The Diary's Strictly Limited Consultation

The leather-bound journal lay motionless on the mahogany desk, its cracked spine and faded gold embossing betraying years of use—or abuse. Lyria approached like a thief sneaking up on a sleeping dragon, flipping it open with two fingers as if it might bite.

For three agonizing heartbeats, nothing happened.

Then ink erupted across the page like a startled squid, swirling violently before resolving into sharp, jagged handwriting:

"Thirty minutes. That's all you're getting today. I have exactly two hours of consciousness, and I refuse to waste them all listening to Therion's terrible ideas."

Therion leaned over the desk, squinting. "Wow. Rude."

"Twenty-nine minutes. And accurate." The letters darkened ominously. "Now, unless you're actively being murdered, make this quick. I have better things to do. Like counting dust motes."

Lyria crossed her arms. "We need to know about the blue-haired man."

A crude clock face materialized in the margin, its hands spinning backward at an alarming speed.

"Twenty-eight minutes. Fine. Short version: Not a Covenant User—no ability detected. Not normal—too strong for a human. Not dead—which is concerning, since he faced the Archivist and walked away. If he's taken an interest in you, it's not because you're charming."

Ardyn frowned. "Is he stronger than the Archivist?"

"Twenty-seven minutes. Different categories entirely." The ink twisted into a lopsided scales illustration. "The Archivist is a rabid dog—predictable, if vicious. Blue is something that plays with its food. The fact that he spared you is worse than if he'd tried to kill you."

Therion blinked. "How's that worse?"

"Twenty-six minutes. Predators don't spare prey unless they're bored or invested." The words dripped with sarcasm. "Given how spectacularly uninteresting you three are, he clearly wants something. Congratulations! You've graduated from 'potential corpses' to 'useful pawns.' Do try not to die before I finish my nap."

Lyria groaned. "That's not helpful."

"Twenty-five minutes. Neither is your whining." The journal snapped shut with a thwump, then immediately flopped open again. "Wait. One more thing."

"Twenty-five minutes. Besides your collective lack of self-preservation?" The ink swirled into a map dotted with ominous skull markers, one of which had a tiny hat. "He's drawn to Covenant energy like a moth to flame—stop waving yours around like drunken nobles at a swordfight."

Therion reached out to poke the map—

SNAP.

The diary slammed shut with enough force to rattle the inkwell, then immediately flopped back open like an indignant cat.

"Twenty-four minutes. Stop. Touching. Me." The script turned jagged, as if written by an irritated knife. "Key points: 1) RUN if Ardyn senses anything. 2) If Blue offers you anything, refuse. 3) The Archivist can't perceive directions properly—use that. Left is right, up is down, and she'll still get lost in a hallway."

Lyria raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"

"Twenty-three minutes. Would you prefer I lie?" The ink twisted into a crude smiley face with X's for eyes. "Fine: You're destined for greatness and definitely won't die screaming. Happy?"

Ardyn exhaled sharply. "Elias, we need real help."

Therion grinned. "Maybe he'll leave?"

"Twenty-one minutes. Or maybe he'll burn the city down for fun. Focus." The writing grew fainter, like a ghost trying to conserve battery life. "Final warning: Reality gets flexible when Covenant users fight. Rules break. Don't trust anything—especially not your own eyes."

Ardyn swallowed hard. "How flexible?"

"Nineteen minutes. Ever seen a building unfold like an orange? No? You might." A tiny sketch of a collapsing tower appeared, complete with stick figures fleeing in panic.

Lyria's grip turned the desk's edge white-knuckled. "Elias—"

"Eighteen minutes. Conserving energy now." The words blurred at the edges, fading fast. "Wake me when it's life-or-death. And by 'life-or-death,' I mean—"

The ink dissolved into frantic scribbles before one last, barely legible phrase formed:

"...don't...ruin...my...plot..."

Silence.

Therion whistled. "Well. That was... efficient."

Lyria closed the book with unusual gentleness, as if worried it might bite. 

Ardyn stared at his hastily scribbled notes. "And a very grumpy ghost's warning."

Then—so faint they almost missed it—one final whisper of ink appeared on the diary's edge:

"...run."

"Oh, and about Blue—if he's not a Covenant User, then he's something else. Something that shouldn't be alive after meeting the Archivist." The ink splattered dramatically for emphasis. "And if he's still breathing after all this time?" A crude arrow formed, jabbing repeatedly at Therion's chest. "He could ruin your day without breaking a sweat. Or possibly while eating a sandwich. Multitasking menace."

Another pause. The diary's pages rustled ominously.

"Or—plot twist—he's the Archivist in a very convincing disguise. Fake hair, better posture, marginally less drooling." The words dripped with sarcasm. "Honestly, with you three, it could go either way. I've seen smarter decisions made by concussed pigeons."

The diary fell silent, its pages going dull and lifeless—like a theater actor dramatically exiting stage left.

Therion looked between his companions. "So our options are: ancient horror, immortal trickster, or our least favorite librarian in a wig?"

Lyria dropped her head into her hands with a thud. "I hate my life. I hate this book. I hate that the worst-case scenario is just 'Tuesday' now."

Ardyn patted her shoulder. "At least Elias cares."

From inside the diary, a muffled "I DO NOT—" was abruptly cut off as Lyria slammed it shut with enough force to dislodge a nearby inkpot. It hit the floor with a splat, forming a suspiciously middle-finger-shaped stain.

Therion nodded approvingly. "Y'know, for a dead guy, he's got great comedic timing."

Lyria groaned. "I'm going to burn this book."

A single word seeped through the closed cover in faint, trembling ink:

"…rude."