They ran until the forest became teeth.
The trees sharpened into gnarled spires, their roots lifting like claws out of the dirt, and the path—if it could still be called that—twisted like a forgotten script. Zayan's legs burned. Ilya moved like water over broken glass, never once stumbling.
The scroll thudded against his back with each stride. The heartstone in his grip had begun to warm.
"Where are we going?" he gasped.
"Away," she said.
"That's not a direction."
"It is if you've forgotten your name in the right way."
The landscape changed mid-step. One foot landed on moss, the next on dust. The air lost its scent. Even the sound of breath felt muted.
"Where are we?"
"Edge-space," she said. "The border between where your pain ends and your power begins."
Zayan nearly collapsed.
"You speak in riddles."
"No," she replied. "I speak in wounds."
She pointed ahead.
There, rising like a question carved in stone, was a broken temple buried in sand. The wind carved letters into the dunes. Some shifted. Others stayed. And at the center stood a dome half-swallowed by time. Its surface bore the same symbol etched onto Zayan's scroll.
A spiral within a square.
Breath caught in bone.
They approached slowly.
The temple doors were bones. Real bones—ribs of a creature too large for the world. They creaked as Ilya pushed them open. The darkness beyond did not feel empty. It felt old.
"This place…" Zayan whispered.
"Used to be a hospital," she said. "Once. Before the Breathwar."
"The what?"
"The war between those who healed, and those who profited from keeping sickness alive."
He paused. "So you're telling me that people—kings, empires—chose to keep disease, on purpose?"
She looked at him.
"You think they don't still?"
Zayan fell silent.
Inside the temple was colder than expected. The air hummed with vibration. Dust particles floated in patterns, as if obeying invisible rhythms. And along the walls: murals.
Not paint. Not ink. Etchings. Deep and deliberate.
Scenes of healers laying hands upon the sick—only to be hunted. Sorcerers poisoning wells. Scrolls being burned. But in one panel, a single figure stood untouched. Eyes closed. Hands raised.
Zayan stepped closer.
"Who is that?"
"They call her The Listener."
"What did she do?"
"She listened," Ilya said, "to the disease itself."
They descended into the lower chambers.
Stairs spiraled like a shell. The deeper they went, the more the air tasted of metal and memory. Along the walls, lanterns flickered to life, unlit by hand.
At the base, they found it.
A stone slab, carved with channels and runes. Around it, broken instruments: cupping horns, silver needles, clay jars stained with dried herbs. A library of the body, scattered and cracked.
In the center of the slab, bound by copper threads, was a man.
Or what was left of him.
Eyes shut. Skin gray. Breath shallow.
But his chest rose.
"He's alive," Zayan whispered.
Ilya nodded. "He is the Archivist. The one who remembers every illness this world ever bore."
"What's wrong with him?"
"He holds the Gu."
Zayan froze.
"Gu…? Like—Chinese poison magic?"
"Yes," she said. "But not the cartoon kind. The real one. The living one."
She approached the slab, kneeling beside it.
"They placed it in him centuries ago. As punishment. As record-keeping. Every curse, every venom, every corrupted spirit—made a home in his veins."
"Why?"
"Because he knew how to cure them."
Zayan stepped closer.
The Archivist's chest bore scars shaped like calligraphy. Ancient Hanzi. Old Arabic. Symbols that shimmered between languages.
"Can he be healed?"
Ilya looked at him, then offered a small, wry smile.
"That's why you're here."
"Me?"
"You opened the Scroll. You carry the Seal. You've already begun the path. All that remains… is the cost."
"I don't understand any of this!"
His voice cracked. Echoed.
"I didn't ask for this! I don't even know who I am anymore!"
Ilya touched the scroll strapped to his back.
"Then it's time to remember."
She handed him a bowl carved from obsidian.
"Place water in it. Just enough to see your face."
He did.
The water shimmered.
At first, he saw only his reflection. Then the image shifted. Faces appeared—men and women, old and young—eyes filled with sorrow, fire, and knowing. A procession of ancestors. Healers. Nomads. Poets. Saints.
One voice rang out among them:
"You are not the healer.
You are the vessel through which healing chooses to speak."
Zayan closed his eyes. Let the words root themselves. Then whispered:
"Bismillah. I accept."
The ritual began.
Ilya lit a bundle of dried herbs—sidr, myrrh, and gaharu. The smoke rose in geometric spirals.
Zayan sat beside the Archivist. The scroll unrolled itself, revealing The Second Seal:
THE SEAL OF THE BONE-ECHO
Lay your hand upon the afflicted.
Let your breath trace their pain.
Speak the name they have forgotten.
Then recite:
"Yā Hayyu, Yā Qayyūm, bi-raḥmatika astaghīth."
(O Ever-Living, O Sustainer, through Your mercy do I seek relief.)
Let the illness speak. Do not fear it. Do not resist.
Let it name itself—and then, let it go.
Zayan laid his hand on the Archivist's chest.
He whispered the prayer. He felt… something. Not words. Not thoughts. Just a weight. Cold, old, hungry.
It whispered:
"I am the rot of forgotten cures.
I am the silence between doctor and scream.
I am profit in the shape of pain."
Zayan replied, gently:
"And I am the memory of mercy."
The air pulsed. The Archivist exhaled.
The runes on his chest faded. One by one.
And then—he opened his eyes.
He spoke with a voice like gravel and thunder:
"You are late. But you are here. And that is enough."
He placed a brittle hand on Zayan's.
"Three Seals remain. But beware—each one you open brings the Shadow closer."
Zayan nodded.
"Let it come. I no longer fear the dark."
Ilya smiled.
"Good," she said. "Because in Chapter Four… we walk into it."
End of Chapter 3
Would you like me to continue with Chapter 4 – "The Whispering Orchard" next?