The Collision (And the Voice That Shouldn't Know Them)

Therion stumbled backward from the impact, his boots skidding on rain-slick cobblestones. Just as his balance failed, an elegant hand caught his wrist, arresting his fall with effortless grace. The grip was firm, the fingers long and slender beneath black leather gloves, cool even through the worn material of Therion's sleeve.

"Oh dear," murmured a voice like honeyed wine, rich and velvety, "such haste from such interesting guests."

The figure stepped into the sliver of moonlight between buildings, and for a heartbeat, the alley itself seemed to hold its breath.

They were tall—willowy in a way that made their priestly robes sway like liquid shadow, the fabric whispering against the cobblestones with each movement. The high collar framed a face both delicate and sharp, all elegant angles softened by the blue frost of their hair, strands tipped in pale pink, catching the faint light like spun sugar. Their lips, painted a shade too dark to be natural, curled into a smile that was a knife wrapped in silk.

Therion's skin prickled. This close, he caught the scent of something floral beneath the metallic tang of his own blood—like roses left to rot in sacramental wine, sweet and cloying with decay.

Lyria's knife was in her hand before she realized she'd drawn it.

The stranger's gaze slid over them one by one, unhurried, as if savoring each reaction. "Therion," they purred, thumb brushing his pulse point in a slow, deliberate stroke. "Lyria. Ardyn." Each name dropped like a coin into a wishing well, weighted with too much knowledge. "What a precious accident."

Ardyn's hand tightened on his satchel strap—the diary inside suddenly heavier, as if Elias himself had tensed in recognition.

Therion yanked his arm free. "The hells—"

"Shh." A gloved finger pressed to his lips, shockingly cold, the leather smooth as a serpent's belly. "You'll wake the children." They nodded toward a nearby window where candlelight flickered behind thin curtains. "Though I do adore your... enthusiasm." Their laugh was a shiver down the spine, low and musical. "Youth truly is—"

Therion's punch connected with a satisfying crunch.

The figure reeled back—and laughed, bright and startled. A single, perfect trickle of dark blood painted their cupid's bow, gleaming like ink in the moonlight. They touched it delicately, then licked their fingertip with a delighted hum, their tongue flicking out like a cat's.

"Oh," they sighed, eyes crinkling at the corners, "I do like you."

Lyria grabbed Therion's collar. "Move!"

They ran.

Behind them, the stranger's voice curled through the dark like smoke, sweet and poisonous:

"Do mind the diary, Ardyn dear! Old paper burns so easily..."

The Narrow Escape

The moment the stranger's voice faded into the night, the trio didn't hesitate—they ran.

Lyria took the lead, her boots pounding against the rain-slick cobblestones as she wove through the labyrinth of backstreets. Every turn was sharp, every alley chosen at random—left, then right, then left again—a frantic, zigzagging path designed to lose even the most determined pursuer. Therion followed close behind, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his side burning where his stitches pulled taut. Ardyn brought up the rear, one hand clutching the satchel with Elias's diary—its weight suddenly more pronounced, as if the book itself had tensed in warning.

"Was that—?" Lyria panted, cutting down a narrow passage between two leaning buildings.

"Had to be," Therion growled, skidding around a corner and nearly crashing into a stack of empty crates. "Who the hell else would know about the damn diary?"

Ardyn didn't answer. His fingers tightened around the strap, the leather creaking under his grip. The diary pressed against his ribs like a second heartbeat, its presence both a burden and a lifeline. Liora's only chance.

The Archivist's Greatest Weakness: A Zigzag Path

Lyria suddenly veered left, then right, then left again—a chaotic, unpredictable pattern that made Therion's head spin.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, nearly tripping over his own feet as he corrected course.

"Archivist gets lost in straight lines," Lyria shot back, vaulting over a low wall. "We make it confusing."

Ardyn, despite the fear coiling in his gut, almost laughed. It was true—Elias had told them once how the Archivist had spent three days trapped in a ten-meter hallway because she refused to admit she'd gone in circles.

