The book was breathing again.

Ashen didn’t touch it this time. He sat across from it, knees drawn to his chest, back against the Vault wall. The Archive of Endings stretched endlessly behind him shelves spiraling down into an abyss with no floor, each filled with books not meant to exist.

The Archivist still hovered nearby, robes dripping threads of text that faded before they hit the ground. She said nothing. Not for the past thirty-seven minutes. Ashen had counted. It felt like a test.

“So,” he finally said, voice hoarse, “what happens now?”

The Archivist turned her head—slow, deliberate. Her stitched eyes remained closed.

“You breathe. You think. You survive.”

“Not exactly helpful.”

“Good. Helpfulness is how lies are written.”

Ashen rubbed his temples. The sigil on his wrist had faded from silver to black, but he could still feel it beneath the skin, an itch that pulsed when he thought too hard.

“Back at the funeral… there was an eye. In the sky.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not crazy, right? Other people saw it.”

“No.”

“…Wait—what?”

“They did not see it. They were not permitted to.”

“Permitted? By who?”

The Archivist tilted her head again, almost like she was enjoying his frustration.

“By the Veil. It protects them from what you see. You are Veilborne now. The first sigil unlocked that door. You do not get to close it.”

Ashen opened his mouth, then stopped.

The book on the floor fluttered its pages, slow and deliberate—like it was listening.

“…You said it’s the Book of Null Testimony,” he said. “Truths that weren’t allowed to exist.”

“Correct.”

“What happens if I read it?

“You’ll read what shouldn’t be known. And if your mind survives, it will never again be your own.”

A long silence.

Then

“Do I get to choose?”

This time, the Archivist did not respond. Her robes flickered—text crawling over them, forming new words before dissolving again.

“You already did.”

Ashen didn’t open the book. Not yet.

He took it with him when he left the Vault, its weight pulling at his arm like gravity was denser around it. The Guild above had returned to its usual dissonant rhythm quills scratching, memory tea brewing, scholars yelling at the air. No one noticed the sigil on his wrist. No one noticed the book.

That was the most terrifying part.

They had all gone back to pretending reality was fine.

And someone was already waiting for him. A girl.

Leaning against a crooked postbox, flipping a knife between gloved fingers. A red scarf wrapped around her face, hiding her mouth. The scarf was moving - like it was breathing.

Ashen stopped.

“...You were at the funeral,” he said.

The girl didn't reply. The knife spun once more, then vanished into her sleeve with a sound like air folding.

“Ashen Halweir,” she said at last. Voice rough. Controlled.

“You know my name?”

“Everyone who matters does. Especially now.”

She stepped forward. Slowly.

“You opened a sigil. That’s dangerous.”

“You say that like I had a choice.”

“You did. You just didn’t know you were making it.”

Ashen clenched his jaw. The book pulsed under his coat.

“Who are you?”

She tilted her head.

“Call me Vaela. I’m here to kill you.”

Ashen blinked. His body froze, fight, flight, or freeze?

Apparently, he’d gone with stare blankly.

“…Thanks for the warning, I guess?”

Vaela gave a short, dry laugh. Not friendly.

“Relax. I’m not doing it. Not yet. But others will try. And they won’t talk first.”

“Why?” 

“Because you’re carrying something inside you that should never wake up.”

Ashen felt it then, a twitch behind his eyes. A whisper in the wrong part of his thoughts. Like something had heard her.

“Rudra,” she said softly.

He flinched.

“You know that name?”

“It’s not a name,” Vaela said. “It’s a verdict.”

Later that night, Ashen couldn’t sleep.

He stared at the book again, in the dim light of his room. The sigil on his wrist glowed faintly. Not silver. Not black. Something in-between. Like it hadn’t decided what to be yet.

He opened the book.

Not to read. Just to listen.

From within its pages came a soft noise, not words. Not exactly. More like a chorus humming the shape of a thought.

He heard something that wasn’t language. Not really.

But somehow, he understood it.

“We are not dead. We are buried.”