The wind carried her name. But it was wrong. Each syllable twisted, reshaped into something unspoken Nia, but not Nia. A version of her that never existed. A lie that wore her face. She knew where she was going now.The Book reborn from ashes and void fluttered in her hands. Its new title shimmered with quiet certainty: The Testament of the Truthbearer. And within its glowing spine rested not just fire or ink, but a piece of the First Forgotten, now bound to witness instead of consume.He walked behind her in silence. He had no name yet. But he had a place in the story. They followed the whisper deeper, toward a place even Ashen never dared write about, The Archive of First Lies.The path twisted sideways. Up became down. Distance curled into itself. They crossed over rivers that hummed with denial. Bridges made of fabricated timelines. Forests where the trees whispered false memories into each other's bark.Finally, the veil lifted. And there it stood: A massive library, half-sunken

The door whispered. Not with creaks. Not with hinges. But with memories that never happened. Etched upon it were thousands of names, some written in languages too old to speak, others scratched out entirely. And at the very center, pulsing faintly beneath the surface, was a single word: "Origin."Nia stepped toward it. The First Forgotten placed a hand on her shoulder. “The door only allows truth,” he said softly. “And once you pass through, you cannot lie to yourself again.”She nodded. “I have no lies left.”He smiled faint, sad. “Then go. I’ll wait. And I’ll remember.” As Nia pressed her hand to the door, it rippled like water, then cracked like old stone. It opened into lightless space. No floor. No walls. Only a void filled with presence.It wasn’t darkness. It was potential. Everything that could have been but wasn’t. She stepped in. The moment she crossed the threshold, her name tried to leave her lips, but no sound emerged. Words were not allowed here. Not yet. Because what s

The voice came from nowhere. And yet, it reverberated through Nia’s bones. “Someone else… is writing us.” The words didn’t carry malice. They carried certainty.A tone older than the Book. Older than Ashen. Older than the betrayal that split the stars. Nia’s fingers clenched around the quill.The blank page before her now felt less like invitation and more like summons. Beside her, the First Forgotten stood still, his hollow eyes reflecting the rippling sky. “Do you hear it too?” she asked.He nodded. “Yes.”“And I think… it hears everything.” The Book pulsed again, no longer just the Testament. It had become something other. Its spine was now stitched with paradox. Its pages blank and endless. Its cover bore no title, only the impression of a single glyph: an open eye.From the final page, a spiral of ink rose into the sky and etched a doorway in midair. It opened like an invitation. No wind. No light. Just an idea:“Come see who holds the pen.” Nia took a breath. And stepped through.

The page no longer belonged to Nia. It belonged to you. And it stared empty inviting. A hum filled the air. Not from the Book, not from any known voice. But from something older. The story itself now asked a question: “Reader… what world do you want next?”Not with sound. Not with threat. But with potential. Nia stood at the edge of the world she helped rebuild. The First Forgotten at her side. The Book asleep. The quill hovering, waiting not for a writer, but for a witness who dares to shape.The blank space before you is not metaphor. It is actual. It is the seam between: What you read. What you feel. What you now choose to continue. In this suspended realm beyond narrative, you see fragments floating: A continent made entirely of floating thoughts. A monster born from forgotten fairy tales.A city that shifts shape when no one looks. A child who claims to remember future lives. Each one pulses. Waiting. Nia turns to you now not as text on a page, but as something aware of being see

The door marked “Prologue” pulsed softly. Its surface shimmered not wood, not ink, not even memory. Just invitation. And though it bore that ancient word Prologue Nia knew it wasn’t a beginning. Not really.It was a threshold. She looked behind her. The Marginlands spread wide and wild. The Reader gone. The Testament closed and humming quietly by her side. The quill weightless in her hand. And so, she stepped forward. The door opened. And she entered the Library of Reality.The air smelled like old parchment and lightning. The floor was made of moving letters. The sky above was bound in the spines of books too vast to read. And around her stretched an impossible space, Shelves reaching forever, filled with books that pulsed, breathed, even dreamed.At the center stood a towering desk. On it: a massive hourglass filled not with sand, but with falling lines of text. And sitting behind the desk… Was no one. Yet pages turned on their own. And the whispers of millions of lives echoed betwe