Chapter Zero

“To begin without knowing the ending is to lie to your reader. Or to yourself.” — August Denier

The first thing I remember is being cold.

It wasn’t the kind of cold that bites, but rather the kind that lingers and chills you to the bone. It was like something, warmth or a memory, had left the room, and I’d arrived too late to catch it.

I opened my eyes to dim light and dust suspended in still air. Above me, the ceiling was cracked open, its ribs of blackened stone and timber framing a pale sky. Torn and burnt paper fell down around me with the calm reverence of the first fallen snow.

I caught a piece without meaning to. It was a torn page with no title. There wasn’t even a sentence on the paper, only the impression of words that once meant something.

I lay there staring up at the ruin, trying to remember anything. Who I was. Where? Why? Nothing came. Not clearly, anyway. My mind was a desk someone overturned, leaving pages and spilt ink everywhere. Nothing was filed, and everything was a mess.

My fingers were stained black with either ink or something else. I sat up slowly, and the motion made my head spin. My body remembered how to move, but my mind and thoughts lagged behind.

The floor was littered with parchment. Most of it was faded or burnt at the edges. Some of them whispered to me. That was the only way I could describe it. It wasn’t loud, not exactly. I could feel them as half-written thoughts that never made it to words, folding in on themselves like shame or like grief pressed so deep it became part of my bones.

I tried to stand up, using a broken lectern to help stabilize my shaky legs. It split down the middle under my weight, causing me to stumble. As I laid on the floor, I caught sight of a spiral etched into the wood, unfinished like the thoughts turning over and over in my head, never finding a way out.

The word “Elyne” appeared in my thoughts. It wasn’t with certainty, but more like a caption under a blurred photo. “Was that me? Was that mine?” I asked out loud, startling myself with the sound of my voice. The room did not answer.

I rotated slowly, trying to understand my surroundings. Crumbling scroll racks and shattered ink jars lined the walls. This had once been a place of writing. Was it a temple or a prison? I wasn’t sure.

Near the corner, there was a book half consumed by ash. For some reason, I found myself drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I brushed away the ash and read the title on the spine:

Saltwater Doctrine – August Denier

That name hit me like a bell rang in my head. I don’t know why, but my breath stuttered. Why was this name familiar? Who was he? I reached out to pick up the book, but my hand stopped an inch from it. I couldn’t open it. Not yet.

I stared at the book for what seemed like an eternity. I tried to figure out why I was afraid of this book. Finally, I mustered up the nerve to open it. Most of the writing was jumbled and incomprehensible, but one phrase stood out. “You are not supposed to be here.”

I staggered back, dropping the book. The wind stirred, blowing pages from the ground, depositing a single blank page at my feet.

* * *

I moved away from the book without taking my eyes off it. I found the only chair in the room and sat down more confused than ever.

Saltwater Doctrine. The title clung to my ribs like smoke. The author’s name, August Denier, didn’t mean anything to me, yet everything inside me recoiled at the mention of the name. It was not from fear, but from a recognition that I could not explain.

I didn’t know who that was. Heck, I didn’t even know who I was, but something in that book remembered me. I forced myself to turn away before it could say more.

A low wind blew again, lifting pages from the ground. One fragment of a page floated past my shoulder, brushing my cheek like a whisper. It floated gently to the floor at my feet. A word bloomed across it in wet ink: Elyne.

I stared at it, my heart ticking too loud in the silence. The name felt borrowed, like a line spoken by an actor who wasn’t sure what the scene was about. But I said it anyway, just to hear it out loud.

“Elyne.”

The words echoed off the stone walls, repeating itself like it was writing me into existence before dissolving back into silence.

The silence remained only briefly before being disturbed by the sound of approaching footsteps. I froze. They were not mine, and I definitely did not imagine them. They were soft, deliberate, and most definitely real. I could hear them just beyond the far columns, too slow to be casual and too steady to be afraid. Whoever was approaching, they weren’t surprised to find someone here.

I crouched behind the broken lectern, heart pounding, breath caught halfway in my throat. I didn’t even know what I was hiding from. I didn’t know if I had the right to hide.

There was another footstep followed by a brief pause. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, in a voice that was quiet and certain.

I stood slowly as he emerged from the shadows like a sketch brought to life, faint lines still showing beneath the ink. It was a young man in worn armor and a tattered cloak. His eyes were ‌pale blue and sharp as broken glass. He looked like a knight who had long forgotten what he was supposed to protect.

You’re one of them,” he said. “From before.”

“Before what?”

He tilted his head. “You don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“Then this is worse than I thought.”

He stepped forward, and for a moment I thought he might draw a weapon. Instead, he reached out and touched the spiral scar on my palm. The ink shimmered faintly, pulsing like a wound that remembered something it shouldn’t.

He recoiled.

“I was right,” he whispered. “You're the scribe who was never written.” Without giving me a chance to reply, he added, “The Rewrite will find you now. You need to move.”

As if summoned by his words, it came. At the far end of the Scriptorium, a thick white fog swallowed the walls. Something vast and silent took shape within it.

I looked at the knight. I was shaken by fear. Without thinking, I grabbed the book from the floor, and I ran. I ran away from the fog and whatever it represented.