The Cartography Hall existed in a state of controlled forgetting.
Caelen pressed his palms against the obsidian table, watching as blue mist swirled beneath the glass surface, forming and reforming the map of Lirmathra's Empire. Each touch of his fingers revealed a different layer of history — some sanctioned, others... less so.
First Layer: The Present.
The capital city of Luminas sprawled across the center like a golden spider, its seven districts radiating outward in perfect symmetry. Each district belonged to one of the Sevenfold Assembly — the ruling council that governed through their mastery of the individual Threads. The buildings themselves were carved from Memory Stone, their facades shifting subtly as the official histories were rewritten.
Second Layer: Before the Great Division.
Caelen traced a finger along what had once been the Echo Forest — Lyssira's ancestral homeland, where the trees stored voices like books and the wind carried conversations from centuries past. At the forest's heart pulsed a white dot: the Well of Fates, where all seven Threads supposedly converged in perfect harmony.
Third Layer: The Forbidden.
Here, the map showed only void. Black emptiness punctuated by eight red points arranged in a spiral pattern.
"There," Caelen whispered, pressing one of the crimson marks. "Where the Eighth Thread was last found."
The sound of metal scraping stone interrupted his thoughts.
"Archivists are not permitted to view the Restricted Cartographs."
Caelen didn't turn around. He recognized the voice of Seirin Vaydar, Captain of the Archive Guard. Her armor was forged from Remembering Metal — steel that reshaped itself based on every blow it had ever received. Her golden eyes never blinked, a side effect of the Time Thread conditioning all Guards underwent.
"Especially those who write about anomalies," she continued, her gaze falling to Caelen's satchel.
A shadow detached itself from the wall behind them both. The One-Eyed Councilor stepped forward, his single eye covered by a cloth bearing the inscription "Thread of Fate" in silver script.
"Maps are like morals, young Caelen," the Councilor said softly. "They change according to necessity."
A child's voice echoed from the doorway — though it carried the weight of an old man's wisdom. Auris, one of the Proclamants' newest recruits, couldn't have been older than ten.
"The Assembly requires your journals," the boy said. "Before we are forced to take them."
Caelen's hand instinctively moved to his hidden notebook — bound in leather from a creature that had been systematically erased from all records. Within its pages, written in ink brewed from Echo Forest mist, were the true accounts the Assembly sought to bury:
Day 734 of Observation. The Assembly rewrites the Battle of the Broken Bridge to appear as a mere structural collapse. Seventeen witnesses have been "relocated" to the Silence Ward.
His pen was carved from the bone of an extinct bird — one of the few materials that could write on forbidden parchment. The ink only appeared under starlight, and even then, only to those who had seen what shouldn't be seen.
Seirin stepped closer. "Unauthorized documentation is punishable by Temporal Severance." She reached for the notebook. "These words will be forgotten... along with their author."
But as her fingers touched the leather binding, the red points on the map began to pulse.
Eight beats. Then silence.
The One-Eyed Councilor's cloth covering fluttered, though there was no wind in the sealed chamber.
"Curious," he murmured. "The old patterns are... stirring."
Through the tall windows, Caelen could see the city's seven bell towers beginning to chime — though it was nowhere near the hour. In the distance, the Dome of Golden Bells that housed the Assembly's council chambers flickered with unnatural light.
Each of the seven rulers wore masks representing their Thread:
• The Broken Clock (Time Thread)
• The Shattered Mirror (Memory Thread)
• The Burning Lens (Light Thread)
• The Hollow Crown (Binding Thread)
• Others that shifted too quickly for mortal eyes to follow
Seirin's grip tightened on her weapon. "Sir, should I—"
"Wait." The Councilor raised a hand. The cloth over his eye was beginning to fray at the edges. "Something approaches. Something that shouldn't."
The map's surface rippled. The forbidden void began to expand, swallowing the red points one by one until only a single mark remained — directly beneath where they stood.
"The Archive," Caelen breathed. "It's here. The convergence point."
As if summoned by his words, the building around them groaned. In the Hall of Dead Clocks below, every timepiece suddenly aligned — all hands pointing to 8:08.
The One-Eyed Councilor began to back away. "Captain Vaydar, initiate lockdown protocols. Now."
But before Seirin could respond, shadows in the Corridor of Echoes began moving independently of their casters. Caelen watched in fascination as his own shadow stepped two paces ahead of him, gesturing toward a hidden passage.
A scream echoed from the upper archives. Seirin's voice, magnified by the building's acoustics: "Seal the gates! He has touched the Forbidden!"
Caelen felt something slip into his coat pocket — a sensation like cold fingers brushing against cloth. When he reached inside, his hand found a piece of parchment that hadn't been there moments before.
On it was a sketch of a faceless figure wrapped in eight interwoven threads. Below the drawing, in handwriting that seemed to shift as he watched:
"Velkareth is not a name... it is a question."
The One-Eyed Councilor was backing toward the door now, and Caelen noticed that the cloth over his eye had torn completely. Beneath it, eight black threads writhed like living serpents, coiling around an empty socket.
"If you seek truth," the Councilor whispered, "know that the Assembly always lies twice."
As he spoke, the city's bells fell silent.
All except one.
Somewhere in the distance, a single bell tolled eight times.
And in that moment, Caelen understood: the Eighth Thread wasn't sleeping.
It was counting down.
End of Chapter Four