----Page 1----
My mother used to say.
"Books have hearts too, Kinon. They only open themselves to those who listen."
She repeated it every time she brought me to the library, our secret world where the dust smelled like time and the silence felt sacred.
The head librarian always scolded her for bringing food inside, but she'd just smile, whisper an apology, and sneak me a pastry under the table anyway.
She would sit quietly by the window, watching me read with a gentle look.
I didn't understand it then, but now I think she knew her stories wouldn't last forever, and someday, I'd have to write my own.
That was the last real memory I had of her, before the sickness, before the loss.
Years later, I returned to that same library alone.
The halls felt emptier. I don't know what drew me to that dark corner, the one where the lamps flickered and the shelves creaked.
Maybe it was instinct, maybe something calling me. My hand brushed against a spine that felt warm, alive.
A book, blank from cover to cover.
"Weird," I whispered, flipping through the empty pages.
"Guess even books can lose their words." As I closed it, a faint hum escaped the spine, like a heartbeat.
The air around me warped. The floor tilted. I tried to step back, but light swallowed me whole.
Then nothing.
°°°
I woke staring at a gray sky. My body ached, like I'd been dragged through dirt for hours.
The stench of sweat, blood, and iron filled the air. Wooden bars surrounded me, a cage.
"What the hell?" I croaked.
Beside me, a dozen others huddled together: humans, beastfolk, even an elf with broken chains around his wrists.
Their eyes were hollow, their clothes ragged.
A furry hand nudged me.
"You awake, human?"
I turned to see a furfolk, his brown fur matted and torn, watching me with weary golden eyes. His voice was rough but oddly calm.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"Slave caravan," he said.
"Caught by the Red Chain Merchants. You're lucky you're still breathing."
I tried to sit up, but the world spun.
"My book. Where's my book?"
He blinked.
"Book? The Brutescale warden took it. Said it was trash. Blank cover, right? He couldn't sell it."
My chest sank. That book, the one that pulled me here, was gone.
The wagon jolted. I fell against the bars, my shoulder scraping wood.
Outside, a reptilian guard with scaled green skin and jagged teeth barked orders at the drivers. His tail lashed behind him as he swaggered past, laughing.
The furfolk leaned closer.
"That's Grask. Scalebrute. Likes breaking humans for fun. Don't talk back."
Grask's head turned sharply.
"What're you whisperin', furball?" he snarled. He stomped toward us, slamming his club against the bars.
"Think you're better than me, huh? You stinkin' mutt."
He jabbed the club between the gaps, hitting the furfolk in the ribs.
I clenched my fists, but another slave caught my wrist.
"Don't," he whispered.
"You'll just make it worse."
The furfolk coughed, then forced a small grin.
"Just a friendly chat, warden."
Grask sneered, eyes narrowing at me.
"And what's this? Fresh meat? Haven't branded you yet?" He motioned for one of the guards to bring a heated iron. I froze as the glowing metal approached.
The smell of burnt flesh filled the air; one of the elves had just been marked.
Grask grinned, pressing the iron close to my skin.
"Welcome to the food chain, runt."
Before it touched me, another guard called out.
"Already branded, boss! Look!"
He pointed at a branded human in the other cage.
Grask grunted.
"Waste of good iron."
He tossed the tool aside and walked off, still laughing.
The wagon rolled on.
Days passed. I learned the furfolk's name: Rynn. He was older, patient, and surprisingly clever. He taught me fragments of their language.
°°°
As the days stretched into weeks, the world revealed itself: a world vast and cruel, ruled by coin and chain.
The Red Chain Merchants thrived, trading lives as currency. In gilded cities, nobles wore collars of silk while others bore collars of iron. The furfolk called these places
"The Gilded Pits."
Whispers told of the Nullscribes beings older than kings, older than faith itself who twist the truth of the world, to write lies into existence and erase names from memory.
Their words could become law, their silence a death sentence. Even the Holy Church trembled beneath their parchment seal, and kings bent their knees before unseen pens.
When fear took root, the Tyrant's Hand a mercenary order forged from chaos fed upon it, turning terror into profit. It was a world destined to devour itself.
I hate the thought of it.
But what can I do? Does a weakling like me have the power to make a difference? It's frustrating to think that someone as weak as me dreams of a better world.
°°°
As days passed, I continued living my life as a slave. I managed to make friends with the other slaves: a quiet elf girl named Lira, along with human siblings who whispered about escaping.
Even Rynn began to speak of freedom, of breaking out, stealing horses, running north. Hope was dangerous, but it was all we had.
Then one night, the plan was set. We waited until the guards were drunk. The rain masked our footsteps. My heart pounded. We were almost there, almost free.
But then I realized something was odd. Rynn suddenly vanished from behind us. Also, the security wasn't as tight as it was supposed to be.
Then the alarm rang. The guards poured in like wolves. Rynn stood behind them. His golden eyes met mine, and he looked away.
"Sorry, kid," he whispered.
"I can't die for a dream."
Everything after that blurred. They beat me hard. My ribs cracked, my blood soaked the dirt. I could hear Lira screaming somewhere behind me, then silence.
Grask knelt beside me, gripping my hair.
"You think you can change your fate, runt?" he hissed.
"This world's already written. The Nullscribes make the rules."
His words echoed in my skull as he stood, laughing. Around me, my friends lay lifeless on the ground.
Something inside me wanted to break free. I could feel someone calling my name. In that moment, everything changed.
The world held its breath. Light cracked through the dark, spilling across the battlefield of chains.
The Chronicle the blank book pulsed like a living heart beneath my trembling hands. Its pages drank my blood, and with it, my grief.
Power surged from the words that had never been written. A figure rose from that light tall, silver-haired, eyes burning like a thousand dawns.
Armor glimmered around her like starlight condensed into form. Her name echoed in the ancient air: Lysera.
She stood between the slavers and their prey, her voice carrying both wrath and grace.
"Who dares defile the bearer of the Chronicle?"
Her words struck the camp like thunder. Clubs splintered, and torches flickered out.
Grask lunged forward, roaring, his scaled arm swinging down and with a single motion, Lysera's blade carved through the air.
The strike left no sound, only silence, and the weapon in his hand turned to dust.
She looked down at me.
"You summoned me, Master," she said.
Chains shattered as fire burst forth, burning only those who had enslaved. Grask's scream was swallowed by light; his body cracked, molten and broken under divine flame.
Lysera moved like wind cutting through slavers, her strikes too swift for mortal eyes. When she stopped, there was nothing left but silence, ashes, and a trembling forest.
The surviving slaves emerged from the smoke, staring at the boy who still knelt upon the earth. The book floated before him, its light dimming, its story beginning.
Lysera's gaze lingered, cold and questioning.
"Why stay your hand?" she asked.
"He butchered your kind."
I raised my head weakly, voice raw.
"Because he's already finished. The fear in his eyes is punishment enough. Let him live knowing he'll never be safe again. By my hands, I will claim my vengeance but not now."
For a long moment, only the whisper of rain answered. Then Lysera lowered her sword.
The Chronicle turned its pages on its own, golden letters weaving themselves into form.
The first line of history written in blood and light: Lysera Ardentveil The First Pageborn.
And I understood: this book did not record history. It created it.
That night, the first Pageborn awakened, and so did my will for vengeance for the world that thrived on chains.
°°°
Far in a time yet unwritten, silver light floods a throne room carved from obsidian. A figure sits upon a vast black throne, the Chronicle open beside him.
Before the throne kneel twenty souls beastfolk, elf, human united under one banner. Their voices rise as one.
"Glory to the Founder King."
And in the shadows of that throne, Kinon once a boy bound by chains smiles.