So they ran—left, right, doubling back, cutting through a butcher's shop (startling a very confused apprentice mid-chop), and finally tumbling into the shadowed alcove of a boarded-up tavern. The sign above them, half-hanging from rusted chains, creaked ominously in the wind. The Drunken Mermaid, it read, though the mermaid's tail had long since peeled away, leaving only a sad, ale-stained silhouette.

Lyria pressed against the wall, chest heaving. "Think we lost them?"

Therion risked a glance around the corner. The street was empty—no elegant figures, no amused voices dripping with honeyed threats. Just the distant sound of a drunkard's off-key singing and the scuttle of rats in the gutters.

Ardyn exhaled, shifting the satchel's weight. "For now."

Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled. Midnight.

Therion cracked his knuckles. "So. Where to next?"

Lyria's grin was all teeth. "Somewhere with less creepy, diary-obsessed strangers."

Ardyn adjusted the strap again. "And more walls that don't talk back."

The wind whistled through the broken tavern sign, as if laughing at the very idea.

The Weight of the Unknown

Silence.

No footsteps. No whisper of living parchment. No furious librarian screeching about defaced knowledge.

Just the three of them, breathing hard in the dark, the only sound the distant drip of rainwater from a rusted gutter.

Therion wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his fingers trembling slightly from the fading adrenaline. "Think we lost her?"

Lyria peered around the corner, her knife still drawn. The empty street stretched before them, shadows pooling between the flickering gas lamps. "Maybe. Or she's stuck in someone's pantry again, arguing with a sack of flour."

Ardyn sank against the damp brick wall, the satchel heavy in his lap. His fingers traced the diary's spine through the worn leather, the embossed runes faintly raised under his touch.

"...It felt heavier," he murmured.

Therion and Lyria turned to him.

"When that—that thing spoke about it," Ardyn continued, voice low. "Like the book reacted."

A beat of silence.

Lyria exhaled sharply through her nose. "So it was the Archivist."

Therion's jaw tightened. "Had to be. Who else would make the damn diary do that?"

But Ardyn didn't answer. Because Elias had also told them one other thing—

The Archivist doesn't wear perfume.

And that stranger had smelled like rotting roses.

The Decision: Run Now, Think Later

Lyria pushed off the wall, her boots scraping against the cobblestones. "Doesn't matter. If it's her, we keep moving. If it's not—" She swallowed hard. "—then we really keep moving."

Therion nodded, cracking his knuckles with a sound like snapping twigs. "Back to the hideout. Regroup. Hope Elias wakes up soon with some useful sarcasm for once."

Ardyn stood, adjusting the satchel strap across his chest. The diary's weight had eased slightly—but the unease remained, coiled tight in his gut.

Because whoever—or whatever—that had been…

It knew their names.

It knew about the diary.

And it hadn't chased them.

That was the most terrifying part of all.

The Unanswered Question

They slipped back into the night, moving as one through the maze of alleys, their footsteps light but hurried. The diary bumped against Ardyn's side with every step, a constant, nagging reminder.

Lyria kept glancing over her shoulder, her fingers twitching toward her knife. "You think it's still out there?"

Therion grimaced. "If it is, it's not following. Or it's enjoying the chase."

Ardyn's grip on the satchel tightened. The stranger's voice echoed in his mind—Do mind the diary, Ardyn dear—spoken with a familiarity that made his skin crawl.

They passed a boarded-up shop, its windows dark, the faded sign swinging gently in the breeze. Marvelle's Oddities, it read, the letters peeling. For a moment, Ardyn could have sworn he saw a flicker of movement in the reflection of the glass—a flash of blue hair, a gloved hand raised in a mocking wave.

He blinked, and it was gone.

Lyria noticed his hesitation. "What?"

Ardyn shook his head. "Nothing. Just... thought I saw something."

Therion snorted. "Great. Now we're all jumping at shadows."

But the question hung in the air behind them, heavier than the diary, darker than the alleyways—

If that wasn't the Archivist… then what the hell was it?

And more importantly—why did it let them go?

The wind picked up, carrying the faintest hint of roses, decayed and sweet.

They ran faster.