The Name Unspoken
The echo of the knock lingered far longer than sound should. It pressed into the folds of Lynchie's mind like a forgotten memory clawing its way back into existence. She stood frozen in the vault beneath the Spiral Eye, the ashes of the mirror still curling in the air like smoke from an invisible fire.
Three knocks. No door.
And a whisper that chilled the blood in her veins.
Time to choose a name… or lose it.
"Lynchie," Zev said, voice low but urgent. "It's not safe to stay here."
She barely heard him. Her fingers curled around the sealed letter from Alarus, now folded and warm, as though the name inside it was a spark waiting to ignite.
A soul that binds timelines…
A soul that ends them…
The glyph on her palm pulsed again, a dull ache threading up her wrist. It felt like the page was inside her skin now, rewriting itself with every breath. She stumbled back from the place where the mirror had stood, her thoughts folding inward.
What name would she lose?
And more pressingly—what name had she never truly had?
Zev touched her shoulder. "We go now. If something knocked… it was an invitation. Or a warning."
She met his gaze. There was something different in his eyes. Not just fear. Recognition. "You know who knocked."
His jaw tightened. "I've heard it once before. In the Abyssal Fold. When a Ward collapsed. Only one entity knocks without needing hands."
Lynchie didn't breathe. "The Unreader."
Zev nodded grimly. "The One who unwrites."
Suddenly, the inked stair behind them groaned.
The air shimmered as a presence pressed against the library's very structure. Shelves rattled. Scrolls curled like drying leaves. A page fluttered loose from the ceiling—one of the self-writing leaves.
It spiraled down to Lynchie's feet, landing face-up.
Her own face was sketched on it.
Eyes blank. Mouth open in a scream.
"No," she whispered, stepping back. "This isn't real."
Zev drew a sigil in the air. "Stay close. We need to reach the Horizon Gate. If we can align your glyph to the Riven Spiral before it fades—"
But he stopped.
The ink in his sigil melted. Dripped to the ground like blood.
Something else was writing over it.
No—unwriting.
Lynchie spun as the vault's walls began to fade. Not crack. Not collapse.
Vanish.
The Spiral Eye was dissolving—its architecture turning into smoke, then into nothing at all. One by one, books vanished. Scrolls. Desks. Even the scent of parchment was stripped away.
"No!" Zev grabbed her hand. "We run. Now!"
They bolted up the disintegrating spiral. The steps behind them vanished as they passed, and Lynchie felt something lurch in her chest—like being forgotten by the world in real time. As they reached the upper floor, the library crumpled in their wake like an abandoned dream.
Outside, night had fallen. Or something like it. The sky was neither dark nor light, but veined with ink, stars swirling like spilled constellations down a drain. The Horizon Gate—a circle of white flame etched into the clearing—was the only solid thing remaining.
"Into it!" Zev shoved her toward the Gate.
Lynchie paused at the threshold. "Where does it go?"
His answer was immediate. "Anywhere but here."
But something stopped her.
A name.
Not whispered aloud, but flooding her thoughts like a forgotten melody.
Not Lynchie.
Not Vale.
Something older. Something stolen.
The glyph on her palm burned brighter than ever before.
She turned to Zev, her voice hollow. "I need to know what I was before they rewrote me."
He held her eyes. "Then we go find the Archive of Unnames. But it will cost."
"What?"
He swallowed. "A memory you cherish. Or a truth you fear."
Behind them, the Unreader's presence crept closer—cold, patient, erasing the world.
Lynchie stepped into the Horizon Gate.
Flame rose.
Sound shattered.
And the world folded into silence.