The ladder rungs clamored with a slickness born from both condensation and time, plunging downward as if I were slipping through the gullet of something primeval. An ancient chill thickened the air, carrying a metallic tang that clung to my tongue like the taste of iron and memory.
Sareth led the way, her lantern secured around her wrist, casting a slender beam that sliced through the oppressive darkness. I kept my steps close to hers, acutely aware of how easily the Calya could seal the hatch above, a thought that loomed over me like a specter with every labored breath.
At last, we reached the bottom -- a landing wrought from stone, shimmering faintly as though silver dust had embedded itself within the very rock. Before us, the tunnel ahead unraveled into three diverging paths.
Sareth cast her gaze across the options. "The under-archives. No living soul is meant to tread here."
A lump formed in my throat. "And what of the dead?"
She remained silent, the weight of her unspoken thoughts heavy in the air.
We chose the middle path, stepping into the unknown.
The deeper we ventured, the more the voice of the Calyra enveloped us -- not in spoken words, but as a deep resonant vibration that thrummed in the very walls and echoed through the marrow of my bones. It struck a chord within me, reminiscent of Luthen's distant humming, twisting my stomach into a tumult of unease.
The corridor unfurled into an expansive hall, its walls flanked by tall, slender alcoves. Sareth raised the lantern higher, illuminating the scene.
In that moment, my heart nearly ceased to beat.
Each alcove harbored an archivist.
Or what remained of one.
They stood as still as statues, chiseled from wax and shadowy memories.
A woman's visage was half-melted, her eyes swirling cloudy marbles, drifting as if caught in a desperate attempt to focus. Her fingers -- or whatever fragments remained -- pressed against an unseen barrier, tracing patterns that had long since fled her understanding.
Another archivist's skin gleamed with a strange reflectiveness, her face reduced to a polished silver oval. Her hair floated gently around her, suspended as if in liquid. Though her chest rose and fell, each breath emerged as an eerie echo, akin to a breeze whistling through hollow glass.
A third figure -- a man, or what had once been a man -- bore no face at all. Instead, swirling lines and loops replaced his features, transforming him into a tapestry of text given form. He reached out toward us, sightless and yearning, fingertips brushing against stone with soft, sobbing whispers.
Sareth's hand flew to her mouth. "Gods... Vaerin, these are the Indexed."
I drew closer to an alcove, where a young archivist flickered between visibility and obscurity, as though the Calyra debated his very existence. His lips moved in silent urgency -- a word? A name? -- yet sound eluded him.
Once more, he mouthed it.
Help.
My breth caught in my throat.
Sareth's grip on my sleeve tightened, pulling me back. "Don't touch them. You don't know what stage they're in."
"What stage they're in," I murmured, my voice thin as a whisper.
She tightened her hold but refrained from arguing.
We pressed deeper into the hall, the lantern's glow revealing countless more alcoves, each containing archivists in various states of disarray:
Some locked in eternal screams, mouths stretched grotesquely wide.
Some are collapsing inward, as though the Calyra has forgotten the very nature of bodies.
Some wore serene smiles, hands folded, their faces smooth and void of recognition.
Other muttered prayers, voices laced with foreign echoes.
A tall figure, pressed against the distant wall, took note of our presence and began striking its forehead against the stone, a rhythmic tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each impact marked the wall with a silvery trace, as if memories were surging forth with every reverberation.
"Why are they kept like this?" I whispered, the words barely escaping my lips.
Sareth's voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. "The Calyra doesn't kill what it can repurpose."
A chill coiled itself within me, a creeping dread that settled like ice in my veins.
At the far end of the corridor, an iron-framed doorway swung open to reveal a smaller chamber. The air within was brutally cold--each breath felt like needles piercing my lungs.
Sareth moved ahead of me, her arm protecting me as the glow from her lantern danced across the room.
In the center, suspended like a predator poised to strike, was a mirror unlike any I had encountered before.
It boasted a circular form, edged in a braid of silver and obsidian, its surface murky and alive with a shifting darkness. Delicate strands of glass spiraled from its frame, merging into the stone walls, sending out pulses of light like whispers in shadows.
And within that silvery void... a face.
Not shattered. Not erased. Not shouting.
Just observing.
"Mistress Kallith," Sareth murmured, her voice barely above a breath.
An uneasy pull urged me forward, despite the dread skittering along my skin. The surface of the mirror trembled, ripples spreading outward, as if stirred by my presence.
Kallith's visage appeared older and wearier. Her dark hair floated around her like tendrils in water. The faint lavender fragrance that once filled her office clung to the air, rising from the glass.
I raised my hand hesitantly. "Kallith... It's me."
The glass hummed softly.
Her eyes flickered toward me, struggling to focus. Then, with a strength that seemed to strain her very essence, she spoke.
Not with words.
Her voice flowed into my mind from the depths of the mirror:
You have come. I hoped... I forged the way... but time twists strangely here.
Tears pricked at my eyes. "We came to rescue you."
Sareth moved closer, resolve etched on her face. "Tell us how. Tell us what we must do."
Kallith's gaze drifted over Sareth. She is courageous. Protect her, Vaerin. The Calyra bears no mercy for those who stand against it.
Sareth stiffened, yet remained unyielding.
"Kallith," I breathed, "what is this place?"
The mirror pulsed gently, a heartbeat in the silence.
The womb of the Calyra. Its digestive tract. A prison for what it has yet to rewrite. A pause lingered. These... archivists... are tales yet unfinished. The Calyra is still deliberating which versions of them should endure.
I turned my gaze back to the alcoves, where half-erased faces lingered, mirrored forms twisted, and pleading eyes seemed to reach for solace.
"Kallith, how do we stop this?"
A heavy silence hung in the air.
Her expression darkened.
You don't stop it. You endure it. And the path to endurance begins with understanding the predator that stalks you.
Sareth's voice trembled, low as a whisper. "The entity. The one trapped in mirrors. What is it?"
The surface of the mirror writhed, distorting Kallith's reflection like ink swirling in water.
When her voice returned, it dripped with disquiet. It is known as the Scribe Below. The first Mythshapers discovered its essence in the shadows, mistaking it for divinity. It was anything but. It was insatiable.
A tremor coursed through the chamber.
Kallith's eyes flared with alarm. You shouldn't be here. It senses you. It senses her most of all.
"Her who?" Sareth asked, panic clenching her voice.
Kallith's gaze swung toward me.
Vaerin.
My blood froze.
"I'm not--what could it possibly want from me?"
Kallith's expression softened, leaving a haunting blend of sorrow and desperation in its wake.
Because you have been erased before. You survived once. You were never meant to endure again. The Scribe Below seeks to complete its grim work.
My knees weakened beneath me.
Sareth steadied me, gripping my elbow firmly.
Before we could voice our dread, the mirror flickered erratically. Kallith's image distorted, her outline coiling like smoke in the air.
A low, guttural voice resonated down the corridor we had traversed.
Not human. Not normal. Not in the slightest.
The mirror vibrated violently, fissures spreading like cracks in ice.
Kallith's voice surged in our minds, urgent, desperate: GO. Seek the Archivist Vault. Find the First Book. And whatever you do--
The mirror splintered.
Her voice cut off sharply.
A scream--not hers--poured from the hall of alcoves as the Indexed archivists began to stir, their heads turning in eerie, synchronized motions.
Sareth yanked me backward.
"Run!"
This time, fear propelled me forward without the need for persuasion.
