I didn't sleep that night.
I couldn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the mark on my back pulse—like it was breathing through my spine, syncing with some rhythm that didn't belong in this world. When I stared at the ceiling, I could almost hear it whispering.
"You don't belong."
And honestly? I believed it.
By morning, Elira showed up outside my door like she hadn't almost fought a soul-devouring shadow just hours ago.
"Get up. We're going to the Archives."
I sat up. "There's an archive?"
"There's always an archive," she said, like it was obvious.
We walked through the outpost's east corridor, passing soldiers, mechanics, and mages going about their day like the world wasn't constantly unraveling at its edges. One older soldier looked at me with something between sympathy and suspicion. I didn't blame him. I looked like a kid who accidentally wandered into a war he didn't know existed.
The Archives turned out to be a tower—tall, crooked, and humming with sealed knowledge. It smelled like old ink and ozone.
At the top, we met the Archivist.
She was small, elderly, wrapped in teal robes embroidered with shifting runes. Her eyes were solid white, and she moved like the air bent to her whims.
"Another Unbound," she murmured, glancing at me. "It's been... a long time."
"I'm not—" I started.
"You are," she interrupted. "Or the Gate wouldn't have taken you."
Elira cleared her throat. "We need records. Historical mentions of Voidbrands. Gate expulsion. Soul rewriting."
The Archivist didn't answer with words. She simply placed a palm on a circular slate embedded into the floor.
Immediately, the room changed.
Bookshelves folded themselves outward from the walls. Scrolls unfurled midair. A constellation of information lit up like stars, slowly rotating around us.
I stared, slack-jawed. "You people don't believe in computers?"
Elira gave a dry smile. "You'll find magic makes tech… nervous."
The Archivist pointed to a slowly circling scroll. It hovered toward us, opening as it glowed faint gold.
Elira read aloud:
"The Unbound are those torn from the thread of their native weave. Not summoned. Not called. Removed. Whether by accident or design, their souls carry the echo of a world no longer stitched to their existence."
My chest tightened.
Another line appeared.
"Voidbrands form when the Rift recognizes what the Gate tried to reject. It is not a curse. It is a key."
A key?
"To what?" I asked.
The Archivist's white eyes fixed on me. "To something the world locked away."
Elira touched her spear, her voice lower now. "Why would anyone be removed from reality?"
The Archivist's expression darkened. "Because reality makes mistakes."
Suddenly, the scroll burst into light—and burned into ash midair.
The Archivist blinked. "Ah. We're being watched."
Elira stiffened.
I didn't ask by who. I already knew.
That thing from the forest?
It wasn't just a monster.
It was a messenger.
And something—somewhere—was listening for my name.