huh? Sick? Tsch. Well, if that is the case then…"
The merchant's words trailed into a cruel laugh.
What followed was a blur of pain. They beat him, kicked him, spit on him, punched him, and whipped him relentlessly, laughing each time.
"You are not even screaming. You are no fun. Get out of my sight, damn pest."
°°°°
One hour later, Klen returned to the cage, tray still in hand, his clothes slightly torn, and his face bruised. Blood had dried along a few cuts, but he walked steadily, shoulders squared, as if nothing had happened.
I rushed to him, eyes wide.
"Klen… what happened to your face?"
He let out a small chuckle, brushing at a streak of blood.
"I am fine. Maybe I lost a tooth, that is all."
His smile was effortless, like everything was perfectly normal, even though his injuries said otherwise.
He carefully handed out the breads he had hidden, sharing them with everyone.
As the group ate, Klen finally began to recount what had happened. The merchants' cruelty, how he had sneaked the breads inside his clothes, the beatings, the taunts.
His voice was steady, but I could hear the tension, the pain, and the defiance in every word.
We all listened in silence, hearts heavy at the cost he had taken to ensure everyone else ate.
When the last of the breads were distributed, Klen's smile remained. It was not pride. It was something more. Determination, a quiet courage that kept hope alive even in the darkest of days.
°°°°
On the next day...
We planned. Even Rynn began to speak of freedom, of breaking out, stealing horses, running north. Hope was dangerous, but it was all we had.
Then one night, the plan was set. We waited until the guards were drunk. Luckily, the rain masked our footsteps.
My heart pounded. We were almost free.
But something was wrong. Rynn suddenly vanished. The security was looser than usual.
Then the alarm rang. The guards poured in like wolves.
Rynn stood behind them. His golden eyes met mine, and he looked away.
"Sorry, kid," he whispered.
"I can't die for a dream."
Everything after that blurred.
They beat me until my ribs cracked, until every breath was a knife in my chest. My blood soaked into the dirt, turning the ground beneath me red.
Through the haze, I saw them. Lira, Siris, and Klen lay on the ground, their bodies trembling, faces pressed into the mud as the guards raised their clubs.
"No…" I gasped, struggling to move, my arms refusing to obey.
"It was me…"
The confession scraped out of my throat, barely more than a whisper at first.
"I… I'm the one who suggested it to them."
The realization hit the crowd like a spark in dry tinder. Accusations, shouts, the pounding of footsteps. Then, everything blurred into a single suffocating storm. But I did not look away. I could not.
"If you need someone to blame," I screamed over the chaos, my voice splintering under its own weight.
"I'm begging you… please!
Punish me instead! It was my fault!
Do not hurt them… please!"
"K… Kinon…"
Klen's voice barely formed the word. It was little more than a breath, but somehow I heard it clearly through the noise.
The slave guards kept kicking him where he lay on the ground, each blow forcing a rasp of pain from his throat. His eyes found mine, trembling, desperate, yet steady enough to tell me everything he could not speak.
It is all right. We are in this together. No one must be blamed.
His gaze said it with a certainty that shattered me more than any strike ever could.
The guards paused, cruel smiles curling across their faces. Grask turned toward me, his scaled lips pulling back to reveal jagged teeth.
"Oh, don't worry, runt," he hissed, his shadow falling over me.
"We'll make sure you suffer plenty."
The club came down again. Pain shot through my skull, and I fell to my knees, blood dripping down my face. The world wavered, but I refused to fall.
Grask's hand tightened in my hair, forcing my head up. His breath reeked of blood and sweat.
"You think you can change your fate, runt?" he hissed, his grin sharp as his teeth.
"This world does not care for your kind. The Nullscribes decide what lives and what dies. Humans like you are nothing but scraps, fodder to be crushed beneath the wheels of the strong. Your suffering means nothing, your hope means nothing. You are already lost."
Then a soft hum cut through the silence.
The ground beneath us began to glow.
Grask froze. His eyes widened as a faint golden light shimmered in the dirt between us. Slowly, his grip loosened.
He released me, stumbling a step back as if he had just seen a ghost.
