The stars blinked faintly overhead, etched into the high glass of the Athenaeum’s dome like ancient eyes that refused to sleep. Dust-veiled panes dimmed their glow, but nothing dulled their vigilance. They watched. Always.

  Below, Serenya walked the whispering aisles.

  The shelves—taller than towers—hunched beneath the weight of memory. The air was thick with the scent of old ink and older truths. Pages murmured as she passed, restless in their bindings. Some called out by name—hers, or another’s. It mattered little. Most were content to wait, like bones arranged neatly in a crypt.

  She cradled a book to her chest. No title. Only a sigil carved in flame-gold along the spine. It breathed faintly against her palm. Alive, just barely.

  She found its place without looking. The shelf accepted it with a sigh, wood shifting subtly to make room.

  “Quiet now,” she whispered, brushing her fingers across the worn leather. “You’ve said enough.”

  A few paces on, she paused before an open tome. Its pages fluttered though there was no wind, weeping thick, ink-dark tears that soaked into the stone beneath it. Serenya frowned. Some memories resisted shelving. Some truths refused to be forgotten.

  She closed it with care. Bound its covers with a ribbon of ironthread, woven fine as spider silk.

  A shift behind her—soft, deliberate. The groan of reshaping stone. A corridor uncoiled from the gloom like a serpent, newly born, never seen before. The Athenaeum did that sometimes. It moved with a mind of its own, reshaping reality around intentions no one could understand.

  Serenya didn’t turn.

  She reached for the next book from her satchel—wrapped in vellum, humming with a low, mournful tune—shelved it with care, and moved on. Her bare feet whispered across the floor. The stars above flickered, steady in their silence.

  It had taken time to adjust to this place. The constant murmur of voices never raised above a whisper. The aisles that moved when they thought you weren’t looking. Some initiates went mad from staring at the wrong book too long. Knowledge, like anything sacred, demanded balance. Too much, and the mind shattered. Too little, and you drifted—unanchored, irrelevant, already half-forgotten.

  Those who endured three months within the Athenaeum were to be blessed by the goddess. And those she blessed became living libraries themselves—capable of storing entire lifetimes of knowledge, recalling it with a flicker of will.

  Some whispered that the Athenaeum had once been people. Keepers, perhaps, who consumed too much. Who changed shape. Who became the shelves, the walls, the breathing stone.

  Serenya, like all the others, remembered nothing of the world before. Dānessa—the Goddess Of Knowledge—had taken their memories upon their oath. Locked them away, perhaps within a book of their own. It was protection, they were told. For the sanctity of the library. For the neutrality of the Keepers.

  Few ever took the vow. Most balked at giving up their memories—no matter how monstrous. They are our identity, they always said. Of those who agreed, most never passed beyond Initiate. And those who failed... did not leave.

  Failure twisted more than the mind. It corrupted the flesh.

  So, they were put down. A kindness, really.

  Serenya was one of the newer Keepers. But for reasons never spoken aloud, the goddess had chosen her to bear the title of Hierophant—bridge between Dānessa and her mortal servants. A voice not divine, but close enough to tremble with it.

  She was placing the final book on its shelf when the sensation struck.

  A soft prickling at the base of her skull.

  Summoned.

  She turned toward the end of the hall. The aisles parted for her, obedient, sensing purpose. At the far wall stood a door—old wood, smooth as bone, carved with symbols that shifted when unobserved. Like most things in the Athenaeum, it had a will of its own. It did not always lead where you asked.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  It led where you were needed.

  Usually.

  Some Keepers had entered and were never seen again.

  Serenya approached without hesitation.

  She stepped through the threshold, the door sighing shut behind her like a secret sealed in ink. And just like that, she was gone—swallowed by the will of the Athenaeum.

  She stepped through the doorway and into a room so vast the walls were mere suggestions—ghostly hints lost in distance and haze. Books sprawled across the ground like fallen soldiers. Tomes lay in heaps, some stacked so impossibly high they pierced the gloom like pillars holding up a starless sky.

  Serenya exhaled, half sigh, half growl of annoyance.

  She had just cleared this room a week ago.

  Sometimes, she wondered why she even bothered.

  With the resigned grace of habit, she began weaving her way through the chaos, the soft hum of the summoned thread still tugging at her soul like a distant song.

  She emerged from behind one particularly mountainous cluster of books and stopped.

  At the center of the room stood a great table carved of onyx and bone. Behind it, seated in eternal stillness, was Dānessa.

