The polite but insistent chatter of Helena and Liora faded as he retreated, seeking refuge once more within the hushed confines of the estate’s library. He offered a mumbled excuse about needing to review the Festival’s ceremonial procedures, a fabrication that felt flimsy even to his own ears. Helena, ever solicitous, simply offered a reassuring smile and waved him on, her attention already fully consumed by entertaining Liora.

The library was a sanctuary of sorts, a dimly lit space filled with the scent of aged parchment and binding glue. Unlike the polished perfection of the rest of the estate, there was a comforting disarray to the bookshelves, a sense of accumulated knowledge and quiet contemplation. He hadn’t consciously sought it out, but his feet had carried him here almost instinctively, drawn by a faint, half-forgotten longing for the intellectual solace he had once known.

Even before the accident, even before the fractured memories and the stolen life, books had been his anchors. They had been his companions, his teachers, his windows onto the world. He’d spent countless hours immersed in their pages, tracing the contours of history, unraveling the mysteries of the past. The thought brought a pang of sadness, a wistful ache for a life he could no longer fully recall.

He wandered through the rows, running his fingertips along the spines, searching for something—anything— that might trigger a forgotten memory, a flicker of recognition. The titles were predominantly religious texts, carefully curated histories of Lyrrae’s ascension, and devotional treatises on the virtues of faith and obedience. There was a distinct lack of dissenting voices, a conspicuous absence of alternative perspectives. The library, he realized, wasn’t a repository of knowledge; it was a carefully constructed echo chamber, designed to reinforce the dominant ideology.

He paused before a section dedicated to the “Five Perturbations,” the ancient entities that Lyrrae had supposedly vanquished. The books were filled with grotesque illustrations depicting the demons as monstrous caricatures—Naraven as a towering stone giant, Vadra as a serpentine sea creature, Seraven as a shadowy figure shrouded in illusion, Mirai as a heartless weaver of webs, and Esera as a decaying specter of death. It was persuasion, plain and obvious, designed to instill fear and reinforce the Goddess’s authority.

And yet, even in those distorted depictions, he sensed a dissonance. A nagging feeling that the truth was far more complex, far more nuanced.

He continued his search, his gaze sweeping across the shelves, until he noticed a slight irregularity. A section of the paneling behind a row of particularly large volumes seemed to be slightly askew. Driven by a sudden impulse, he reached out and pressed against the wood.

With a soft click, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a hidden alcove. The space was small and concealed, barely large enough to accommodate a single person. Inside, resting on a faded velvet cushion, lay a small, leather-bound volume.

It was unlike any book he had seen in the rest of the library. The leather was worn and cracked, the pages brittle and yellowed with age. The binding was unadorned, lacking the ornate embellishments that characterized the other books in the estate.

He carefully lifted the volume, his heart quickening with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. It felt…different. It felt real.

He carefully unfolded the volume, his fingertips brushing across the fragile pages. The script was elegant, almost lyrical, but archaic, a dialect he vaguely recognized but couldn’t quite place. The pages were filled with fragments of poems, forgotten stories, and cryptic verses, hinting at a time before Lyrrae’s dominance, a time when other gods were worshipped, when other beliefs held sway. He recognized a recurring motif— depictions of flowing water, twisting vines, and ancient stones that seemed to pulse with an inner light.

His gaze fell upon a single line, penned in faded ink, that sent a shiver down his spine:

“Where stone remembers, and the current carries all away.”

He read the line again and again, the words resonating within him with an unsettling familiarity. He didn’t understand its meaning, not consciously, but it stirred something deep within him, a primal recognition of a truth long forgotten. It wasn't an intellectual understanding, but a visceral reaction, a sudden, intuitive grasp of a profound connection.

A fragmented image flashed through his mind—a crumbling temple, half-submerged in water, ancient carvings depicting figures with elongated limbs and haunting eyes. He grasped at the memory, trying to hold onto it, but it slipped through his fingers like sand.

He closed the book, his hands trembling slightly. The weight of it felt significant, a tangible link to a past he couldn’t quite access. He carefully hid the volume within his chambers, tucking it away beneath a loose floorboard in the corner of the room.

He glanced out the window, at the fractured moon hanging in the ashy sky. The weight of the lie, the pressure to conform, felt heavier than ever. This book, this hidden fragment of the past, was a spark of hope, a potential key to unlocking the mysteries of this world.

But he knew, with a growing sense of dread, that he had stumbled upon something dangerous. And he had a feeling that he wasn't the only one who knew about the book’s existence. The air felt thick with unspoken secrets, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, even in the solitude of the library. The stones of the estate, he sensed, remembered far more than anyone realized. And the current, he suspected, was about to carry him away into uncharted waters.