The Archive did not like to be ignored.
I learned that quickly.
The longer I worked, the more the air shifted around me—subtle at first, then undeniable. Scrolls rustled without wind. Stone tablets warmed beneath my proximity. Symbols pulsed faintly, as though breathing. I kept my hands close to my body, afraid that a careless touch might awaken something I could not quiet again.
Time passed strangely here. There was no sun to mark the hours, only the slow dimming and brightening of the braziers. I focused on the work, on the rhythm of order, because thinking about anything else led my mind back to him.
The Ash King.
I did not know why my thoughts returned to him so easily. Authority, perhaps. Fear. Gratitude twisted into confusion. Yet beneath all of it lay something deeper—something I did not have the courage to name.
Footsteps echoed softly.
I froze.
He did not announce himself this time.
He stood between two shelves, watching me as though I were part of the Archive itself—another relic that had surprised him by breathing. His presence changed the room instantly. The symbols dimmed. The warmth receded.
"You should not be reacting to this place," he said.
"I'm not trying to," I replied.
"I know."
That answer again. It unsettled me more each time.
He approached slowly, stopping just far enough away to keep the air between us taut. I could feel him there, like a held breath. His gaze dropped to my hands, then lifted again.
"Has it spoken to you?" he asked.
"No," I said truthfully. "It listens."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "That is worse."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because listening implies recognition."
Silence followed, thick and charged.
I broke it. "What happens to souls like me?"
"There are no souls like you."
The way he said it—flat, absolute—sent a chill through me.
"You speak as though I shouldn't exist," I said.
He looked at me then, really looked, as if the weight of that truth pressed heavily on him. "You shouldn't," he said quietly. "And yet here you are."
The brazier nearest us flared suddenly, fire rising higher than before. I startled, stepping back instinctively. His hand lifted just as quickly, palm open. The flame calmed at once.
"Do not let the realm sense your fear," he said. "It feeds on imbalance."
"And what does it do with attachment?" I asked.
His jaw tightened.
"You were warned about that rule," he said.
"I wasn't warned why."
He hesitated.
The hesitation mattered.
"Because attachment weakens control," he said at last. "And this realm survives on it."
I studied his face—the restraint carved into every line, the loneliness beneath authority. "Does it weaken you?" I asked softly.
The fire dimmed.
For a moment, I thought he would leave without answering. Instead, he stepped closer. Too close. The heat between us intensified, not burning, but alive—aware.
"Yes," he said.
The word landed between us like a confession.
My heart raced. "Then why are you here?"
His gaze held mine, steady and unguarded in a way that made my breath falter.
"Because," he said, "you do not look at me like the rest of them do."
"And how do they look at you?"
"As a god," he replied. "Or a monster."
"And what do I look at you as?"
He searched my face, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes before restraint closed around it again.
"As something dangerous," he said. "For both of us."
The horn sounded again in the distance, louder this time. A summons.
He straightened, the moment folding back into distance and power. "Remain here," he ordered. "Do not let the Archive answer you again."
He turned to leave.
"Wait," I said before I could stop myself.
He paused but did not face me.
"I don't know what I am," I said. "But I know what it feels like to be punished for existing."
His shoulders stilled.
When he spoke, his voice was lower. "So do I."
He left.
The silence returned—but it leaned closer now, heavy with unspoken things. I pressed my hand against my chest, feeling the steady, traitorous rhythm of my heart.
I did not know his name.
But I was beginning to understand the danger.
Not of hell.
But of him.