Memories: The Archives

Darkness swallowed him whole.

At first, he thought he was dead. The exhaustion, the wounds, the sword was the last thing he should have seen. But as the place around him shifted and contorted, stretching into impossible distances, he realized this was something else entirely.

A library.

It didn't look like one built by human hands, nor one bound by the constraints of space. It was vast, endless, its towering bookshelves stretching far into a sky he could not see.

The architecture shimmered, twisting and bending in ways that made his mind ache if he focused too long. The air was thick with whispers and murmuring at once, speaking in languages he both recognized and didn't.

Then, six voices cut through the noise.

They didn't not speak in words, but in thoughts pressed directly into his mind. Some were gentle, others were sharp, but none of them were whole. Their fragmented phrases overlapped, blending into incoherence:

*"Citadel."*

*"Don't continue the path."*

*"Embrace the fire."*

*"Doom awaits"*

He tried to respond, but his throat wasnt able to produce sound. It didnt seem to work here.

He could only listen as the voices muttered and discussed between themselves as they guided him forward, urging him to an ancient wooden table at the heart of the shifting space.

Upon it laid a single book, its cover blackened by burns. Beautiful emblems of white flames adorned the sides of the book. His hands moved on their own, drawn by something deep. He opened it.

And then he was no longer himself.

---

He felt as he was seeing the entire life of someone. A man who he didn't recognise. Yet, he recognised the city. It was the same way as the memory.

He saw too many scenes to remember them all. Hope, light, then despair. A life of someone flashing through his eyes.

Then, the scenery changed

He was running.

A man, wounded, stumbling through a burning battlefield.

In his hand, he clutched a sword wreathed in white flames. And his body was adorned the same way, an armor of burning light

Flames that burned not just his enemies, but himself.

Each time he swung, searing light devoured those who stood in his path, reducing them to nothing. But with every use, parts of him where consumed by some invisible force, soon dissolving into nothingness. The man had to wait before using his powers after this happened, before continuing to burn everything in his path. The fire was not a gift. It was a curse. A burden.

Yet he fought, again and again, until the last of his strength was gone. Until his mind was consumed as well.

For a brief moment the man saw something he knew he should have seen. Pure darknes. Though that didn't mean there was an absence of things there. He could feel many presences. They had watched the wounded man. Or were they watching him as well?

Was this the Eternal Night he had mentioned?

Thankfully, the vision switched, to the time when the wounded man met another—a desperate figure, just like him and offered the blade as a final act.

The wounded man's hoarse voice echoed in his skull: *"Take it, and let it burn you too."*

The illusion shattered. The library returned.

---

The book in his hands burst into white fire. He gasped, staggering back, but the flames did not consume him. Instead, they seeped into his skin, branding themselves into his very being.

His neck burned. The mark—an eye surrounded by six simple figures—shifted. One of the figures twisted, reshaping itself. No longer just a vague outline, it took the shape of the wounded man, consumed by the flames.

For a moment, the searing cold he has felt when touching the brand for the first time turned into a heated pain, before slowly subduing.

Power coursed through him.

He looked down at his palm, and as if responding to his thoughts, a flicker of white fire emerged from his fingertips.

But he understood, now. This was no ordinary strength. This was a fire that devoured. That used his user's as fuel.

A voice—one of the six—spoke, clearer than before: *"It will burn."*

The library trembled. Reality cracked. The world snapped back.

---

The man awoke in the tower.

His body was still weak, his wounds still raw, but something had changed.

The dagger in his grip no longer flickered weakly. The white flames surged forward steady and strong.

He clenched his fist, feeling the weight of the knowledge he had taken. He had not simply gained strength—he had taken a piece of the wounded man's existence, his memories. A burden he would have to carry.

And there were still five empty figures left to be filled.