The archives

Well, most of yesterday wasn’t exactly productive.

But it was… enjoyable.

Eventually, though, we had to get back to serious work. Feels like we’ve been mostly doing side quests.

“That’s it? Looks kind of underwhelming,” Io says, eyeing the plain double doors ahead of us.

“Maybe that guy gave us bad directions?” I offer, though I’m not surprised. There’s no big sign saying ‘Grand Archive This Way’. Just another quiet street, another old building. Very on-brand for this city.

Io shrugs and knocks. Nothing happens.

She raises her hand for a second knock—but before she can hit the door again, it creaks open. A robed figure appears in the gap.

Right. The archives are run by the church. Of course.

The man is older than us—not elderly, but definitely well past youthful. Not quite priestly either, but still gives off that practiced silence that makes you feel like you should speak first.

He just stares.

“We’d like to store a contract,” Io says, polite but firm.

The man doesn’t respond—just shifts his gaze to me.

She’s the one who spoke, buddy. Why are you looking at me?

“And if possible, we’d like to look into my family’s genealogy,” I add, giving our pretext a little push.

That does the trick. He nods once and turns, beckoning us inside with the silent efficiency of someone who probably runs on ritual alone.

Did he assume I’m in charge just because I’m the man? Yeah. That tracks. Still wrong, though.

We follow him into the dim interior. The air smells of wax, parchment, and the faint bite of mildew. He leads us through a narrow hallway to what might be a reception desk—or a counter, or just an old table someone pushed against a wall decades ago.

Behind it sits a young man in a robe. And I mean young. Definitely younger than me. Possibly younger than Io… actually, how old is she?

Weird thought.

The old man gestures toward the desk, then vanishes down a side corridor without a word.

…Was he even real?

The younger one is hunched over a chaotic nest of papers, half-melted candles, and ink-stained tools. It’s equal parts workspace and fire hazard.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me…”

Nothing.

Io steps in. “Excuse me.”

“Huh? What?” The young man jerks his head up, blinking like someone who’s forgotten what sunlight is.

“We’d like to store this contract,” Io says, her professional voice sliding into place.

He takes the document from her, squints at the writing, and suddenly grins.

“Ooh, now that’s new. Haven’t had one of these before…” He sounds disturbingly enthusiastic.

He keeps reading aloud. “Selling stories? Delightful! I’ve got a contract for the sale of last year’s snow, but this? This is excellent!”

Please, please let this guy just be a quirky archivist and not someone dangerous.

“Follow me,” he says abruptly, hopping to his feet and vanishing between the shelves.

We exchange a quick glance—half wary, half intrigued—and trail after him.

The archive itself is a maze. High wooden shelves packed with scrolls, odd containers with wax seals. He hums as he walks, navigating with the confidence of someone who doesn’t just work here, but lives here.

“Now, where do I put you, hmm?” he mutters—not to us.

Is he… talking to it?

He finally slides it into a narrow drawer with a contented little sigh, like tucking a child into bed.

And then, just as quickly, he turns and starts heading back. Wait. We’re not done here.

“Excuse me,” Io calls after him, “we also wanted to look into genealogy—”

“Ah, boring. Back of the hall, end shelf. Have fun.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

“Huh,” I say.

Io gives me a look. “Rude… but efficient.”

“He just left us here. Are we really allowed to wander this place unsupervised?”

“Apparently.” She starts walking. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”

Great. Unlocked archive shelves, zero supervision, and a priest who talks to paper. Definitely not a trap.

Still, if we want to find anything useful, now’s the time to snoop. Quietly.

And stay alert in case someone decides to start following the rules again.

###

Being left alone in an archive wasn’t exactly what I expected from this whole other-world shtick.

But I guess it fits. Strange how familiar it feels — reminds me of back home, chasing the itch through library stacks, searching for anything that would satisfy it. Maybe that part of me made the jump too.

I glance at Io. The two of us move through the narrow rows in low light, squinting at moldy scrolls and cracked ledgers.

“Found something?” she asks.

“What are we even looking for?” I reply.

“How would I know?” she shoots back, exasperated but not annoyed.

