Stories do not die.
They weaken.
In the deepest archive ever built—where shelves stretched beyond sight and ceilings vanished into darkness—ink trembled for the first time in eternity.
The Book Keeper felt it.
She stood motionless at the center of the Grand Codex Hall, her fingers resting lightly on the spine of an ancient volume older than language itself. The book whispered under her touch, its letters shuddering like frightened birds. A sensation she had not known before tightened in her chest.
Loss.
For thousands of years—longer than kingdoms, longer than gods remembered their names—she had preserved every story ever told. Myths, lies, truths, prayers, dreams. Every tale ever imagined lived here, bound by ink and will.
And she had been their guardian.
They called her many names in fairytales:
The Eternal Librarian.
The Woman Made of Stories.
The One Who Writes Fate.
None of them were true.
She was simply the Book Keeper.
And she was fading.
Her reflection appeared faintly on the polished obsidian floor beneath her feet. Once, her form had glowed softly, as though light itself feared leaving her presence. Now the glow flickered, like a candle starved of air. Silver veins of script that once traced across her skin—living words, ever-moving—were dull and cracking.
She closed her eyes.
Power drained from her not in waves, but in quiet moments—forgotten legends, untold stories, silenced voices. The world no longer believed in wonder the way it once had. Stories were consumed, not cherished. Remembered, but not lived.
Belief was her lifeline.
And belief was dying.
A sound echoed through the hall—footsteps where none should exist.
The Book Keeper turned sharply.
From between two towering shelves emerged The First Tome, a floating manuscript bound in no material known to any world. Its pages turned by themselves, glowing symbols rearranging into a single sentence written in fire-bright ink:
"The Keeper cannot endure alone."
Her breath caught.
"So it has begun," she whispered.
The tome hovered closer, its next words forming slowly, heavily—as if the book itself mourned.
"For the legacy to survive, the Keeper must choose."
She already knew what it meant.
Succession.
A truth spoken only in the oldest of prophecies—the ones she had hoped were wrong.
"I cannot," she said, voice trembling for the first time in centuries. "No one can bear this burden. To guard all stories… to remember what the world forgets…"
The tome's pages fluttered violently.
"Then all stories will end."
Silence swallowed the hall.
The Book Keeper clenched her fist, and for a brief moment, power surged—enough to make the shelves groan and the books cry out her name in a thousand forgotten languages.
She exhaled slowly.
"…Very well."
Her eyes lifted, no longer ancient, but resolute.
"There will be a successor."
The books trembled, sensing destiny shift.
"But not one born of prophecy alone," she continued. "Not a king, nor a scholar, nor a mage raised on legends."
She stepped forward, her form leaving faint letters in the air with every movement.
"The Chosen One will be someone who still believes… in a world that has forgotten how."
With a wave of her hand, the ceiling above the hall shattered—not into rubble, but into stars. Countless worlds appeared, spinning like pages in an endless book.
Cities. Villages. Wastelands. Schools. Battlefields. Quiet rooms where children read by dim light.
Somewhere among them walked the one who would inherit everything.
The Book Keeper smiled sadly.
And then she vanished—stepping out of myth and into the living world for the first time.
The search had begun.