"I... it's impossible," he muttered, voice shaking.
"I already burned that book."
The light swelled, threads of gold spiraling upward until they formed a familiar shape.
A book. Blank cover. Scorched edges. Yet whole.
It hovered toward me, warm and alive.
I reached out without thinking, my hand trembling.
The book opened on its own, empty pages fluttering in a wind that wasn't there.
I laid my palm across the paper. I didn't understand why, only that I had to.
A droplet of blood fell from my fingertips, landing on the page.
The book reacted instantly.
Light exploded outward, blinding and pure.
For a heartbeat, the pain vanished. My ribs knit together, my wounds sealed as warmth flooded through my body. Every trace of agony disappeared, leaving only breathless awe.
The glow grew brighter still, swallowing the cage, the camp, and Grask's terrified face.
And then, from the heart of that light, something began to stir.
°°°°
As the world held its breath.
Light cracked through the dark, spilling across the battlefield of chains.
The Chronicle pulsed like a living heart beneath my trembling hands. Its pages drank my blood, and with it, my grief.
Power surged from the words that had never been written. A figure rose from that light, tall and silver-haired, eyes burning like a thousand dawns. Armor glimmered like starlight condensed into form.
Her name echoed in the ancient air.
Lysera.
She stood between the slavers and their prey, her voice carrying both wrath and grace.
"Who dares defile the bearer of the Chronicle?"
Her voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unyielding. The air itself seemed to shiver, charged with a power I had never felt before.
Grask froze for a heartbeat, his eyes narrowing, claws flexing on his jagged club. The ground trembled beneath him as if sensing the threat.
Then he roared, muscles coiled like a predator, and lunged forward, jagged club raised high. The air seemed to tremble under his fury.
With a single motion, Lysera's blade sliced through the air. The strike made no sound. Her movement was fluid, impossibly fast, almost like wind itself had taken form.
Grask swung his club to block, but it shattered into pieces against her blade, splinters flying like deadly shards.
Grask staggered back, disbelief flashing across his scaled face.
"I… impossible," he stuttered, clawed hands shaking as he tried to regain control.
Lysera advanced with relentless grace, her silver hair flowing around her like liquid light. Each step was measured, each swing precise.
Clubs and spears that had seemed threatening moments ago became meaningless against her speed. She moved too fast to track, appearing to strike from multiple angles at once.
Grask roared, swinging his remaining fists in desperation, but Lysera anticipated every move.
She ducked, rolled, and pivoted, her blade flashing with streaks of light. With a swift kick, she sent Grask flying back several meters. He crashed into a broken cart, wood splintering beneath his weight.
Fear flickered in his eyes for the first time. He scrambled to his feet, calling the guards.
"Attack her! Kill her!"
His voice cracked with panic.
A dozen guards charged, weapons raised, but Lysera was already gone from their line of sight. One moment she was there, the next she struck from behind, disarming two guards with a single sweep of her blade. Sparks flew as metal met her weapon.
Grask roared again, fury and disbelief blending into a terrifying scream. He charged forward, but Lysera met him at the center of the battlefield.
Her eyes burned like molten silver as she blocked his swing and shoved him back with a burst of power that knocked the wind out of him.
Every strike, every movement of hers was like a storm contained in a human form. The air seemed to hum with energy, and for a brief moment, it felt as if even the world itself held its breath.
Grask lunged once more, but Lysera sidestepped and delivered a strike that shattered the ground beneath him. The force of it threw him off balance, leaving him exposed.
"That's enough killing for today.."
I shouted.
She stopped, blade poised, not out of mercy, but because she no longer needed to strike. Grask lay before her, panting, broken, utterly humiliated.
The surviving guards froze, fear rooting them in place as the truth settled over them. They were no match.
Panic spread like wildfire. Most of them turned and fled, scrambling into the shadows of the forest, claws and weapons clattering against the ground.
Lysera did not give them a chance. She moved like wind and shadow, striking with precision. One guard raised his spear and vanished before his attack landed. Another tried to swing a club and was met with the cold edge of her blade.
She left no mercy, no hesitation, cutting them down one by one. The sound of their screams and the clash of steel echoed through the clearing, but she was calm, almost serene, as if delivering justice rather than indulging in slaughter.
