The moment they stepped outside the house, the air felt heavier—like a storm waiting for permission to break. Kael blinked against the brightness, but the edges of the world were slightly blurred, as if reality were painted too quickly and hadn't dried.

Jorah kept glancing behind them every few seconds.

"Just saying," he muttered, "if the shadow-goblin thing pops back up, I'm throwing Eira at it and running."

Eira punched his arm without looking. "You'd die even faster without me."

"And yet," Jorah rubbed his bicep, "I'm still the favorite sidekick."

Kael bit down a strained smile. It felt good—normal—for half a heartbeat.

But the warmth faded quickly.

His memories were thinning.

He could feel it.

Like holes being poked in the fabric of his life.

He turned to Eira. "What was the name of the inn where we first met the old seer?"

Her eyes softened. "The Silver Thistle."

He winced. "Right. And I… I thought it was the Red Lantern."

"That inn doesn't even exist." Jorah frowned. "Are you rewriting reality, or is reality rewriting you?"

Kael didn't get to answer.

Because the air shifted.

A tug—deep, magnetic—pulled at the center of his chest. A sensation like the world inhaled sharply, ready to swallow him whole.

Eira stepped closer instantly, fingers brushing the back of his hand. "Kael. You're losing color."

He looked down.

His fingertips were faint.

Translucent.

Like he was becoming the same half-real echo as the looped child in the street.

Jorah paled. "No, nope, absolutely not. We're fixing this right now."

Eira straightened, determination snapping into her eyes. "The Archivist. There's only one person who might know how to stop this."

Kael blinked. "The Archivist?"

"You've never met them," she said. "Almost no one has. But every scholar knows the stories. They keep the records of the threads—every life, every timeline, every possibility."

Jorah nodded. "If anyone knows what happens to a paradox… it's them."

Kael swallowed. "Where do we find them?"

Eira hesitated.

Just a second.

But it was enough.

"Eira," Kael said, voice dropping. "Where?"

She met his eyes—a hundred emotions flickering behind hers—and whispered:

"In the place between moments."

---

The Threshold of Unwritten Hours

The forest at the edge of the village felt normal—trees, wind, shadows. But the deeper they walked, the more wrong it became.

Leaves didn't fall.

Wind didn't move branches.

Sound died half-formed.

It was the same kind of wrong Kael felt inside himself.

Jorah whispered, "This place needs a warning sign."

Kael managed a smile. "What would it say?"

"'No reality beyond this point.' Or maybe, 'Try not to die. We just cleaned the woods.'"

Eira rolled her eyes but her grip tightened around the hilt at her hip.

The trees thinned.

And there, in a clearing where sunlight folded inward instead of outward, stood a door.

Just a door.

Standing upright, unattached to any building.

Made of ancient, white wood.

Covered in carvings that shifted when Kael tried to focus on them.

Eira nodded to it. "This is it."

Kael raised a brow. "A door in the middle of nowhere?"

Jorah shrugged. "Honestly? After everything we've seen, this barely cracks the weirdness top ten."

Eira placed her hand on the knob.

"Whatever happens in there," she whispered, "stay close to me."

Kael opened his mouth to respond—

—but the moment her hand turned the knob, reality folded like cloth.

---

The Hall of Unlived Memories

They stepped inside…

…and entered a place that wasn't a place at all.

Rows of floating shelves stretched in every direction—upward, downward, sideways. Books drifted like fish in a slow, cosmic sea. Light came from everywhere and nowhere, soft and silver, illuminating dust motes that looked like tiny stars.

Time didn't move here.

It flowed.

Like water.

Even Kael felt less… faded. As though this realm recognized him differently, tracing the edges of his paradox.

Jorah whispered, "I think I'm going to cry."

Eira elbowed him. "Don't embarrass us."

But she was smiling.

Kael wasn't.

Something was wrong—deeply wrong—and his bones felt it.

As they walked deeper into the endless hall, a voice finally rose behind them, calm and ancient:

"You walk too loudly."

They spun.

The Archivist stood at the top of a floating staircase—an elderly figure draped in layered robes stitched with silver thread. Their hair flowed like ink in water, shifting from black to white to gray as they stepped forward.

Their eyes—

Kael froze.

They had no pupils.

Only swirling constellations.

The Archivist studied Kael for precisely three seconds.

Then sighed.

"Ah. The paradox."

Their tone was not surprised. Merely disappointed.

"You are destabilizing my entire library."

Jorah choked. "Sorry, he does that."

The Archivist ignored him completely.

They approached Kael, gaze sharp as a knife. "You do not belong in this world. It knows it. You know it."

Kael swallowed. "I'm trying not to be erased."

"Your existence is a wound," the Archivist said simply. "A tear that should have healed."

Eira stepped between them. "He's not a wound. He's a person."

"That is precisely the problem."

Eira's eyes flashed. "Say that again."

Kael gently touched her arm, grounding her. "It's alright."

"It is not," she snapped, voice trembling. "Kael, don't just accept—"

The Archivist raised a hand.

Time around them stopped.

Jorah froze mid-breath.

Eira froze mid-step, her hair suspended in the air.

Even the drifting books halted.

Only Kael could move.

Only Kael could breathe.

He turned slowly toward the Archivist, heart pounding. "What did you do?"

"I paused their threads," the Archivist said. "We must speak alone."

Kael clenched his fists. "Why?"

The Archivist studied him with an expression Kael couldn't read.

Not cruelty.

Not pity.

Recognition.

"You are unraveling because the world has already chosen someone to live the life you were meant to," they said softly. "You lived. Then you died. Then you lived again. That is not how time works."

Kael felt his throat tighten. "I didn't choose that. I didn't mean to—"

"Intent does not matter." The Archivist's voice gentled, almost kind. "You are a paradox with a heartbeat. The world remembers wrong because you were never supposed to return."

Kael's vision blurred.

Not from fading.

From tears.

"I don't want to disappear," he whispered. "Not again."

The Archivist stepped closer, placing a hand over Kael's chest.

A strange warmth spread through him.

"There is a way," they murmured. "But know this—every method demands a price."

Kael swallowed. Hard. "What kind of price?"

The Archivist met his eyes.

"For the world to remember you… something else must be forgotten."

The words cut deeper than any blade.

Kael's voice cracked. "Forgotten… by who?"

"By everyone," the Archivist said. "Or by someone. Or by you."

They let that sink in before adding:

"Your existence must replace the memory of another."

Kael staggered.

Replace someone?

Erase them so he could stay?

His stomach twisted.

"No," he breathed. "I can't do that. I won't sacrifice someone—"

The Archivist raised a hand again.

Time resumed.

Eira gasped as if catching her breath. Jorah stumbled forward and swore loudly.

Neither noticed the moment that had passed.

But Eira noticed Kael's face.

She moved toward him instantly. "What did they say to you?"

Kael couldn't speak.

Not yet.

The Archivist looked at all three and s

aid:

"The ritual begins at dawn. Decide before then."

Eira frowned. "Decide what?"

Kael's silence was answer enough.

And the look Eira gave him—fear, pain, fierce loyalty—nearly broke him.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.