The Archivist's fingers trembled against the pages of The Last Archivist. The name had appeared like an echo from a life they had long since abandoned—The First Archivist. Myth, legend, or something far worse? They had no answers, only the pulsing weight of dread settling in their chest.
The lanterns overhead flickered, as if the Library itself was considering their next move. The Vault was never silent, not truly, but now the quiet felt unnatural, pressing in from all sides. The book in their hands grew heavier still, the ink shifting, waiting. Urging them forward.
They swallowed hard. If this was a trap, it had already been set the moment they laid eyes on this book. There was only one place where they might find answers—the Restricted Archives.
The halls stretched endlessly, their paths winding in ways that defied logic. The deeper they went, the more warped the Library became. Shelves that had once stood in place for centuries seemed to move, doorways shifting when they weren't looking. Even the air itself felt charged, humming with a presence unseen.
The path to the Restricted Archives was not one lightly taken. Few had ever dared, and fewer still had returned with their minds intact. The Vault was filled with stories of those who had stepped too deep, who had looked too closely into the abyss of knowledge forbidden. The Archivist had always believed those were cautionary tales meant to deter curiosity.
Now, they weren't so sure.
A chill seeped into their bones as they approached the great iron door, carved with glyphs older than the Library itself. The sigils twisted and rearranged themselves as if recognizing their arrival. No ordinary Archivist had access to what lay beyond—only those deemed worthy by the highest authority. Until now, they had never dared question that authority.
They pressed the book against the door.
The glyphs flickered, responding to the anomaly in their grasp. A deep, mechanical groan reverberated through the halls as locks unseen began to turn. With a final click, the door creaked open, revealing absolute darkness beyond.
The Archivist hesitated. There were rumors about this place—whispers of books that should not exist, of memories too dangerous to be known. Yet, if The First Archivist was real, this was where their traces would remain.
Summoning their resolve, they stepped inside.
The chamber was unlike any other in the Vault. Here, the shelves were carved from black stone, towering and unyielding. There were no lanterns, no candlelight—only the glow of the books themselves, pulsing like dying embers behind glass. The silence here was heavier, thick with the weight of unspoken secrets.
A whisper brushed against their ear.
They turned sharply. Nothing. Only shadows stretching impossibly long between the shelves.
Then, a flicker of movement. A shape that melted into the darkness before they could fully register it. And the whispers—no longer a single voice, but many, layered over one another in a language half-remembered.
Turn back…
The First knows…
Not meant to be…
Their breath hitched. The voices weren't coming from the air.
They were coming from the books.
Each pulsing glow, each trembling case—they were not just passive recordings. They were memories screaming to be heard.
A chill ran down their spine. They had always known the Library was alive, in its own way. But this? This was something else. Something unnatural. Something hungry.
And then they saw it. A single podium at the heart of the chamber, unlike the others. Upon it sat a book, open and waiting.
They approached cautiously, their pulse hammering in their ears. The pages were blank, yet as they stared, ink began to bloom across the parchment, forming words they knew all too well.
Their own name.
Their own story.
But it was different. The events recorded here were not what had happened. It was an alternate past, an alternate fate. The more they read, the more their vision blurred, memories tangling, shifting. Were these recollections false? Or had they already been rewritten?
A sound broke through the haze. A presence. They turned sharply, and there, emerging from the abyss of the shelves, stood a figure draped in black.
The First Archivist.
Their face was obscured by shifting ink and shadows, never quite settling on a form. But their voice—when they spoke, it was ancient and layered, a thousand echoes bound into one.
"You were never meant to exist."
The Archivist's grip tightened on The Last Archivist. "Then tell me why I do."
The First Archivist extended a hand. Another book appeared between them, its cover worn and cracked with age.
The title burned itself into their vision: The Forgotten Archivist.
The room trembled. The shelves groaned, the whispering voices rising into a frantic chorus. The Archivist knew, instinctively, that this was a crossroads. A choice. A revelation waiting to be claimed.
They reached out.
The moment their fingers touched the book, the world screamed.
The First Archivist staggered back, their form flickering as though destabilized. The shelves buckled. Glass shattered. The darkness itself seemed to recoil. And in the midst of it all, the Archivist felt something inside them break—a tether snapping, a memory unspooling.
For the first time, they saw it.
The truth.
A flood of images rushed into their mind, memories they should have had but never did. A life erased, rewritten, obscured by layers of deception. The Library was not a mere vault of recollections—it was a prison of rewritten history, a construct of carefully curated lies. And they… they were its greatest mistake.
The First Archivist's voice wavered. "You were a shadow made real. A record that should have been erased. And now… you must choose."
The book in their grasp burned against their palm. The weight of forgotten realities pressed against their skull. The Archivist knew, in that moment, that their existence was a paradox, a contradiction that should never have been allowed to persist.
But now, standing at the precipice of truth, they could not turn back.
Their choice would change everything.