"The ink of history is not black—it is made of shadows, bled from forgotten things."
—Codex Mirabilis
Rain tapped gently against the rooftops of Nareth, soft and steady like someone whispering regrets to the world.
In the Bookshade District, where ancient records filled buildings older than memories, a boy named Ien Solmir sat quietly beneath a leaning tower of books. His fingers moved over a yellowed page, more by habit than purpose. The Archive was silent, and he preferred it that way.
Most people came here for research. Ien lived here—literally and figuratively. He was a Third-Class Archivist, seventeen years old, and easily forgotten by anyone who passed him. That suited him fine.
The Archive's ceiling leaked in one corner. No one ever fixed it. The dripping helped him think.
He didn't remember much about his childhood. Just that he'd been the only one to survive when his village vanished. Not burned, not flooded—vanished. No crater. No remains. Just nothing.
Except one phrase, still lodged deep in his memory like a splinter:
"The sixth veil must never be lifted."
He didn't know what it meant. No one did.
That night, while shelving a heavy volume titled Anomalous Topographies of the Third Epoch, something caught his attention.
A faint flicker.
There, behind a locked gate, was Vault M—the forbidden section. Nobody ever went in. A plaque beside it read:
Vault M: Epochal Discrepancies
Access Prohibited Without Third Seal Clearance
But one of the books had fallen off a shelf inside. He could see it through the bars. It was bound in silver thread, almost glowing in the dark.
The moment he looked at it, the phrase returned. Not in his head—in his chest. Like it had been waiting.
"The sixth veil must never be lifted."
His hand reached out before he could stop himself.
The gate didn't resist.
The locks unfastened on their own. The sigils dimmed and vanished.
He stepped inside.
The vault was cold. Still. Not dusty—but quiet, in a way that made his ears ache.
The book lay where it had fallen. Thick. Bound in some dark leather that shimmered faintly. Its title shifted before his eyes.
Codex Eidolon: Spiral Path (Sealed)
He opened it.
And something broke.
The shelves twisted. The ceiling bent like it was made of fabric. He saw flashes of himself—older, bloodied, eyes wide in fear—standing in the same spot, holding the same book.
Then, everything went black.
A voice whispered inside him:
"Welcome, Spiralborn."
When he woke, the book was gone.
On his palm, glowing faintly beneath his skin, was a perfect silver spiral.