the vault of forgotten voice

The True Vault didn't look like much from the inside.

Eloryn blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim, star-dappled light filtering through stone latticework. The vault's ceiling stretched endlessly upward, and the floor was covered in soft dust, as if the world had forgotten how to visit.

She expected ancient tomes, shimmering relics, or maybe a prophetic choir humming in unison.

What she found instead was a single wooden desk.

And behind it, a short, silver-haired man chewing on a quill and wearing mismatched socks.

He looked up, startled.

"Oh! You're early."

Eloryn stared. "I… what?"

"You're Eloryn, yes? I thought we had at least another generation before you walked in. I was about to make tea." He paused. "Would you like some?"

Maren, catching up behind her, muttered, "We survived the Inquisition, frost demons, and an undead prophecy god for this?"

"Tea sounds nice," Eloryn said automatically.

The man poured from a floating kettle that hadn't been there a moment ago and handed her a cup. "I'm Pennrick. Archivist of the Unwritten. Guardian of the Gate of Self. And professional amateur ornithologist, but that's mostly a hobby."

He sipped his own tea and leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Tell me—when did your bones start glowing?"

Eloryn nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

"The Light of Memory. It's leaking through you, clear as crystal. You've touched the Chain, haven't you? Or maybe something worse."

Eloryn glanced down. Her fingertips shimmered faintly—not just with Mirror-light, but something deeper. Foresight made flesh.

"I wrote my name," she said. "And the world changed."

Pennrick nodded. "Ah. Classic mistake. But now you're awakening."

"To what?"

"Your true power," he said, eyes twinkling. "The Dreamwright's Gift. You're not just a seer anymore. You're a weaver."

He snapped his fingers.

A memory—not hers—filled her mind: a child laughing on a swing, a ship burning at sea, a woman with hair like silver thread shouting into the wind.

"Did you feel that?"

Eloryn gasped. "What was that?"

"A shard of someone else's truth. You can gather them now—memories that don't belong to you. Dreams that were never dreamt. You'll be able to thread them together, reshape what was into what could be."

"That's impossible," Maren said, eyeing the floating kettle suspiciously. "You can't rewrite memory."

"You can," Pennrick said cheerfully. "If you stop believing it's fixed."

Eloryn stared into her tea. In it, she saw fragments—Ilven's face, Kaelren's eyes, the burning page—and something new: herself, but different. Laughing. Whole.

Maren tilted his head. "Are you going to be okay?"

She gave him a small, crooked smile. "Probably not. But I think I'll be brilliant."

Suddenly, the vault shuddered. A low hum echoed through the stones.

Pennrick frowned. "That's not the kettle. Someone's trying to breach the vault."

Eloryn stood, her eyes already glowing brighter.

"Then it's time I see what this power can really do."

*************