The hour of "rest" was a torment. Every faint hum from the corridor, every chime from a distant panel, felt like a prelude to discovery. Kaelen sat on his cot, the hidden river stone feeling like a hot coal searing through the thin mattress. He had stolen fire from the gods of this forgotten place, and the silence was agonizing.
The Echo was quiet, perhaps sated by his act of rebellion, or simply waiting.
When the panel finally chimed, Kaelen's heart leaped into his throat. The message, however, was not an accusation.
[Subject: Joren. Aetherium Syndicate Asset. Condemned for illegal memory hoarding and trade. Core Memories: Multiple, related to Syndicate operations. High Volatility. Extreme Caution Advised. Proceed to Extraction Bay 3.]
Aetherium Syndicate. The name was only a rumour on the streets, a shadowy organization that dealt in forbidden memories for profit. If the Mnemonic Council were the stern priests of forgetting, the Syndicate were its graverobbers.
Valeria was waiting for him outside his door. Her grey eyes, like chips of flint, scanned him with clinical detachment. "Joren is not like the others," she stated, falling into step beside him. "His mind is a fortress, and he has rigged it with traps. The Archivist believes your… finesse… may be the only way to retrieve the target memories intact. Do not engage with the content. Extract and disengage. If you feel your cognitive load spiking, abort. We will resort to a full, destructive purge."
The threat was clear. Failure was not an option.
Extraction Bay 3 was a cold, surgical space. The air hummed with a high-frequency dampening field that made Kaelen's teeth ache. In the center of the room, bathed in the harsh white light, a man was held in a complex restraint chair. Glowing crystalline nodes were fixed to his temples and wrists, their light pulsating in a rhythm that suppressed active mnemonics.
This was Joren.
He was a stark contrast to the broken Aris or the defiant Ilya. He was well-fed, with a sharp, calculating face that was currently twisted in a snarl. His eyes, a startlingly bright blue, locked onto Kaelen with predatory interest as he entered.
"Well, well," Joren's voice was a low, smooth rasp, cutting through the hum of the machinery. "The rumor is true. The Council's new pet Anchor. The one who doesn't just smash and grab." His gaze was intrusive, crawling over Kaelen like a physical touch. "You don't look like much. But then, the most dangerous tools never do."
Kaelen said nothing. He approached the small table where the object of focus lay: not a locket or a stone, but a single, intricately carved data-chip, the kind used in high-level corporate espionage.
"Silent type, eh?" Joren chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Good. I'd hate for you to be chatty. This little slate holds a beautiful piece of work. The complete cognitive unraveling of a Council Minister's aide during a very… persuasive… interrogation. The fear, the panic, the taste of expensive whiskey as it spilled... it's a vintage year for spite. The Syndicate paid a fortune for it." He grinned, a flash of white teeth. "Your masters just want to know who was betrayed. I'd say let's make a deal, but..." He rattled against his energy restraints. "...my negotiating position is weak."
"Your memory will be preserved," Kaelen recited, the hollow words tasting like ash. He reached for the data-chip.
"Preserved?" Joren laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Don't insult me. You'll feed it to your grinder, just slower. I know what this place is. The Council's little recycling plant." His eyes gleamed. "But you… I can feel the resonance on you. You're different. You're not just taking… you're keeping. There's a… collection growing in your head, isn't there?"
Kaelen's fingers brushed the data-chip.
Kaelen's hand hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was enough.
Joren's smile returned, wider and sharper. "Ah. I see."
Kaelen's fingers closed on the data-slate. The moment he made contact, the world dissolved into a psychic storm.
It was not a single memory, but a layered, defensive labyrinth. The promised interrogation was there, a core of visceral terror and spilled secrets. But wrapped around it were layers of mnemonic traps. One moment, Kaelen was assaulted by the sensory overload of a Syndicate fight club—the smell of blood and ozone, the roar of a crowd. The next, a wave of paralyzing apathy washed over him, a memory of sheer boredom designed to break his concentration.
And laced through it all, like razor wire, was Joren's own consciousness—a corrosive blend of arrogance, spite, and a keen, analytical intelligence that actively fought back.
Do not engage with them, the Archivist had warned. Merely extract.
But this was a battle. Joren's mind actively sought his, probing for weaknesses. Kaelen felt a sudden, searing vision of the Dusty Tome engulfed in green Aethelgard flame, heard a perfectly mimicked scream that sounded exactly like Lyssa.
For a terrifying second, Kaelen was drowning in the volatile cocktail. He felt his control slipping, the memory threatening to overwhelm him and flood his own perfect recall with Joren's psychic poison.
Stand on the shore, he thought desperately. Direct the flow.
Gritting his teeth, Kaelen stopped trying to resist the chaos. Instead, he focused all his will on the data-slate, envisioning it as a drain, a singularity. He didn't care about the content, the secrets, the traps. He focused only on the raw energy of the memories and forced it all into the slate. It was a brutal, inelegant process. He wasn't weaving; he was cauterizing.
He felt a psychic scream—Joren's own—as the memories were violently ripped from their moorings. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony that had nothing to do with the physical body.
With a final, psychic wrench, it was over.
Kaelen stumbled back, gasping, his head pounding as if he'd been struck. The data-slate on the table now glowed with a sickly, pulsating green light, the volatile memories sealed within. Joren sagged in his harness, breathing heavily, a line of blood trickling from his nose. The cunning intelligence in his eyes was gone, replaced by a vacant, stunned confusion.
But he wasn't a Hollow. Not completely. The extraction had been too violent, too messy. It had left scars.
Kaelen leaned against the cold wall, his body trembling with exhaustion and self-disgust. He had done it. He had survived. But he had also proven the Archivist right. To survive this, he had to be brutal. He had just gotten a taste of the monster he might need to become.
The door hissed open. Valeria entered, her gaze sweeping the scene. She noted the glowing slate, the catatonic Joren, and Kaelen's pale, sweat-sheened face.
"The target memories are secured," she reported into her wrist-comm. "The Asset is… pacified." She looked at Kaelen. "The Archivist will be pleased. Your efficiency under pressure is noted."
As she spoke, Joren's head twitched. His clouded eyes, drifting aimlessly, suddenly locked onto Kaelen. A spark flickered in their depths—not of intelligence, but of a deep, instinctual recognition, like an animal catching a familiar scent.
His mouth, slack and wet, worked soundlessly for a moment. Then, a raw, guttural whisper scraped its way out of his throat.
"You…" he slurred, his voice a ruin. "I saw… in the noise… when you… broke me…"
Kaelen froze, the blood draining from his face.
Joren's lips twisted into a grotesque parody of a smile. "A secret… you hide… in the dark…" Each word was a struggle, dredged from the shattered remains of his consciousness. "A little… stone…" His eyes widened slightly, reflecting a phantom light. "...full of… starlight."
Valeria was looking at Joren, a faint frown on her face. "The subject is delirious. Post-extraction psychosis. It will pass."
But her words were distant, muffled by the roaring in Kaelen's ears. The world tilted. He had contained the volatile memory, but he had let something far more dangerous escape.
As Valeria led him from the bay, the door sealing behind them on Joren's broken form, Kaelen knew the truth. His carefully built facade of compliance was cracking. A witness remained, a shattered man who held the one secret that could get him executed. The walls of Memory's End were no longer just a prison; they had become a hunting ground, and he was now the prey.