Ash traced the edge of the manuscript with his fingers, the leather-bound cover warm despite the cold air settling over the cathedral's archives. He wanted to believe the warmth was a trick of his imagination that it had no deeper meaning. But after everything, he knew better.
The monk had left hours ago, his final words a whisper Ash couldn't shake. "Some knowledge is a curse disguised as wisdom." An old sentiment, but it gnawed at him. Was this another attempt to keep him in the dark? Or a warning he should heed?
He exhaled sharply, forcing his thoughts into neat compartments. Fear had a way of unraveling reason. And if there was one thing he refused to surrender, it was his rationality.
"Paranoia is just intelligence without proof," he muttered, flipping open the first page.
The ink swirled in unfamiliar patterns, glyphs twisting in ways that defied known languages. Yet, the longer he stared, the more the shapes seemed to shift as if adapting to his gaze. He rubbed his eyes. Lack of sleep. That was all it was. Nothing more.
The deeper he read, the more unease crept in. This wasn't just a record of the Thirteenth Key. It was a chronicle of those who had sought it. Each name was followed by a date and a single word: Missing.
Ash's grip tightened. One entry stood out, ink faded as if someone tried to erase it from history:
Alistair Crowl.
He knew that name. Crowl had been a rising star among historians, obsessed with unearthing relics others feared. Then, one day, he vanished. No body. No explanation. Just...gone.
The rational part of Ash told him that Crowl had simply gone too far into dangerous circles. But another part, a colder part, whispered that Crowl might have succeeded. And paid the price.
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. If Hargrove knew about this, why hide it? Why drip-feed him information instead of giving him everything?
The question hung heavy, unanswered.
A flicker caught his eye. His reflection, blurred in the glass of the archive door. But the movement was wrong a split-second delay between him raising his hand and the reflection following. He froze.
When he shifted his head, the reflection did not.
Ash closed the manuscript with a snap. Hallucination. He needed sleep, not superstition.
But his heartbeat didn't slow. His reflection still hadn't moved.
He stood, spine rigid, and turned toward the door. The reflection tilted its head as if studying him. And then, as he reached for the handle, it smiled.
Not a twitch of the lips. Not a shadow of a smirk. A full, knowing smile that did not belong to him.
Ash stumbled backward, his breath sharp and ragged. "This isn't real," he hissed. You're tired. This is a stress response. Nothing more.
The glass darkened, the smile stretching wider. Words burned into the back of his mind, unspoken yet heavy:
You are already part of it.
Something clattered behind him. He spun, heart hammering. The manuscript lay open again, pages fluttering despite the still air. And scrawled across the margins, in handwriting that looked far too much like his own:
Unlock or be consumed.
His fingers trembled. He should walk away. Leave the archive. Let Hargrove drown in his own secrets. But that wasn't who he was. Letting go was never an option.
He grabbed the manuscript, tucking it beneath his coat. He had questions. And someone, somewhere, had answers.
The door creaked open behind him, though he hadn't touched it.
And as he stepped into the corridor, the lights flickered, a low hum curling beneath his skin. Something was awake.
And it knew his name.