The Whisperwood Pursuit

The Whisperwood Pursuit

By dawn, the trio stumbled onto the far side of the mountain, where the trees finally gave way to a narrow pass. The diary, now vibrating with smug energy, scrawled across its pages:

"Told you you'd make it. Now, about that 'comet' lie—you do realize Lira was standing right outside the door when you were whispering 'we must get as far away as possible,' correct?"

Therion groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "We're doomed."

"Not yet," Lyria muttered, though her knuckles were white around her dagger's hilt. "But if we survive whatever's following us, Lira's going to skin us alive."

Somewhere behind them, deep in the woods they'd just escaped, a branch cracked—too loud, too deliberate. None of them looked back.

The Truth of the Pursuer

What they didn't know was this:

The thing following them wasn't the Archivist.

It wasn't even alive.

A hollow illusion tree—ancient, weak, and barely sentient—had spent the night warping sounds to mimic pursuit. Its roots shifted to create phantom footsteps; its branches trembled to replicate whispers. It fed on fear, and the trio had been deliciously terrified.

The diary, however, sensed something else entirely.

"Odd," it wrote, ink bleeding slower now, as if hesitant. "There's... someone else. Human. But not the Archivist. And they're just outside my range—hovering at the edge of perception. Like they're watching without being seen."

Lyria's grip tightened on her dagger. "What does that mean?"

"It means," the diary replied, "that either I'm glitching, or there's something out there even she doesn't know about."

A breeze rustled the leaves—except there was no wind.

Somewhere, far away in Dragonspire, the Archivist sneezed violently, nearly upending her tea.

"Ugh. Disgusting," the diary added, as if offended by the mere echo of her existence. "She's still not looking in the right place. Typical."

Ardyn swallowed. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

The diary's response was gleeful: "Immensely. Watching that woman fumble is the closest thing I have to entertainment."

Therion kicked a rock. "Great. So we've got a spooky tree, a mystery stalker, and a cursed book with a grudge. Anything else?"

As if in answer, the illusion tree—now deprived of their fear—let out a creaking sigh and collapsed into rotted dust.

The diary didn't even bother to comment.

Meanwhile, in Dragonspire...

The Archivist glared at her half-empty teacup, as if it had personally betrayed her. "This is ridiculous," she announced to the café at large. "That diary knows I hate hide-and-seek."

A waiter edged away.

She flipped open her book again, scowling as the text rearranged itself into increasingly unhelpful suggestions:

Have you checked under the sofa?

Maybe it wanted a vacation?

Stop being dramatic and retrace your steps.

"I am not dramatic," she hissed, slamming it shut.

The diary, wherever it was, would absolutely disagree.

The Vanishing Blade

The crunch of leaves underfoot had stopped. The unnatural silence that followed was worse—thick enough to choke on.

Lyria tightened her grip on her dagger, her voice a low hiss. "Therion. Go check what—or who—that was."

Therion exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine. But if I get eaten, I'm haunting both of you. Ardyn gets sleep paralysis. Lyria, you wake up to spiders in your boots."

With a flicker of shadow, he teleported—reappearing a dozen meters back where the sound had last echoed. The forest here was eerily still. No footsteps. No breathing. Just the faint scent of ozone and crushed foliage, like the air after a lightning strike.

Then he saw it.

A small, curved blade—no longer than a handspan—lodged in the damp earth. Its metal was unnaturally dark, the edge so sharp it seemed to cut the air around it, leaving faint ripples in reality.

"What the...?" Therion crouched, reaching for it.

The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, the blade disintegrated into black dust, swirling away into nothing.

"Oh, that's not ominous," he muttered.

Back with the others, he relayed what he'd found.

Ardyn's aether-sight flickered uneasily, his pupils dilating as he scanned the trees. "A blade that vanishes when touched? That's not a pursuer. That's a message."

The diary, ever helpful, scrawled:

"Or a tracking spell. Or a curse. Or a really dramatic way to say 'I'm watching you.' Point is—someone knows where we are. And they're playing with us."

Lyria glared into the trees, her free hand flexing. "Next time, we burn the creepy knife first."

Therion rubbed his fingers together, the residue of the blade's disintegration still clinging to his skin like static. "It didn't feel like magic. More like... hunger."

A beat of silence.

Then, from somewhere in the distance, a crow laughed—a sound too sharp, too knowing.

The diary added, almost cheerfully:

"On the bright side, at least it's not the Archivist! She'd just whine about property damage."

Ardyn groaned. "It's going to be a long night."

Above them, the moon blinked behind a cloud.

And the woods held their breath.