We’re in over our heads again. That’s nothing new. But something about the musty paper and hushed air makes this feel like we might stumble onto something real.

And then —

“Is that—” Io begins, voice caught between surprise and awe.

“A map,” I finish for her.

Mounted on one of the interior walls, half-covered by a faded curtain, is a broad, aged map. And not just a local one — it’s a map of the world.

Of… their world.

We step closer. The parchment is worn at the edges, the ink faded, but the geography sprawled across it is like nothing I’ve ever seen. I feel my throat go dry.

“So this is what it looks like…” Io murmurs.

For months, I’ve lived on this continent, and yet this is the first time I’m seeing anything close to a full map. And it’s not just some hand-drawn mess — it’s detailed. Borders, oceans, major trade routes.

The central continent looks… vaguely European? Not in shape, but in attitude — front and center on the map, like the cartographer believed it was the only part that mattered.

“I think we’re… here.” I trace a finger toward what I think is Edrivane — the kingdom we’re in. It’s hard to say for sure, but there are a few names I recognize.

Io leans in, her eyes scanning the coastline. “There’s a sea…”

“Have you ever seen the sea?” I ask.

She shakes her head. No teasing, no joke this time. Just a simple, honest no.

That surprises me. Io, with her sharp wit and grounded instincts, suddenly looks small — like someone who just realized there’s a sky above the clouds.

I keep studying the map, now noticing more. A vast, broken chain of islands lies far to the west. And to the east… another landmass. A different continent, maybe? Their version of the “New World.”

“They’ve reached their Age of Discovery…” I mutter.

Io doesn’t respond. She’s still staring.

“We’re so small,” she says at last. Her voice is soft, almost fragile. “My whole life could fit under a single finger.”

She lifts her hand and places her fingertip on the spot we’ve been calling home.

I feel the weight of it — not just the map, but what it means. For someone like her, raised in a quiet, hidden village, taught to hide, to survive, to stay where she was planted — this is more than geography.

It’s a door.

“Maybe they have more maps tucked away,” I say. “Maybe one that shows the forest. Our land.”

“I’d love to see more,” she says — and there’s something dreamy in her voice I’ve never heard before.

A pause.

“I’ll take you,” I say.

She glances sideways at me, raises an eyebrow.

“What?” I grin.

She lifts her finger again and points to the sea — far north, near the edge of the map.

That’s her dream.

Then, quietly, she says, “Let’s look for the maps.”

And just like that, we’re moving again.

###

Maps. That’s the next step. Anything showing the forest — maybe with a proper name. A name might help us later. Right now, it’s just the forest. Like it’s the only one that ever mattered.

I’m betting the right map will be something rolled up, tied with a string, probably dusty. That’s the cliché, right? Hopefully, the itch helps me again — the one that’s helped before. That strange sense, like the Presence feeding me breadcrumbs.

So far, no breadcrumbs. Just a lot of mold and paper.

“I’ll check over there,” I say to Io, pointing toward one of the side aisles.

She nods and heads the other way, quiet but focused. This place may be held together by dust and divine indifference, but there is something here. I can feel it.

Scrolls. Ledgers. Books stacked sideways like someone gave up halfway through filing them. A few loose piles of paper that look more like kindling than documents.

This place could really use a librarian. Or a mop. Or basic safety codes.

I round a corner and —

There it is. That feeling.

That little shift under my skin, like my mind catching up to something before I consciously spot it. The itch. It’s still here. Still working. Still real.

Past me would lose his mind over this. Present me just follows it.

A shelf of scrolls. I gather what I can carry and loop back toward the main table.

Io’s already there, balancing a precarious stack of ledgers like she’s on her tenth mission this week. She catches sight of me and gives a small nod.

We sit. Unroll. Search.

“Haverstadt — second year after the Southern Campaign,” Io reads, brow furrowed.

“That might be it!” My pulse kicks up. A lead. Finally.

She traces a thin black line from the city outward, following roads. Eventually, her finger reaches a large shaded patch.

A forest.

“It doesn’t feel this big from inside,” I murmur, leaning over to get a better look.

The forest is just a blot of dotted ink on the parchment. At its center, among the little tree symbols, is a single line of text.

