The Path Beneath the Ashes

The sky above Elaris was an endless expanse of gray, the once vibrant village now a scar on the earth, smothered beneath a layer of soot and ash. Nyros Vale stood in the center of the ruins, his toy sword still clutched tightly in his hand, though its wooden edge had been dulled by the weight of the night's events. The world felt smaller, darker, as though it had swallowed him whole.

He was alone.

The wind whispered through the skeletal remains of homes, carrying with it faint echoes of laughter, of life that no longer existed. Nyros wanted to scream, to cry out, but his throat was dry, his voice lost somewhere deep inside him. There were no tears left. Only silence.

Yet even in that silence, something stirred.

Nyros felt it first as a cold twinge in the back of his mind, a flicker of something just beyond his grasp. It wasn't grief, though that clung to him like a heavy fog. It was something else—something unsettling. A sensation, almost like a presence, lurking in the shadowy corners of his thoughts. It whispered, but the words were faint, just beyond his ability to understand.

His gaze wandered aimlessly over the ruins. Broken beams, shattered pottery, scorched earth. And then, his eyes caught on something.

A path.

It wasn't a road, not in the traditional sense. It was more of a subtle disturbance, barely visible beneath the ash—a winding trail that seemed to snake through the village, leading toward the forest beyond. Nyros's breath caught in his throat as he stared at it. The path hadn't been there before. He was sure of it.

His mother's voice echoed in his memory, faint but clear: "The library, Nyros. You must find it. It holds the answers you seek."

The **Library**. The place of hidden knowledge, where the truths of the world, of magic, and dimensions were buried. His mother had told him stories about it—ancient tales passed down through his race. A place only they could access, a sanctuary of forgotten secrets. But those had just been stories, or so he had thought. Until now.

He took a step toward the path. His feet were heavy, as though weighed down by the enormity of what lay ahead, but something urged him forward. An invisible pull, a sense that this was the only way. The only way to understand why his village had been destroyed. Why his people had been wiped out. Why he was the last.

Nyros followed the path, his heart pounding in his chest. The village seemed to fade into the background as he moved, the destruction and death receding into a distant memory, replaced by the haunting quiet of the forest ahead. The trees loomed large, their twisted branches reaching out like skeletal hands, casting long, eerie shadows on the ground.

The path twisted and turned, growing narrower the farther he went. Soon, it was little more than a thread, barely visible beneath the thick layer of fallen leaves and moss. But Nyros kept going, driven by a force he couldn't explain. The cold twinge in his mind grew stronger the closer he got to the forest's edge, a strange feeling of unease settling in his stomach.

And then, without warning, the path stopped.

Nyros blinked, staring at the ground before him. The trail had vanished, ending abruptly at the base of a large, ancient tree. Its roots twisted and curled, half-buried in the earth, and its bark was covered in strange markings—symbols that Nyros didn't recognize but felt somehow familiar.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the tree. The pull he had felt, the one that had guided him here, seemed to vanish. Now, there was only stillness, and a strange, oppressive silence that hung in the air like a weight.

And then the whispers returned.

This time, they were louder, clearer. But they weren't coming from outside. They were coming from *inside* his head.

"It's here. It's hidden. You're not ready."

The voice was his own, but it wasn't. It was darker, colder, filled with a certainty that Nyros didn't understand. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, but the voice persisted, gnawing at the edges of his mind.

"You're not strong enough. You'll fail."

Nyros clenched his fists, his heart racing. He didn't know what was happening, didn't understand the strange shift in his thoughts. The voice—it felt like him, but it also felt… different. Like a version of himself he didn't know. A version that was waiting, watching, just beneath the surface.

Before he could dwell on it further, the tree in front of him groaned. The sound was low, deep, like the earth itself was shifting. Slowly, the roots began to move, curling back and revealing a narrow opening at the base of the tree.

A doorway.

Nyros stared at it, wide-eyed. This was it. The entrance to the library. The place his mother had told him about. But it didn't look like any library he had ever imagined. The doorway was dark, foreboding, a gaping maw that led into the unknown.

He hesitated. For the first time, fear gripped him—not the fear of death or destruction, but the fear of the unknown. What lay beyond that doorway? What truths would he uncover? And would he be ready for them?

But then he remembered his mother's final words, the promise he had made. "Live on, even if you are alone."

With a deep breath, Nyros stepped forward and entered the darkness.

---

The air inside the tunnel was cold, damp. The stone walls pressed in on either side, and Nyros had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. The only sound was the faint drip of water, echoing through the narrow passage.

The farther he went, the colder it became. The darkness was so thick it felt like a living thing, wrapping itself around him, suffocating. But still, he pressed on, driven by a force he couldn't fully explain.

After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel opened up into a vast chamber. Nyros gasped as he stepped into the room, his eyes wide with awe. The chamber was enormous, the ceiling so high it disappeared into the shadows. The walls were lined with shelves—endless rows of ancient tomes, scrolls, and artifacts. Strange symbols glowed faintly on the stone floor, and the air was thick with magic, humming with a power that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

This was the Library. The place of hidden knowledge. And it was more magnificent—and more terrifying—than he could have ever imagined.

Nyros walked slowly through the chamber, his eyes darting from one shelf to the next. There were books here that looked older than the world itself, scrolls that seemed to pulse with a strange, ethereal energy. The weight of the knowledge contained in this place was overwhelming, almost too much to comprehend.

As he wandered through the endless shelves, a single book caught his eye. It was smaller than the others, its cover worn and faded, but something about it drew him in. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he touched the leather-bound cover.

The moment his hand made contact with the book, a surge of energy shot through him. His vision blurred, and for a brief second, he felt that strange presence in his mind again—the cold, calculating voice that had spoken to him earlier. But this time, it was joined by something else. Something darker, more primal.

Nyros pulled his hand back, his heart racing. The voices in his head—the ones that had been faint whispers—were growing louder, more insistent. They weren't just voices. They were *parts* of him, fragments of something that had been broken.

He didn't understand it. Not yet. But he could feel them—three distinct presences, each pulling at him in different ways.

One voice was filled with sadness, with grief and loss. Another was cold, detached, calculating. And the third… the third was filled with a burning rage, a desire for revenge that made Nyros's skin crawl.

He didn't know what it meant. Didn't know why these voices were appearing now. But he couldn't shake the feeling that they were connected to the Library, to the mysteries hidden within its walls.

Nyros took a deep breath, pushing the voices to the back of his mind. He had come here for answers, and he wasn't going to leave without them. The voices could wait.

For now.

With renewed determination, he opened the book and began to read.