A Strategic Retreat (And a Fatal Mistake)

Leaving the blue-haired knight behind had seemed like the smart choice at the time.

After all, no matter how unnervingly polite he'd been—how he'd knelt in the dirt with servant children, weaving flower crowns with the patience of a saint, his laughter softer than the rustle of petals—there was something deeply wrong about a man who could take Therion's best punch to the jaw without blinking. A man who smiled like he already knew how this story would end, his eyes glinting with the quiet amusement of a chessmaster watching pawns stumble toward checkmate.

So they'd slipped away under the cover of night, shadows swallowing their retreat as they left the Lancaster estate behind. The air had been thick with the scent of damp earth and distant rain, the kind of night that promised safety in its silence. Back toward Elara's safehouse, back toward familiar ground—or so they'd thought.

That was their first mistake.

Because the Archivist hadn't attacked them at the Lancaster estate for one simple reason: she couldn't. The knight's presence had been a shield they hadn't even realized they were hiding behind, his very existence a deterrent to the horrors lurking in the dark. And now, as the trio materialized in the middle of a moonlit forest—not Elara's doorstep, not anywhere they recognized—they understood too late what they'd done.

The air here was different. Colder. Sharper. The trees loomed like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky, their branches twisted into grotesque shapes that seemed to lean toward the intruders. The ground beneath their boots was unnaturally still, as if the earth itself was holding its breath. Even the moonlight felt wrong, its silver glow too bright, too hungry, casting long, distorted shadows that slithered at the edges of their vision.

Therion was the first to break the silence. "This isn't the safehouse." His voice was tight, his usual bravado fraying at the edges.

Lyria didn't answer. Her fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger, her knuckles white. She didn't need to say it—they all felt it. The wrongness. The trap.

Ardyn exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the frigid air. "We've been led astray." His voice was calm, but his grip on the diary betrayed the tension coiled beneath the surface. "The paths are... twisted."

From the depths of the forest, something laughed.

It wasn't a human sound. It was the creak of bending branches, the whisper of dead leaves skittering across stone, the wet, guttural rasp of something that had long forgotten how to speak. The trees seemed to shudder in response, their bark splitting in jagged lines that oozed a thick, black sap.

Lyria's pulse roared in her ears. "Run."

But the forest moved.

Roots erupted from the ground, snaking around their ankles with terrifying speed. The shadows deepened, pooling like ink, and from within them, eyes opened—dozens of them, glowing a sickly, phosphorescent green. The air reeked of rot and something metallic, like old blood.

Therion swore, Covenant energy flaring around his fists as he wrenched himself free. "Where the hell are we?!"

The diary in Lyria's bag screamed.

Not metaphorically. Not a muffled shout. A full, ear-splitting shriek of pure, undiluted terror, the sound tearing through the night like a blade. The pages thrashed violently, Elias's handwriting scrawling across them in frantic, jagged strokes:

"YOU IDIOTS. YOU LEFT THE ONE PLACE SHE COULDN'T REACH YOU."

The trees groaned. The shadows twisted.

And then, from the darkness, the Archivist stepped forward.

Her smile was a razor's edge.

When Lyria's vision cleared, they were no longer in the woods.

The room—if it could be called that—was circular, windowless, the walls lined with books that breathed. Their leather-bound spines expanded and contracted like sleeping lungs, the gold-leaf titles pulsing faintly in the gloom. The air stank of roses left to rot in stagnant water, the cloying sweetness undercut by something metallic and sharp—like a knife dragged across a copper plate.

Above them, suspended from the vaulted ceiling by chains of yellowed parchment, hung hundreds of glass jars. Each contained a swirling, phosphorescent mist that threw sickly green light across the stone floor—illuminating the sigils carved there in deep, deliberate grooves. They pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.

Therion staggered to his feet, his boots scuffing through a layer of fine, grey ash that coated the ground. "Where the fuck—"

"Welcome," crooned the Archivist from somewhere in the shadows. Her voice slithered through the chamber, echoing off the living books. "To my reading room."

Lyria's dagger was still in her hand. The blade trembled—not from fear, but from the unnatural pressure in the air, like the room itself was pressing in on them. She could feel the weight of the books' gazes, their pages rustling with quiet hunger.

Ardyn's eyes flared to life, the Aetherian along its length burning blue-white. "Illusion," he muttered. "This isn't real."

A dry, papery laugh. "Oh, but it is." The Archivist stepped into the light, her fingers trailing along a book's spine as it arched into her touch like a cat. "Just not the kind of real you're used to."

Therion bared his teeth. "Cut the cryptic shit. What do you want?"

The Archivist's smile widened, her lips peeling back too far, revealing teeth filed to needlepoints. "Why, you, of course." She tilted her head, the motion eerily avian. "Or more specifically—" Her gaze locked onto the diary in Lyria's belt. "—what's left of Elias."

The diary screamed again, the sound muffled but no less horrifying. The pages bulged, as if something inside was trying to claw its way out.

Lyria's grip on her dagger tightened. "Not happening."

The Archivist sighed, as if disappointed by a child's stubbornness. "Pity." She snapped her fingers.

The books woke up.

Spines cracked open like jaws. Pages unfurled, not paper but flesh, veined and glistening. From within them, things began to crawl—skeletal fingers tipped with ink-stained nails, eyeless faces with mouths full of razor-edged typewriter keys.