‘For service to the Crown, property of Lord Alstan Rhenault.’

“That’s it?” Io says, her voice lower now.

No name. No history. No record of the people who lived there.

“…So we really don’t exist to them,” she says, barely above a whisper.

I try to say something comforting — anything.

“Isn’t that better in a way?” I offer. “No attention means no interference…”

“You’re right,” she says. Then quieter, “I just hoped… I don’t even know.”

I glance at her. The way her eyes linger on the scroll. She’s not angry. Just… hollowed out. Disappointed in a way that’s hard to articulate.

That place raised her. It shaped her. But here, it’s just a line of ink beneath some noble’s name. An afterthought.

And me? Sometimes I have to remind myself this isn’t some wild plot twist. I’m not the lead in a fantasy series. We’re not just ticking off story beats — secret village, riot, forged documents, fake marriage, mysterious forest.

But to her… this is life. It always has been.

And to me… it’s starting to be. Even if it still feels like I’m dreaming half the time.

Io rolls up the scroll gently, like she doesn’t want to damage it even though it already failed her.

“Let’s see what else we’ve got,” she says.

Back to the search. But something's shifted.

###

“Good news!” I said as I came back down the aisle.

“He doesn’t care.”

Io raised an eyebrow. “So we can just leave everything out and come back tomorrow?”

“That’s what he said. More like… vaguely grunted in agreement.”

I’d gone back to ask the eccentric priest — or apprentice, still not sure — whether we could leave the ledgers and scrolls out. He just waved me off while adjusting a stack of documents taller than his head. Either he trusted us or he had absolutely no idea what was happening. I’d bet on the second.

“Let’s go,” Io said.

The moment we stepped outside, the sun hit like a slap. A warm, soft slap. After hours in the musty dimness of the archive, the real world felt loud. The streets were still dusted with tension — nothing like the panic during the riots, but you could feel a bruise beneath the surface. The kind of quiet that comes after too much noise.

The air wasn’t clean by any means, but compared to ink, mold, and candlewax, it smelled like freedom.

“What now?” I asked, stretching my back with a groan. Chairs here weren’t built for prolonged sitting.

“We could walk,” Io said. “Feels weird to go straight back after all that.”

She wasn’t wrong. And given our recent run of luck, it might be smart to appreciate the outside before fate locked us indoors again. I wouldn’t put it past the universe to throw another ‘city-wide emergency’ at us tomorrow.

So we start walking. Now that we weren’t rushing from one errand to another, the city revealed a bit more of its texture. Not just dirt and stone — but its rhythm. People were talking again, shops had reopened. Tired faces, yes. But life persisted.

Naturally, we walk hand in hand. I don’t know why I still feel the need to note it every time. Maybe it’s because just days ago that would’ve felt impossible. Or maybe it’s because I like the reminder.

“Anything useful in your pile?” Io asked.

“Some chronicles, a few ledgers, something that looks like someone’s diary but could just be really weird tax records.” I shook my head. “Too soon to tell.”

“You?”

“I grabbed everything with Rhenault’s name in it,” she said. “Most of it’s dry, but there might be something in the details. That’s for tomorrow, though.”

A silence passed between us. Comfortable. Reflective.

“So,” I asked, “what do you want to do?”

She gave me a sideways look. “Anything, really.”

That narrowed it down. Not.

I thought about food — always a safe fallback — but before I could suggest it, Io stopped in front of a narrow building wedged between two more respectable ones.

From inside came noise: voices raised in cheer, a faint clatter of something hitting wood, and laughter that bordered on unruly.

“Hey… what’s that?” she asked.

I tilted my head. “Sounds like… a tavern?”

It had the vibe of a sports bar back home, if sports bars were smaller, dustier, and featured more slamming mugs and fewer flat screens. Whatever was going on, it sounded lively. There was even music — not the kind with a bard on a stool, but something percussive, like hands tapping rhythm on tables.

“You want to check it out?” I asked.

Io gave me a mischievous smile. “Why not? Worst case, we waste some coin. Best case, maybe they have snacks.”

“Your priorities are truly noble.”

She shrugged. “I’m still recovering from that archive air.”