The Quiet Rooms did not let her rest. After the test of silence, the shelves shifted again, pages drifting like moths. A seam opened between them, leading into a narrow chamber lit by a single hanging bell.
The bell didn't move. It didn't need to. Its weight pressed on her bones.
The system brushed her mind faintly. Not words, just pressure. Her pencil scratched fast:Rule: Write what you are. The Ledger will answer.
Her chest tightened. If she wrote nothing, she was erased. If she wrote wrong, the Ledger might claim her.
She sat at the desk beneath the bell. A blank page waited.
Her hand hovered. She thought of Kael, fighting the word Hollow carved into his chest. She thought of Riven, grinning against shadows that wanted him gone. They had their marks. What was hers?
She wrote, neat and sharp: Seren Vale. The Silent Record.
The bell shivered. The page glowed.
Letters formed beneath hers, not her hand: Record breaks. Silence owns.
Her jaw clenched. She grabbed another scrap, slammed her pencil against it. Record denies. Words cut.
The bell trembled louder, though no sound came. The shelves rattled. Pages tore free, swirling around her like angry birds.
Her pencil didn't stop. I am not debt. I am not erased. My words are mine.
The blank page burned brighter. For a moment, the silence cracked. She heard herself whisper, faint and small: Mine.
Then it was gone.
The bell stilled. The storm of pages fell. One drifted into her lap. The words etched there were new:
[Title Acquired: Silent Record] Effect: Your scraps resist erasure once. Warning: Each use deepens strain.
Seren's breath shook. Her hand trembled around the page. She folded it, tucked it into her pouch with the rest.
The silence leaned closer again, heavier than before. But she didn't flinch. She wrote her final note for the room: The Ledger can answer. But so can I.
The gong rolled faint, through stone and shelves alike.
BOOOONG.
Her pencil moved again, small and precise: Every toll is proof I'm still here.