Chapter 2 – The Archivist's Bargain (Part I)
Ash settled like slow snow, softening the ruin the fight had left behind. The husk of the Ashling had already begun to forget itself, crumbling into drifts that pooled around the young man's boots.
He clutched the book until his fingers hurt, terrified that if he let go, the words would abandon him. On the cover, faint and stubborn, a title still glimmered:
[The Chronicle of the Unwritten]
He opened it. Heat breathed against his face as if the page were alive.
Entry: [Nameless]Status: UndefinedTraits:— [Persistence] – The body resists erasure. Minor resistance to decay and weakening effects.— [Swift Step] – Movement speed heightened under threat.Skills:— [Ashblade] – Shape force into a cutting edge for a brief duration.
The words looked impossibly certain. He didn't. His hands were still trembling.
"You did not vanish."
The woman stood exactly where she had been, parchment skirts whispering against one another, ink-black eyes reflecting the pale glow of his page. She tilted her head at the lines. "It has begun to define you."
"It says 'Undefined.'"
"It still does," she said, amused. "Undefined is a position, too. An empty shelf is still a shelf." She tapped the margin with the tip of her quill. "And this—this is your ledger. A rule-book written by your own breath."
He bent to pick up the quill he had dropped during the fight. Its vane was soft, cold. As his fingers closed, a prickle ran up his arm like static.
"You said to write," he muttered. "That if I didn't, I'd be erased."
"I did. And it was true." The woman's smile thinned. "Truth is a tool here. You will need many."
He opened the book again, searching for a different answer. There wasn't one. "What is this place, really?"
"Names splintered from the world," she said. "Histories spooled like thread. What remains is kept. What cannot be kept burns." She gestured to the drifting ash. "Sometimes what burns returns hungry."
He nodded toward the dissolving husk. "Ashlings."
"Ashlings," she confirmed. "A soul whose Entry has been consumed or stolen, left with only hunger for what it lost."
He turned the book so the glowing text faced her. "And mine—each line I write turns into one of these?"
"Not precisely." She stepped closer, carrying the faint scent of old paper. "What you inscribe is a claim. The Archive tests its truth, and if it holds, it binds the words into a Trait or a Skill."
"What's the difference?"
"Traits alter what you are. Skills alter what you can do." Her quill flicked, indicating each line. "I will not disappear made endurance—Persistence. My body moves faster than fear sharpened reflex—Swift Step. I can strike back forged a tool—Ashblade."
He frowned. "So if I wrote I am invincible—"
"—then you would set yourself on fire," she said mildly.
He blinked. "What?"
"There are limits." Her quill traced the page's edge without touching it. "Each line carries heat. Too many too quickly, and the page blisters—Page Burn. The words twist. They turn on you."
A chill traced his spine. He checked the margin. The fibers there looked just a shade darker than the rest.
"How hot does it feel?" she asked.
"Warm," he admitted.
"You wrote three lines in a breath. It saved you. It also scarred the page."
He bit his lip. "How do I stop it?"
"Qualifiers," she said, sketching small circles in the air with her quill. "Conditions. Costs. I am invincible is a lie. The Archive rejects lies with fire. But I harden when the blow falls may take root. Add a price, and the ink runs cooler: I move swiftly, but my breath shortens. Or I cut, but the blade cuts me a little too."
He stared. "That's… fair?"
"Fairness is a story we tell ourselves when we want the world to make sense." Her smile held too many secrets. "Here, it is balance that matters."
His throat tightened. "What do I call you?"
"For now," she said, "Archivist will serve."
"For now?"
"Names are bindings. You have none. I have several. It is a pleasant asymmetry."
He almost laughed, but it caught in his dry throat. "Archivist, then. Will you teach me?"
"Perhaps. But not because I am kind. Because something is broken, and you are a tool that might fix it. And a tool that thinks itself a man is very efficient."
His grip on the book tightened. "What's broken?"
"The Index is sealed," she said. "Wings of the Archive have gone dark. Ashlings hunt in patterns now, which they did not before. And there are collectors who plunder what remains." Her gaze flicked to his cover. "They say the Unwritten can open what is shut."
He thought of the title that had formed on his book and felt, absurdly, that the Archive was watching back.
"What would you want me to open?"
"When we stand before something worth opening," she said, "I will ask."
"That sounds like a bargain I should refuse."
"You could." Her smile was gentle, humorless. "And then you would be alone—in a place that rewards foolish bravery with silence and ash."
He looked at the drifting remnants of the Ashling. His chest tightened.
"What price?" he asked.
"For guidance?" She considered. "Truth, when I ask it. Once, and only once, without evasion."
That was small enough to be a trap.
"And if I refuse?"
"Then we are finished with one another. I do not haggle."
He studied her face. No malice. No pity. Just the quiet hunger of someone who kept the Archive in order. He thought of the glowing lines in his book, the warmth that lingered, the scar along the margin.
"Fine," he said. "Once."
The Archivist inclined her head as if he had performed a ritual well. "Then we begin."