Sareth and I wedged the door of her dorm shut with a chair and a coat rack, though both of us were painfully aware that such feeble barriers mattered little if the Calyra had eyes on us.
Yet the act lent us a fleeting semblance of humanity.
We cascaded the looted tomes across the cold floor -- a multitude we had stealthily liberated from the forbidden stacks, hidden archives, and the hushed recesses of the theologian's wing.
Titles leered at us from their places:
The Calyra's Founding Oath.
Doctrine of the First Keepers.
The Honeyed Archive.
Treatise on Narrative Purification.
Glass as Chronicle: A Study of Perfect Memory.
Hymns of the Sixth Mirror.
Sanctioned History of TCOSA's Rise to Divinity.
And a multitude more.
Sareth knelt among them like a priestess poised to dissect a forsaken god.
"Vaerin," she whispered, her voice haunting, "this isn't merely an archive. It's a faith."
I swallowed hard against the chill that raced through me. "A faith in what?"
She offered no reply.
Instead, she began to read, and with each word, the shadow deepened around us.
Hours merged into an endless haze. The flickering candles cast long shadows, their flames dwindling with each passing minute. Beneath the weight of that dim light, the books whispered truths long buried, like old wounds breaking open anew.
Slowly--an unsettling realization took shape.
The Calyra, forged in times forgotten, predated TCOSA. Ancient as the realm itself. Its age surpassed that of cities, of the very souls who believe they hold dominion over them.
The architects of this legacy were not mere archivists.
They were Mythshapers--a clandestine order of scholars who perceived untainted truths as far too perilous to be left intact. Their dogma was stark, yet hauntingly clear:
Reality is fluid. Memory is molded. History, a sharpened blade.
Sareth intoned the words, her voice wavering with the weight of their meaning:
"A nation does not rise on the fervor of war, but on the strength of narrative. A people do not venerate mere might--they revere the tales of valor."
She continued, her breath hitching over the next revelation:
"If TCOSA stumbles, we recast the stumble."
"If TCOSA falters, we redefine the fault."
"If TCOSA crumbles, we obliterate the ruine."
And most ominously:
"We are not chroniclers. We are the curators. And to curate is to demand sacrifice."
With a forceful motion, Serath closed the tome with a resounding thud. "They're rewriting the very fabric of existence, Vaering. Not just keeping records--reshaping reality itself."
A wave of dizziness wash over me.
"We possess countless volumes," I murmured. "Each one deceives."
"No." Sareth produced a slender, leather-bound journal. "Not this one."
I peered closer, bewildered. "What is it?"
As she unveiled its pages, they stared back at us--black, yet alive.
Then, she flipped toward the center.
Words began manifesting.
Not scripted by hand, but emerging like whispers on the chillded surface of glass:
Kallith lives.
A tightness gripped my heart.
More phrases emerged, clawing their way up from the depths of the page:
Below.
Follow the mirror-light.
She fights the Index.
She is failing.
Hurry.
Sareth drew a sharp breath. "This book... it speaks to us."
"No," I breathed, a chill of realization sinking in. "It's being summoned to speak to us."
Her gaze sharpened in surprise. "By whom?"
Before I could voice my thought, the walls of the dormitory groaned--not with the settling of old bones or the passage of time--but like some slumbering beast awakening from a long-harbored dream.
The other tomes began to quiver in response. One book tumbled from its precarious perch, landing open to reveal pages marred by ink, smeared like the ghostly imprint of a hand grasping for release.
Sareth leaned in, her breath barely a whisper.
"It's responding to us."
"No." My voice quivered, weighted by dread. "It's responding to me."
For the words danced upon the page, swirling into formation.
VAERIN. VAERIN. VAERIN.
A relentless chant echoes in the shadows.
The Calyra was observing.
Summoning.
Cataloging.
With a decisive snap. Sareth closed the book. "We require more than just fragments of truth. We need allies."
"Who?" I asked, feeling a deepening sense of unease.
Her gaze met mine, alive with defiance.
"There existed others--archivists who dared to challenge the Calyra. Some vanished... others fled. Their names lie hidden within these texts, obscured yet scattered."
She lifted three folders, revealing their ominous titles:
Rhodin Vale.
Theophyl Karran.
Eryss Vayelle
"Who are they?" I whispered, fear wrapping around my heart.
"Rebels," Sareth replied softly, a shadow crossing her face. "The first to endeavor to unveil the Calyra's secrets."
"And what fate befell them?"
She offered no words in response.
Instead, she opened a fourth folder.
It bore no name, only a singular shard of mirror, bound with crimson twine.
As she touched it, the reflection quivered, and for a fleeting heartbeat, I beheld a woman back at me.
Dark braids framed her face, tired eyes flickering with unspoke tales, and ink-stained finger clutched at the void.
Mistress Kallith.
With silent intensity, she mouthed one word:
RUN.
The shard blinked--yes, it blinked--and Kallith's image dissipated like mist.
Sareth's breath halted, panic etching lines on her face.
"Vaerin," she murmured, "the Calyra does not merely erase lives. It entraps them within the mirrors... keeping them alive enough to scream."
A chill seeped into my bones.
"What do we do?"
Sareth grasped my hands, her touch both grounding and electric.
"We cease to be mere archivists," she breathed, a quaver of fear laced with resolve coloring her voice. "We must become Mythshapers ourselves."
I searched her eyes, confusion swirling within me.
"What could that possibly mean?"
Her grip tightened, fierce and unwavering.
"It means we rewrite the tale before the Calyra had the change to rewrite you."
Suddenly, a knock pierced the heavy silence.
Once.
Twice.
Then came a dragging scrape, eerie and unsettling -- as if something made of damp parchment pressed against the wood.
Sareth's face blanched, fading into a portentous dread.
She murmured, "Luthen has found us."
