The Ministry of Magical Materials loomed like an ancient cathedral fused with a research lab—vaulted obsidian pillars stitched with glowing glyphs, massive crystalline lenses mounted like chandeliers, and stacks of floating scrolls drifting past towering stained-glass windows that shimmered with mana.

Cinder led Miles through the grand foyer, their footsteps echoing softly over polished silver-tile. Workers in embroidered robes glided between desks, some scribbling furiously, others arguing with floating index spirits.

Miles rubbed his arm. “This place is... intense. Like Hogwarts had a lovechild with the DMV.”

Cinder didn’t smile. Not this time.

She looked serious. Pensive.

“Miles,” she said softly, stopping beside a stone basin filled with glowing ink. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

He turned, still smiling faintly. “Uh-oh. Is it about the skeleton I accidentally tripped into? Because I swear that wasn’t on purpose.”

She shook her head, pale hair catching the ghostlight.

“I’ve been trying to find you in the Archives,” she said. “Ever since the soul link formed. But your name—your thread—it’s not there. At all.”

Miles blinked. “Wait—like, not there not there?”

She nodded.

“But… I exist. I mean, I’ve got the awkward teen phase, an embarrassing YouTube channel, an ah ex-girlfriend who stole my hoodie—I’m definitely real.”

“I know,” Cinder said gently. “But the Archives track every soul. Even those who never make it to birth. Everyone is part of the tapestry. Every soul matters.”

Miles furrowed his brow. “So… you’re saying all souls are... connected?”

“Yes. All souls impact each other—some briefly, some across lifetimes. The experiences we share? They’re like... threads. They fuel us. Shape us. Some souls burn brightly and short. Others smolder for centuries. Each rebirth is a chance to feel something new.”

Miles was quiet.

Then: “So… life’s about experiences?”

Cinder’s eyes warmed. “No. Life is what you make of those experiences. It’s whatever fuels your heart.”

That hit something.

Miles turned away, staring into the glowing basin. His reflection shimmered like a dream half-remembered.

“…What fuels my heart?” he echoed, almost to himself.

He didn’t know.

Video games? Laughter? His siblings? Hazel? Streaming?

None of it felt like the full truth. Not anymore.

He glanced back. “Do you know what fuels mine?”

Cinder’s expression turned solemn again. “That’s the problem. You’re missing from the records. It’s like you were... erased. Not lost—removed.”

She stepped forward, lowering her voice. “That’s why we’re here. To search the fragment records. The old backups. Maybe even speak to a threadweaver if they’ll let us.”

Miles paled slightly. “And if we don’t find anything?”

Cinder hesitated.

Behind her, a passing clerk whispered a prayer before handing off a bottled soul.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “If your soul has no tether, no record… it risks drifting. You saw the Damned. That’s what happens to souls that slip between the cracks.”

Miles exhaled, slow. His fingers curled unconsciously into fists.

“I don’t want to become that,” he whispered. “I don’t want to disappear.”

Cinder reached out, gently taking his hand again.

“You won’t,” she said, voice steady. “I won’t let you.”

Her grip tightened.

“We’ll find your thread. Whatever it takes.”

And together, they stepped deeper into the Ministry—toward the Vault of Forgotten Names.

Inside the Vault of Forgotten Names, the atmosphere crackled with latent energy.

Cinder led the group through a cavernous chamber bathed in sapphire glow. Glyphs shimmered across the obsidian floors in quiet pulses, like heartbeat trails underfoot. Dozens of archivists and magical agents bustled through the space—some whispering to ancient scrolls, others levitating relics sealed in crystal or ink-bleached bone.

Willow walked at the rear, ears perked, nose twitching.

Then she stopped.

Low growls echoed from the left hall—a cluster of massive werewolves in black-and-bronze armor stood near a glowing rune forge, clearly out of place among the scholars. They towered like ironwood trees, with shoulders broader than most doorways and fur in muted grays and golds. The scent of ash, blood, and border patrol clung to them.

One of them looked up—and locked eyes with Willow.

He sniffed once, slowly. “Well, well. What’re you sniffing around here, runt?”

Willow’s hackles bristled. “Helping Cinder. Not that it’s your business, Fangbreath.”

Another chuckled, stepping forward to ruffle her ears like she was a toddler in cosplay. “Don’t get scrappy. We’re not here to rough you up. Border patrol business. We just need an artifact. Then we’re gone.”

Miles floated in, eyes wide with awe and nerves. “Whoa. You guys get... tall.”