While Lysera tore through the remaining guards and the slave traders, I noticed Grask hesitate at the edge of the chaos.
His eyes darted from the carnage to me and the floating book, fear twisting his face. With a sudden roar, he turned and sprinted, claws digging into the mud, tail lashing behind him, desperately fleeing the battlefield.
I could only watch, chest tight, as those who had ruled over us with cruelty fell beneath her. Each strike was swift, final, and inevitable. The forest seemed to hold its breath, shadows bending to the path of her wrath.
When the last of the slave traders lay silent on the bloodied earth, she turned to me. Her silver eyes were fierce, unwavering, yet there was no hint of celebration—only the weight of her power and the message it carried.
Then her gaze lifted back to mine, silver eyes burning with a quiet intensity that made my chest tighten.
Slowly, she approached, her movements calm but deliberate. Then she knelt before me, silver hair cascading over her shoulders, eyes fixed on mine with unwavering focus.
"New keeper of the Chronicle," she said, her voice steady and commanding.
"I, Lysera, hereby pledge my eternal loyalty to the newfound Lord of the Codex."
The weight of her words pressed down on me, and for the first time, I truly felt the power and responsibility of the book hovering before my hands.
Chains shattered as fire burst forth, burning only those who had enslaved. Grask's scream was swallowed by light.
His body cracked, molten and broken under divine flame.
Lysera moved like wind cutting through slavers, her strikes too swift for mortal eyes.
When she stopped, there was nothing left but silence, ashes, and a trembling forest.
I crawled to my feet, chest burning, blood slicking my hands. The book hovered before me, its light dimming like it had exhaled, yet I could feel it alive beneath my palms.
I didn't understand how, but I knew something had begun. Its pages trembled, faint energy pulsing through the air.
The book held power beyond imagination. It could summon someone—a powerful being, a force I had never seen.
Around me, the survivors of the caravan emerged from the smoke. Their eyes were wide, faces pale, but they did not speak. They stared at me, at the book, and I could feel their awe and fear pressing down like a weight.
Lysera's gaze lingered, cold and questioning.
"Why spare him?" she asked, her eyes searching mine."
"He butchered your kind, played with their lives, and you let him live," she said, gaze piercing.
I raised my head weakly, voice raw.
"Because he's already finished. The fear in his eyes is punishment enough. Let him live knowing he'll never be safe again. My vengeance will come, but not now."
For a long moment, only the whisper of rain answered. Then Lysera lowered her sword.
The Chronicle turned its pages on its own, golden letters weaving into form.
Lysera Ardentveil — The First Pageborn.
I understood then. The book did not record history.
It created it.
That night, the first Pageborn awakened, and so did my will for vengeance against the world that thrived on chains.
°°°°
Smoke and embers choked the air. The caravan lay wrecked. The bodies of the Red Chain scattered like broken toys. The surviving slaves moved before they could think, driven by instinct to run.
Lira grabbed Siris's hand. Klen dragged himself through the mud. People stumbled into the trees. No one looked back.
The ropes that had bound them for weeks hung slack or melted to the ground.
For the first time, the meaning of the word free struck them like a cold slap.
I crawled to my feet. My chest burned. Blood dulled my sight, but the Chronicle floated within reach, warm as a heartbeat.
I held it to my chest, palms slick and shaking.
"Go ahead," I whispered.
"Leave without me. Stay safe. Be free."
Klen looked back, jaw clenched.
"You're right," he said softly.
"Stay safe, Kinon. I hope our paths cross again someday."
With one final wave from Siris, Lira, and Klen, they vanished into the shadows of the forest.
°°°°
Far in a time yet unwritten, silver light floods a throne room carved from obsidian. A figure sits upon a vast black throne, the Chronicle open beside him.
Footsteps echo across marble floors. Torches flare blue along crimson carpets.
A woman with long silver hair and a crystal-blue sword walks toward the throne and kneels.
Twenty voices rise in a single, chilling chorus.
"All hail the Lord of the Codex."
On the marble throne, a boy smiles.
"It's time to reshape this world."