The Diary's Lecture on Cosmic Rebellion

The diary shuddered awake with a dramatic flourish, ink swirling into bold, looping letters:

"Congratulations, mortals! You have exactly one hour with me—the most charming, brilliant, and tragically deceased scholar you'll ever meet. Try not to swoon."

Therion blinked. "Did the book just call itself sexy?"

"Oh, absolutely," the diary wrote, adding a tiny, terrible sketch of a winking face. "What, you thought only living people could be devastatingly attractive? Please. My mind is eternally dashing."

Lyria squinted at the page. "Is that… a drawing of you flexing?"

The diary's next sketch was indeed a stick-figure version of its former self—Elias—flexing beside a tiny bookshelf labeled "Behold: The Forbidden Knowledge Gains."

Ardyn rubbed his temples. "We're being bullied by a ghost's ego."

"Correction: Honored by a ghost's ego," the diary corrected cheerfully. "Now, before my darkflame nap time hits, ask me something actually important. Or don't! I can just keep doodling my hypothetically perfect jawline—"

Therion cut in. "How many Pathways do you remember?"

The ink stalled. Then, slowly, the letters grew smaller, almost hesitant.

"Ah. That question."

A pause. The diary's tone shifted—less playful, more hollow.

"Here's the problem—I don't. Not clearly. The more I knew in life, the more the world forgot me. Now? I'm a glorified library with half the shelves empty."

Lyria frowned. "Then how do you know anything?"

"Because some things can't be forgotten," the diary replied, ink darkening. "The Covenant leaves scars. And I remember scars."

It continued, its script steadying.

"If I see a Covenant user, I'll know their Path. Like the Archivist? She's top-tier Buried Light—hoarder of secrets, devourer of memories. But you lot?"

A deliberate pause. Then, with a flourish:

"You're following The Ten Blasphemies."

The Ten Blasphemies

Ardyn's breath caught. "The what?"

"Cosmic crimes. Divine no-nos," the diary wrote, its letters sharpening. "Think: stealing fire, mocking gods, unmaking fate—classic taboo stuff. Each 'sin' you commit properly levels you up. But here's the catch—it's exclusive to Buried Light. Other Paths have their own rules. The Silent Maw, for instance? They ascend by swallowing truths whole. The Hollow Crown? They forge power by sacrificing their own memories. But you? You break laws."

Therion leaned forward. "Which laws?"

The diary's ink pooled, forming a list:

Theft of the Unspoken (Stealing what cannot be known)

The Sundering of Oaths (Breaking sacred vows to higher powers)

The Unmaking of Names (Erasing something from existence, even briefly)

The Consumption of Echoes (Devouring the remnants of forgotten things)

The Forging of Lies That Become Truth (Speaking falsehoods so potent they rewrite reality)

"And so on," the diary added. "Each one is a tier. Break one, you're marked. Break enough, and the Covenant crowns you."

Lyria's eyes narrowed. "Crowns you?"

"The Archivist isn't her name," the diary explained. "It's a title. A rank. She earned it by breaking at least five. Me? I only managed three before I… well. Became a book."

A bitter edge crept into the script.

"The first law I broke? Theft of the Unspoken. I stole a secret the stars themselves tried to bury. The second? Sundering of Oaths. I swore to protect that secret—then sold it for power. The third?"

The ink trembled.

"I tried to unmake a name. A person. And it worked. For a moment."

Silence.

Then, quieter:

"The Archivist did worse. She consumed echoes—entire histories, gone in a breath. She forged lies so deep they became truth. That's why she's what she is. And why you're still… well. You."

The Rules of Rebellion

Therion exhaled. "So let me get this straight. To get stronger, we have to piss off the universe itself?"

"Pretty much!" The diary's mood lightened again. "But here's the fun part—the Covenant balances it. Every gift comes with a curse. For me? Infinite knowledge, but I'm stuck as a memoir. For her? Absolute control over secrets… but she can't remember her own name unless she writes it down. Poetic, really."

Ardyn's voice was quiet. "And us?"

"You'll find out," the diary replied. "But I'd start small. Maybe steal a forbidden thought. Break a promise to something that doesn't forgive. See how it feels."

Lyria crossed her arms. "And if we don't?"

"Then the Archivist will eat you alive," the diary wrote cheerfully. "Metaphorically. Probably."

The ink began fading.

"Welp, nap time. If you need me, just commit a little heresy. I'll wake up for that."

As the words dissolved, Therion sighed.

"So. To recap: We level up by pissing off the universe, our teacher is a ghost himbo, and God's meanest librarian is coming to repossess us."

Lyria patted the diary. "Best. Apocalypse. Ever."

Somewhere in the woods, a twig snapped.

The diary, now dormant, radiated smugness.