Therion's Covenant energy flared. "Okay, what the fuck—"

"Run," Ardyn breathed.

But there was nowhere to go. The door—if there had ever been one—was gone. The walls were alive, the floor thrumming with that same, slow, terrible pulse.

And the Archivist?

She just watched, her smile widening with every frantic heartbeat, her fingers steepled in front of her like a scholar about to enjoy a particularly fascinating experiment.

Therion spat blood onto the pulsating floor, where it sizzled against the sigils. "Charming decor. Really captures that deranged librarian aesthetic."

The Archivist ignored him, her hollow eyes fixed on Lyria. "You've been difficult to catch. But then," her fingers brushed a breathing book's spine, "Elias always did have a habit of protecting lost causes."

Lyria's grip tightened around her blistered palm. "Where's the diary?"

"Safe. For now." The Archivist's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I only need one thing from you."

A book floated from the shelf, its pages fluttering open to reveal an ink-washed illustration: the blue-haired knight, his greatsword plunged into the earth, a crown of wilted flowers at his feet. The rendering trembled as if the paper itself feared the memory.

"The Storm of Vorthain," the Archivist murmured. "You've met him."

Lyria's silence was answer enough.

The Archivist's smile widened, revealing teeth like splintered bone. "Oh, don't look so surprised. He's the only reason you're still breathing. The sole deterrent keeping me from peeling you apart the moment you left his sight." The book snapped shut with a sound like a breaking rib. "But now you're here. And he's not."

Therion bared his teeth. "Get to the point, bookworm."

The air shivered.

The Archivist's hand shot out. Therion choked as invisible fingers wrenched him upward, his boots kicking helplessly above the ground.

"The point," she hissed, "is that you'll tell me every word he spoke. Every promise. Every lie."

Lyria moved—

A flick of the Archivist's wrist. Lyria's dagger turned white-hot, searing her flesh with a sickening hiss. She barely bit back a scream as it clattered to the floor, her palm bubbling.

"Ah-ah." The Archivist tutted. "No heroics. Just answers." She released Therion, letting him crumple like discarded parchment. "Or shall I demonstrate what happens to liars in this library?"

Ardyn stepped forward, his voice steady despite the tremor in his eyes glow. "He offered help. Nothing more."

The Archivist went very, very still.

"...Help," she repeated, the word dripping with venom. "How like him." Her robes whispered against the stone as she turned away. "He always did have a soft spot for strays."

Lyria forced herself to breathe through the pain. "You're afraid of him."

A beat. Then—

The Archivist's laughter shattered the room like broken glass. "Oh, little moth. You've no concept of what you've stumbled into." She waved a hand.

The walls screamed.

Books tore from their shelves, rearranging midair into a grotesque mural: the blue-haired knight standing atop a mountain of corpses—ten thousand at least—his sword dripping black blood, his face streaked with tears. The rendering moved, the ink alive with memory, showing him weeping as he slaughtered, his mouth forming a single word:

"Enough."

The Archivist's voice was a whisper now. "That is the Storm of Vorthain. The man who drowned an empire in its own blood. The creature who now offers you flowers." She leaned in, her breath reeking of old parchment and iron. "So tell me, little moth—do you still want his help?"

The world snapped back into focus with the crisp scent of pine and damp earth. Lyria gasped, her blistered palm pressed into the cool moss as she fought to steady her breathing. The Whisperwoods surrounded them again—but this time, the trees stood silent. Watching.

Therion groaned, rubbing his throat where phantom fingers had gripped. "Okay. New plan: We superglue ourselves to Blue's shadow and never leave."

Lyria stared at her ruined hand, the flesh still throbbing with the Archivist's cruel magic. The knight's salve glinted in the moonlight where it had landed in the ferns, its glass vial uncracked despite the fall. A kindness. That's what terrified her most.

"She's terrified of him," Lyria murmured.

Ardyn exhaled shakily, his staff's light guttering like a candle in the wind. "Which means we should be too."

From the shadows between the oaks, a familiar voice sighed:

"You really should."

The blue-haired knight stepped into the moonlight, his greatsword strapped across his back—had it been there before?—and his gloved hands tucked casually in his pockets. No armor. No finery. Just a man who moved like the space around him adjusted to his presence.

Therion scrambled backward. "How long have you been—"

"Long enough." The knight's gaze lingered on Lyria's burns. "The salve will heal the physical wound. The rest..." He shrugged. "Well. You'll remember not to wander next time."

Lyria's fingers closed around the vial. "Why help us?"

For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes—not amusement, not anger. Something older. "Because she wants you to fear me more than her." He tilted his head, studying the trembling leaves. "Smart strategy. Flattering, even."

A chill ran down Ardyn's spine. "You let her take us."

The knight didn't deny it.

Therion made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. "So what? We're just pawns in your creepy chess game now?"

"Oh no." The knight smiled then, wide and bright and wrong. "Chess implies rules."

The woods held their breath.

Then he was gone—not vanishing, not retreating, simply no longer there—leaving only the whisper of displaced air and the too-sweet stench of roses.

And the diary, still strapped to Lyria's belt, finally broke its silence with three trembling words:

"...We're so screwed."