  The goddess’s gaze was vacant, her eyes glazed white, fixed not on the world but on something far beyond it. A crow perched on each of her shoulders—one peering down at the tome in her hands, the other staring directly at Serenya with unsettling, too-human intelligence. They moved in subtle unison, like breath. Like thought.

  They were her eyes.

  Dānessa’s visible skin was pale as crushed ivory, and every inch of it—save for her face—was covered in moving text. The words flowed like river-ink beneath translucent skin, writhing in a tongue older than time. Serenya knew better than to read them. Even a glance could stain the mind.

  She bore a few of those sacred lines herself—earned through rite and trial. Marks of her station as Shahryar of the Realm of Knowledge. But they were faint things, compared to the flood that covered the goddess.

  Dānessa wore a robe of faded green, simple and soft, and her feet—like those of all her Keepers—were bare. She once told them that the earth whispered secrets only the unshod could hear. Serenya wasn’t sure she believed it, but had never dared wear shoes again.

  Her thoughts broke as the goddess spoke, voice soft and rasping like parchment dragged across stone.

  “Serenya, dear. Always so good to see you.”

  She smiled then, slow and crooked. Her eyes, sightless, tried to find her. The smile was crooked with guilt.

  Serenya pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “I’ll clean the room again. But for the love of all there is to know, could you please try to stay organized?”

  Dānessa chuckled—dry and brittle, like the turning of pages left too long in the dark.

  “You know I don’t do it on purpose.”

  Then her expression emptied, drained of warmth as if it had never truly been there at all.

  “Come,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

  A chill tiptoed down Serenya’s spine.

  She hated this part.

  She hated the sharing of memories—foreign, invasive things, pressed like ice against the skin of her mind. They never felt earned. They felt alien.

  But she approached anyway.

  Dānessa raised a hand and placed it gently on Serenya’s shoulder.

  The world fell away.

  She sat high in a tree, its branches curling around her like ribs. Below, a temple—ancient and shrouded in silence. A man stood in the courtyard. Tall. Radiant. Hair white-gold like sunfire. Eyes that burned like stars at the end of time. He held a woman in a brief embrace, then whispered something. Her body slackened. Gently, almost tenderly, he laid her down.

  Serenya’s—no, someone’s—eyes focused on the girl. Pale. Slim. Sharp-featured in that way those from the Death Realm often were. A word glowed on her brow. Familiar. But blurred, somehow. Like a truth deliberately hidden.

  Serenya gasped, stumbling back into her body. Her chest rose and fell with sudden panic. Dānessa’s hand remained on her shoulder, patting her like one might soothe a frightened animal.

  “There, there,” the goddess murmured.

  Serenya looked up, her voice barely a breath. “Was that him?”

  Dānessa nodded.

  “Yes. But that’s not why I showed you this.” She leaned back, tone sharp now, edged with something older than fear. “The mark on the girl’s brow—it was obscured. And there is only one being I know of that can blind me so. I want eyes on her. Whatever he did to her, I want to know before it matters.”

  Serenya nodded. “I’ll choose two Keepers to follow her.”

  A pause.

  Then, quieter: “You’ve never really told me who he is. We spent centuries looking for answers. Honestly, I was beginning to think he wasn’t real.”

  Dānessa laughed—a haunting sound, like music played on bone flutes and rusted strings. It echoed through the room, and the crows shifted restlessly.

  “Oh, he’s real. Sadly. Unavoidably. Real.” Her smile faded into something harder. “I once believed he was Astraxian. The Warden of Balance. A psychotic relic clinging to a dead cycle. But some things don’t fit. Too many contradictions. Too many lies carved into truths.”

  She reached for a book, ran a pale finger across its spine.

  “I’ve laid out everything I know of gods and Wardens—every story, every fragment. Not only are entire pieces missing, the ones we have are wrong. Wrong in the same way. All of them.”

  Her eyes turned toward Serenya, unfocused but unflinching.

  “They point to a single origin. Him. The lie is so precise, so elegantly constructed, I believe he’s forgotten the truth himself. And that…”

  She let the sentence hang like a guillotine’s blade.

  “That,” she whispered, “is the true horror. If he created that monstrous persona as a mask… what, my dear Serenya, was he trying so desperately to hide?"

  "And that is the question we must answer—before he remembers, and whatever sleeps behind that mask awakens."

  This marks the end of Arc I.

  From here, I’ll be shifting into a slower rhythm—writing a few quieter chapters to ease the pace, let the dust settle, and let the weight of what’s passed truly linger.