It began with a breath.
But not Ember's.
Beneath the Archive That Speaks, something inhaled—not a being, but a memory. The kind buried so deep, no name had ever clung to it. Not out of loss, but protection.
The Grove flinched.
So did the Archive.
One of the books flared—burst open without touch. A scream spilled out, followed by a word no tongue could shape. Dozens more joined it, voices from pages long thought closed.
The Cartographers turned in unison, their raven-quills shaking mid-ink.
The Witness, still bowed in quiet reverence from the last rite, looked up.
And felt it.
Not another storm.
Not a collapse.
Something worse.
A return.
---
The Second Birth of the Unshaping
In the space where the Editor had once unraveled, a wrinkle pulsed in the air. Like paper too often rewritten. Like skin that had been erased, and redrawn, and forgotten—then remembered too suddenly.
The air cracked.
Not thunder. Not magic.
