Names That Burn

The moment Lynchie stepped into the Rift, everything changed.

There was no flash, no thunderclap—only the soft cracking sound of ink drying on ancient parchment. One heartbeat she stood in the Vault of Thrones; the next, she was falling through the folds of an unfinished sentence.

Colors she had no names for stitched themselves into the air. Concepts moved like creatures. Past and future mingled, whispering secrets in languages buried before humanity ever dreamed of alphabets.

Zev fell beside her, unflinching. He did not scream, did not flail. His arms were folded, cloak trailing like a second shadow. He had been here before, Lynchie realized—not in body, perhaps, but in blueprint.

They landed not on ground, but on memory.

A library stretched out before them—endless, dead, decayed. Shelves collapsed under their own forgotten weight. Scrolls wept mold. Tomes whispered confessions into the dust. The air tasted of mildew and despair.

"This was once one of the Spiral's Eyes," Zev murmured. "A place that watched all things… until it went blind."

Lynchie crouched, running a hand over the scorched floorboards. Her fingers brushed something sharp. A sigil.

No, a name.

Her own.

Carved into the wood.

She recoiled.

Zev was already reading the glyph. "It's not just your name. It's a binding."

Lynchie turned. "What do you mean?"

He looked at her, face unreadable. "Someone knew you'd come here. Long before you were ever born."

"Who?"

Zev hesitated—then flinched.

A howl.

Not of beast or wind—but thought. A wounded idea.

The shelves shook.

Something moved behind them—massive, slow, patient. It did not stalk. It did not chase. It simply… waited.

Lynchie's breath quickened. "What is that?"

Zev's hand found the hilt of his sword. "A Librivore."

She blinked. "A what?"

He answered without turning. "A creature that feeds on stories that were never supposed to exist."

"And me being here—"

"Means the menu just changed."

Pages flew from the shelves—blank, burned, screaming. They orbited the creature's growing presence. From the dark, a face emerged. Not monstrous. Human. Gentle.

Her mother.

No—an echo of her mother. A memory she never wrote down.

"Lynchie," the voice whispered. "Come home."

She froze.

Zev stepped forward, raising his blade. "It's not her. Don't look into its story."

But it was too late.

The creature surged—formless and vast, layered with unfinished versions of every person Lynchie had ever loved. A swarm of possible grief.

She staggered, heart ripping sideways.

Then something within her snapped.

A crack of light—not blinding, but undeniable.

The Spiral Ward she carried—the one bound to her palm—ignited.

The Librivore screamed.

Zev covered his face. "You activated it!"

Lynchie wasn't listening. She was burning.

The ink within her veins rearranged itself into syllables that never died. Her voice split into harmony, into language older than death.

"I name you," she said, raising her hand. "Ephor Az-Gael, False Memory of Forgotten Truths."

The Librivore froze. The shelves stopped shaking.

Lynchie stepped forward, voice iron.

"You do not own my sorrow."

And with that, she closed her fist—and the Rift answered.

The creature shrieked, imploding into parchment and sound, unraveling into vapor and string. The air bent backward, and then silence.

Zev exhaled.

The floor beneath them solidified into marble—real now, stable. The library healed itself, slowly, as if grateful.

He looked at her.

"You just named a Librivore."

Lynchie's chest heaved. "I didn't even know I could do that."

"You shouldn't be able to." He stepped closer. "But you did."

They stood in the quiet for a moment.

Then Zev added, softly, "That's what scares me."

Lynchie turned to face him. "You think I'm becoming dangerous?"

He shook his head. "You were always dangerous. Now you're becoming necessary."

Outside the library, the Rift trembled.

Another Spiral Ward stirred.

Another page waited to be written.

Lynchie looked down at her palm. The glyph had changed—no longer just a symbol. It was a sentence now.

And it was still writing itself.