The days that unfurled thereafter were a grim charade, an exercise in ignoring the creeping dread.
Each dawn saw me trudging into the office. I toiled amongst the dusty archives. I meticulously sorted through faded texts, reshaping their fractured narratives. With a hollow smile, I acknowledged the senior clerks, their glances barely grazing my existence. Yet through it all, I cast a vigilant, silent gaze upon Luthen.
Or... whatever had supplanted him.
At first, the changes in him were but a whisper, subtle enough to cloak in the fabric of denial. He spoke less, his voice retreating into shadows. Curiosity waned; questions ceased to bloom. Laughter, once plentiful, faded into mere echoes. He overlooked my greetings as if they were but fleeting wraiths.
Yet, as time wound tighter, the situation grew dire.
He ceased to blink, becoming a grotesque figure of stillness.
Hours would vanish as he sat there, quill suspended over blank parchment, like a marionette frozen in its dance. A low, unsettling hum emanated from his throat -- a sound akin to the murmurs of the theologians, lost in their transitory communion with the Mirror Halls. His head tilted and jerked at unnatural angles, as though attuned to whispers beyond the veil of my perception.
One fateful morning, he swayed in time with a passing mirror-washer, his head tilting as if drawn by a melody only he could fathom. The crack of his neck echoed like a death knell.
I inhaled sharply, a breath caught in fear's grip.
He paid me no mind.
From that moment onward, I withdrew, a prisoner of instinct.
Every fiber of my being insisted that his transformation was irrevocable. He was being consumed. Rewritten. The Calyra was carving out a void within him, making room for an insidious presence.
The last glimpse I had of him was haunting -- a solitary figure ensconced in the dim embrace of our floor's shadowed corner. A blank sheet lay in front of him, ink pooling like a dark stain. His lips moved, soundless, as if conjuring the echoes of my name.
I did not dare to look closer.
The dawn broke with a silence as foreboding as a funeral shroud; Luthen had vanished without a trace.
No written word. No sign of his presence. Not a remnant left behind.
Just an unfamiliar archivist occupying the hollow space he once filled, as though she had claimed it eons ago.
No questions lingered in the air regarding Luthen's fate. His name was a ghost, banished from conversation. Confusion was conspicuously absent, as if the very walls of the Calyra had stitched themselves shut in the wake of his departure.
With careful trepidation, I drew closer to the new archivist.
She bore an air of youthful authority, perhaps a year my senior. Her dark hair was meticulously pinned, and her fingers, long and stained with ink, hinted at a life steeped in the written word. Her visage was pale, sharp, and etched with the unmistakable marks of exhaustion, intellect, and distrust.
As I approached, she raised her gaze to meet mine, offering the barest inclination of her head.
"Archivist Vaerin," she uttered, a name drawn forth with unerring certainty. "A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."
Finally?
"I'm Sareth." She extended her hand, and a bridge formed between two solitary existences. "Your new partner."
The term "partner" struck me with an unexpected heft. I had been adrift in solitude, unaware until that moment that the very offer of companionship could anchor me.
I clasped her hand in mine. Her grip radiated warmth, a pulse of humanity and life that felt achingly foreign.
A flicker of a smile graced her lips. Not the kind bestowed by Luthen. Not the sort found among those who had danced with the mirrors.
"Administration deemed solitary work... inefficient," Sareth continued. "So I've been appointed to attend your division."
Her eyes roamed the aisles filled with forgotten secrets. "Though, I suspect there are darker currents at play."
My heart quickened at her words. "What do you mean by darker currents?"
She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper, conspiratorial. "The Calyra is undergoing transformations. Reassignments are rampant. People replaced in the blink of an eye--entire sections engulfed in new faces, as though swallowed by shadows."
I grew taut, unease threading itself through my veins. "You've noticed this too?"
Her laugh, soft and devoid of mirth, was laced with understanding. "Oh, Vaerin. I see everything."
In that moment, a flicker of trust ignited within me: I could rely on her, or at least on her more than on the insidious building, the capricious mirrors, the faceless officials, or even my own faltering mind.
She stepped closer, presenting me with a single folded slip of paper, delicate and ominous.
"This lay on your desk upon my arrival," she murmured, her tone imbued with caution.
I felt the tightening in my throat as I unfolded the note.
One solitary command was inscribed within, trembling and raw:
RUN.
The handwriting was jagged, frantic-- as though the writer had battled their own hand to etch the warning.
Luthen's script bore the mark of desperation.
I sank heavily into my chair, disorientation swirling about me like a dark mist. Sareth's fingers brushed gently against my shoulder, a gesture of solidarity.
"Whatever fate befell him," she whispered, "you shall not face it alone."
And for the first time since the shadows enveloped the Mirror Hall, I dared to believe her.
