Rain drummed against the ancient stone roofs of Elder Hollow as Jason darted between alleyways, eyes locked on a fleeting shadow far ahead. The Archivist—cloaked, agile, and impossibly fast—vanished around a bend near the old Weaver's Fountain. Jason's lungs burned, but the determination in his chest flared stronger than the fatigue in his limbs.
"Stop!" Jason shouted, voice swallowed by thunder. "I just want answers!"
The figure didn't respond. Only the echo of boots on wet stone guided Jason onward. The village, once vibrant and lit with enchanted lanterns, was now gray and drenched in whispers. Faces peeked from shuttered windows. Some recognized him. Others watched like ghosts.
Jason reached the fountain—cracked, moss-covered, and silent. The sound of running feet was gone.
So was the Archivist.
But then came a voice.
"You chase shadows in the rain, boy."
Jason spun. An old man, blind in one eye, sat under a crooked awning.
"Did you see him?" Jason asked, stepping closer.
The old man sniffed. "Saw a memory. Not a man. That's what he is—memory wearing skin."
Jason knelt beside him. "What do you mean?"
The old man chuckled. "You're not from here. But you carry the scent. Bloodline. You're one of them."
Jason's heart skipped. "You knew my father?"
A pause. A look of recognition—then fear. "He opened the Gate once. The village paid in silence. That man you chase? He remembers."
The rain softened as Jason sat, breath steadying. Behind him, a familiar voice called.
"Jason?"
Nyra stepped into view, hair soaked, eyes wild.
"Nyra? How did you—?"
"I followed your trail," she panted. "And him."
Jason stood. "Do you know who he is?"
Nyra hesitated, then nodded. "The Archivist is not just a collector of records. He guards forgotten truths. He was my father's brother. My uncle."
Jason stared at her. "You said your parents died."
"They did," she said softly. "But not before they hid secrets too dangerous for the world."
They walked in silence through the heart of Elder Hollow. It looked different now. The cracked cobblestone streets were etched with sigils Jason hadn't noticed before—glyphs of warding, concealment, and memory binding. Children played near a hollow tree stump, where whispers curled like smoke.
"The village hides things," Nyra said. "Not just from outsiders, but from itself."
They stopped before the central plaza, where a statue of a woman stood. Her arms outstretched, her eyes empty.
"My mother," Nyra whispered. "Keeper of the Echo Vault."
Jason studied the statue. "What's the Echo Vault?"
Nyra glanced around. "Come. I'll show you."
They entered a nearby cellar beneath an old bookshop. Dust greeted them like an old friend. She lit a torch, revealing a spiral staircase descending far below.
"Few know this path," she said. "Only those bound to the village's oath."
At the bottom lay a metal door, sealed with vines and bones woven into a protective pattern.
Nyra placed her hand on it. "Bloodline access only."
The door pulsed once, then creaked open.
The chamber beyond was vast—a dome-shaped cavern lit with ethereal blue fire suspended midair. Shelves lined with relics, scrolls, and glowing stones circled the room. In the center stood a pedestal, and on it—a glass orb.
"That's the Memory Core," Nyra said. "It stores ancestral truths. Even forbidden ones."
Jason stepped forward, and the orb flickered.
Suddenly, visions flashed—his father standing at a strange black gate, arguing with an unseen figure. A younger Nyra, crying before two cloaked men. The Archivist removing a silver mask, revealing a scarred face—Jason's father's face, but twisted.
The vision shattered.
Jason gasped. "That was him. The Archivist… he looks like—"
"My uncle," Nyra whispered. "But some say he's more than that."
A noise echoed through the chamber—whispers coiling, moving. Jason turned.
A woman stepped from the shadows, wearing robes of deep violet and eyes glowing faintly.
"Elias sent me," she said. "He knew you'd find the Vault."
Jason tensed. "Who are you?"
"I am Vaelra. The last surviving Witness of the First Gate."
Nyra stepped back. "You shouldn't exist."
Vaelra smiled. "None of us should. But some doors were never meant to stay closed."
She walked to the orb, touched it lightly.
"You want to know why your father disappeared. Why the Anchors call you. Why the Archivist hunts truths like prey. The Bloodline is the answer."
Jason narrowed his eyes. "Then tell me."
Vaelra turned. "When the First Gate opened, the world bent. Watchers fell. Anchors fractured. Your father was chosen as the Binder. But he betrayed the pact. He chose you."
Lightning cracked above, even though they were deep below.
"He saw the storm coming," Vaelra continued. "So he vanished. But the Archivist—he remained, cursed to remember. And now, he wants to reclaim what he lost."
Jason looked at Nyra. "My mother—"
"Is not who you think she is," Vaelra said. "The Gate changes everything. Even memory."
Suddenly, the chamber shook. Dust fell from the ceiling. The orb dimmed.
"He's coming," Vaelra warned. "The Vault won't hold him out for long."
Jason drew his blade. "Then we prepare."
But Vaelra stepped between them.
"No," she said. "You must run. Not all truths are meant to be found yet. Go to the Hollow Sea. That's where the next Anchor lies. And the next piece of your father's memory."
Jason hesitated. "And you?"
"I'll buy you time."
Jason grabbed Nyra's hand and ran.
As they emerged back into the storm-drenched village, Nyra whispered, "I remember now. My uncle wasn't just a man. He was once a Watcher. One who fell."
They vanished into the mist.
Behind them, the Vault doors screamed shut—and the Archivist's shadow fell upon the village once more.