Chapter 22 - One Who Whispers

Smoke still rose from Hollow's Rest, curling into the early morning sky.

Kieran and Veyren watched from the ridge, hidden among the trees.

The trap had been set.

By nightfall, word would spread.

The Keepers would believe Veyren was dead.

Which meant they would stop hunting him.

And that gave them their first real advantage.

Because now, they could hunt the Keepers instead.

Veyren leaned against a tree, arms crossed.

"You sure about this?"

Kieran smirked.

"No. But I've never let that stop me before."

Veyren sighed.

"I meant the next step."

His eyes flickered with something dark.

"You realize what we're doing, don't you?"

Kieran nodded.

"We're dismantling an empire built on silence."

The Keepers weren't just a secret faction.

They were woven into the kingdom itself.

Not just nobles.

Not just war council members.

They had spies in every corner of society.

From the royal archives to the underground markets.

Which meant that if they wanted to break the Keepers' grip—

They needed to find the cracks first.

And push until something snapped.

Kieran pulled out a small scrap of parchment.

A list of names.

Names he had gathered in the war council.

Names he had seen watching him.

Names he had memorized because of how silent they had been.

One stood out.

Lord Davos Revelle.

The royal historian.

The man who controlled what was written and what was erased.

Kieran exhaled.

"If anyone knows where the Keepers hide their secrets, it's him."

Veyren raised an eyebrow.

"And you think he'll just tell you?"

Kieran smirked.

"No. But everyone talks when they have no other choice."

The archives were deep within the palace walls.

A fortress of forbidden knowledge, guarded by royal sentinels.

Few men had access to them.

Even fewer left them alive after learning the wrong things.

And Davos Revelle?

He had been inside them for decades.

Erasing, rewriting, controlling what the kingdom believed to be true.

If the Keepers had a vault of secrets—

Kieran was willing to bet Revelle held the key.

The plan was simple.

Get inside.

Find Revelle.

Make him talk.

But there was one problem.

Kieran couldn't just walk in through the front gates.

He needed a disguise.

And he knew exactly where to get one.

Night fell as Kieran and Veyren slipped into the lower districts of the capital.

Past the taverns.

Past the gambling dens.

To a small, unassuming tailor shop—

Where one of Kieran's oldest allies waited.

The woman at the counter didn't look up as they entered.

"If you're here for trouble, take it elsewhere."

Kieran smirked.

"Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?"

The woman sighed.

Then finally glanced up.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Kieran."

She set down her sewing needle.

"I thought you were dead."

Kieran chuckled.

"You wouldn't be the first."

Her name was Elaris.

She was no ordinary tailor.

She crafted disguises, false papers, and hidden messages—

A woman whose skill had saved Kieran more than once.

And tonight, he needed her help again.

Kieran leaned against the counter.

"I need entry into the royal archives."

Elaris raised an eyebrow.

"That's impossible."

Kieran grinned.

"So was coming back from the dead. And yet, here I am."

Elaris sighed.

"You always ask for the impossible."

"And yet, you always deliver."

She rolled her eyes.

"What do you need?"

The disguise was simple but effective.

A royal messenger's cloak.

A forged signet ring.

And most importantly—a document bearing the war council's insignia.

Something that would get him past the outer gates.

Elaris adjusted the cloak, frowning.

"You'll have one chance to do this. The archives aren't just guarded. They're warded."

"You get caught inside, and no one will ever hear from you again."

Kieran smirked.

"Then I better not get caught."

Veyren folded his arms.

"I still think this is reckless."

Kieran shrugged.

"It is."

Veyren sighed.

"Fine. Then I assume you have an escape plan?"

Kieran hesitated.

Then grinned.

"Work in progress."

Veyren groaned.

"You're going to get yourself killed."

Kieran clapped him on the shoulder.

"Not tonight."

Kieran tightened his cloak, stepping into the moonlit streets.

Elaris's forged documents felt heavy in his hands.

Because this was it.

The first true strike against the Keepers.

A chance to uncover the lies they had built their kingdom on.

And if Lord Davos Revelle had even a shred of fear—Kieran would find it.

Because tonight, he was walking into the lion's den.

And tomorrow?

He would set it on fire.

The royal archives loomed ahead, bathed in moonlight.

A fortress of knowledge.

A prison of forgotten truths.

And Kieran was walking straight into it.

The forged documents felt heavy in his hands.

The messenger's cloak itched against his skin.

This was it.

His first real move against the Keepers.

One mistake, and he wouldn't just die.

He'd be erased.

But Kieran had never been one for caution.

Not when there was too much at stake.

The first checkpoint was easy.

A pair of royal guards, armed with halberds.

Kieran approached with calculated confidence.

"Messenger from the war council."

He handed over the documents.

The guards barely glanced at him.

A flicker of magic passed through the parchment—a verification spell.

For a moment, Kieran's pulse quickened.

Then—

The spell glowed green.

Authentic.

Thanks to Elaris's handiwork.

One guard nodded.

"Go inside."

Kieran exhaled.

And stepped into the royal archives.

The interior was massive.

Endless corridors of towering bookshelves.

Ancient scrolls, locked behind iron bars.

Enchanted torches flickered, casting long, whispering shadows.

The silence here was unnatural.

A silence filled with watchful eyes.

Lord Davos Revelle wasn't hard to find.

His office was buried in the deepest section of the archives.

A place where only the most trusted scholars were allowed.

But Kieran wasn't here to ask for permission.

He was here to steal the truth.

He moved silently, slipping past the rows of desks and scribes.

And then—

He saw him.

A man seated at an ornate desk, surrounded by stacks of forbidden texts.

Thin. Pale. Sharp-eyed.

The royal historian.

The man who had spent decades erasing the past.

Kieran exhaled slowly.

Then stepped forward.

"Lord Davos Revelle."

The historian's quill paused mid-stroke.

Then, slowly, he looked up.

His gaze met Kieran's.

And in that moment, Kieran saw it.

Not fear.

Not surprise.

But recognition.

As if he had been expecting this.

Revelle set down his quill.

"Kieran."

Not "Who are you?"

Not "What are you doing here?"

Just his name.

Like a man greeting an old friend.

Or an enemy he had long prepared for.

Kieran leaned against the door, crossing his arms.

"You don't seem surprised to see me."

Revelle smirked, lacing his fingers together.

"That's because I'm not."

Kieran's jaw tightened.

"You knew I was coming."

Revelle chuckled softly.

"Oh, Kieran. You've been coming for a long time."

Kieran stepped closer.

"Then I assume you know why I'm here."

Revelle nodded.

"You want answers. About the war. About the Keepers."

His gaze darkened.

"And about yourself."

Kieran didn't react.

But inside?

A storm was brewing.

Because that last part—that was different.

That meant Revelle knew more than he should.

Revelle sighed.

"Do you know what my job is, Kieran?"

Kieran narrowed his eyes.

"You rewrite history."

Revelle smiled faintly.

"No. I decide what history is."

A pause.

"And what it isn't."

Kieran's fingers curled into a fist.

"Then tell me what was erased."

Revelle studied him.

Then—he stood.

Slowly, deliberately.

"Very well."

Revelle walked to a hidden section of the office.

A bookshelf.

One that didn't quite touch the floor.

With a flick of his wrist, the air shimmered—

And the bookshelf vanished.

Revealing a hidden door.

Kieran stilled.

Because beyond that door—

Lay something the Keepers never wanted him to see.

Revelle placed his hand on the handle.

Then, he hesitated.

"Once you step inside, Kieran…"

His voice was quiet.

"There's no turning back."

Kieran smirked.

"I never intended to."

Revelle nodded.