The biggest werewolf, golden-eyed and smirking, glanced at him—then at Willow. “Some of us do.”

Willow bared her teeth. “I am gonna get tall. And then I’m gonna kick your ass.”

They barked out a laugh. “Dream on, little sis.”

Miles blinked. “Wait—sister? You’re related?”

“Unfortunately,” Willow snapped, tail twitching.

The gold-eyed werewolf grinned wider. “Yeah. Shocking, right? You’d never guess from how tiny she is. Always was the runt of the litter.”

“I’m not a runt!” Willow barked.

The tallest leaned down, speaking to Miles like sharing an inside joke. “She’s always like this. All bark, no bite. Weak, scrappy, stubborn as a sewer bat.”

Willow’s claws scraped the floor. “Say that again. Outside.”

But the werewolves just patted her head like she was a toddler in costume. “Not today, runt. We’ve got real work to do.”

They turned to leave.

“Catch you later,” one called.

Willow shouted after them, “Yeah? Run, you cowards!”

Then she howled—short and sharp, filled with frustration—before storming off toward Cinder like an angry cub.

Miles hesitated, then walked after her.

She wiped at her eyes furiously.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

“I hate them,” she muttered. “Always looking down on me like I don’t belong. Like I’m not one of them.”

“You don’t have to be like them to be strong,” Miles said.

She didn’t answer right away.

But when they reached Cinder, she didn’t look quite so stormy anymore. Just a little smaller.

And maybe, a little more determined.

Cinder stood beside a parchment-strewn desk, flipping through records under the dim ghostlight of the Ministry’s archive chamber. Her face shifted through emotions with each page—relief… confusion… then fear.

She froze.

Her eyes locked on a blank stretch of page. No name. No date. No light.

Nothing.

Her hands trembled as she slammed her palm onto a glowing glyph beside the desk.

A low chime echoed.

The floor beneath them pulsed with pale violet light, and within moments, reapers in dark robes swarmed in—silent, focused, orderly as ink flowing into paper.

Miles stepped forward, heart thudding. “What’s going on?”

Cinder kept her voice steady, but her eyes were wide. “I don’t know. I was hoping for a backup file. I guess… we’ll find out.”

An older reaper with steel-blue skin and a black veil approached. Her tone was clipped. “Come with me. Now.”

She led them down a wide passage that curved into a vaulted chamber unlike anything Miles had seen.

In the center of the room, a massive waterfall poured from the ceiling—but the water didn’t crash. It flowed slowly, like liquid starlight, and spiraled gently down into a mirror-like pool below.

Dozens of reapers gathered around its edge, their hands outstretched, casting runes and scanning the water’s surface as if waiting for it to speak.

But the river shimmered wildly. Twisting. Agitated. Glitching.

Then—wings.

A radiant figure descended from the upper balcony, light curling around her like smoke spun from sunrise. She was tall and statuesque, her bronze hair braided with white feathers, her skin glowing faintly gold.

An angel.

She landed beside the pool, eyes immediately tracking to Cinder and Miles. Her expression was unreadable, but the air grew heavier with her presence.

She spoke gently. “You’re soulbound.”

Cinder straightened. “Yes.”

“And the boy. Where are his records?”

Cinder shook her head. “That’s why I’m here. They’re not in the reaper archives. I came to see if the Ministry kept a parallel log.”

The angel’s brows drew together.

Then her expression shifted. Horror, quiet and bone-deep.

“There are no backups,” she said.

Cinder blinked. “None?”

The angel’s voice wavered. “Not missing. Erased. Gone from the Great Codex, the Records of Returning, even the Soulstream itself.”

She stepped closer to the waterfall, watching as its threads rippled unnaturally—tugged by something they could not see.

“The River is… searching for him,” she whispered. “It knows he should exist. But the tether’s been cut. Someone tampered with the fabric of time.”

Miles stiffened. “Tampered—wait, what does that mean?”

The angel turned to Cinder, eyes grave. “You must go to the Upper Skies. Speak with the Weavers. If anyone holds answers… it’s them. They tend the threads of fate.”

Cinder exhaled slowly, her voice soft. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

“It must.” The angel stepped forward. “This is a violation of the highest order. Time itself has been breached. Destiny rewritten. This is unacceptable. We will begin an investigation immediately. The one who did this—who erased this soul—is still out there.”

Miles stared at the pool.

It shimmered for a moment—and then, for just a second, reflected a version of himself with glowing eyes and a crown of shadows.

He blinked.

It was gone.