Chapter Two: The Room That Should Not Exist
The moment my fingers closed around the cold metal of the key, the room seemed to change. The air thickened, and the faint light flickered like a dying heartbeat. Cylian's eyes, still hidden beneath his hood, watched me in complete silence. I could feel the weight of his gaze even though I could not see his face.
He spoke again, his voice calm but filled with a strange authority.
"Every path in this city begins with a choice. That key doesn't open a door—it opens a memory. Be careful which one you choose."
Before I could ask what he meant, he turned away and vanished into the shadows as if he had melted into them. The sound of his steps faded completely, leaving me alone with the key and the oppressive silence.
I looked around the room again. The walls seemed closer now, almost breathing. The flickering light reflected off the dust motes in the air, giving the illusion that the shadows themselves were alive. I swallowed hard and looked down at the key. It was small and ancient, blackened with age, but its surface shimmered faintly under the dim light—as if something inside it pulsed.
A sudden sound echoed through the corridor outside—a faint whisper followed by the creak of a door. I turned toward the noise. There, at the end of the hallway, was another door I hadn't noticed before. It was smaller than the others, made of iron, and engraved with symbols identical to those in the book I had opened earlier.
My instincts screamed at me to stay away. But curiosity—the same dangerous curiosity that brought me here—pulled me closer. My heart pounded as I inserted the key into the lock. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the metal began to glow faintly, and I heard a whisper right next to my ear:
"You chose to remember."
The door opened on its own with a deep groan, revealing darkness so dense it seemed to swallow the faint light behind me. The moment I stepped through, the world shifted.
The cold air vanished, replaced by warmth—the scent of rain and old paper. I blinked. I was no longer in the same building. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves, stretching endlessly into the dark ceiling. Thousands—maybe millions—of books surrounded me, their spines etched with names and dates that changed whenever I tried to focus on them.
At the center of this impossible library stood a large hourglass filled not with sand, but with black dust that shimmered like ashes caught in moonlight. And behind it, a mirror.
Something about the mirror drew me closer. Its surface rippled like water, and for the first time, I saw my reflection clearly since entering this place. But it wasn't me.
The person in the mirror looked like me, but his eyes were darker—completely black, with faint lines of shadow crawling from their corners. He smiled, a slow, unsettling curve of lips that didn't belong to me. Then, without moving my own body, I heard him speak:
"You came to seek truth. But truth doesn't live here—it hides, like you."
I took a step back, my breathing quickening. The reflection didn't mimic me; it followed its own movements, tilting its head, studying me like a specimen.
Suddenly, the books began to whisper. Their pages fluttered without wind, murmuring in a hundred voices, each saying the same words over and over: "The city remembers. The city remembers."
The floor trembled. The hourglass began to turn on its own, the black dust swirling violently. Then, one grain escaped, floating upward like a tiny star. The instant it touched the mirror, everything froze.
The reflection extended its hand toward me, pressing its fingers against the other side of the glass. And then, to my horror, cracks began to form—spreading like veins across the mirror's surface.
I stumbled backward, but it was too late. The glass shattered outward, shards slicing through the air like silent screams. The figure stepped out from the broken surface, landing softly on the ground.
He was real now—an exact copy of me, except for the darkness that clung to his form like smoke. His eyes locked on mine, and he spoke in a voice identical to my own:
"You opened the memory. Now you must carry it."
Before I could react, he reached out and touched my chest. A burning pain shot through me, like fire searing my veins. Images flooded my mind—faces I didn't know, places I'd never seen, and screams echoing in languages I couldn't understand. Then, just as suddenly, the pain stopped.
When I opened my eyes again, the double was gone. The library was gone. I was back in the dim room with the wooden table, the book, and the flickering light. But something was different. The air felt heavier, and when I looked down at my hand, the key had changed. It was no longer black—it glowed faintly red, warm to the touch.
Then I heard Cylian's voice behind me, calm as ever.
"You saw it, didn't you?"
I turned, and there he was again, standing in the corner, half-hidden by the darkness.
"What… what was that?" I asked, my voice trembling.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder. His touch was cold, like stone.
"What you saw was not the city's secret," he said. "It was yours."
"My secret?" I repeated, confused.
Cylian nodded slowly. "This city feeds on what you hide. It shows you what you refuse to remember. Every key opens a part of your soul. And every truth you uncover brings you closer to the heart of the City of Shadows."
I tried to speak, but my throat felt dry. The shadows around us began to move again, slithering up the walls like ink in water. Cylian's hood shifted slightly, and for the first time, I caught a glimpse of his face—or at least, part of it.
His skin was pale, almost translucent, like marble. His eyes, however, were completely black, just like the reflection I had seen in the mirror. Yet his expression wasn't evil—it was… sorrowful.
He turned away and whispered, almost to himself:
"Once, I too came here seeking answers."
The silence that followed was suffocating. I wanted to ask him what had happened to him, but something told me not to. Instead, he pointed toward the door.
"There is another path waiting for you. The city is shifting, changing its form. It knows you now."
I looked at the door. The symbols carved into it were glowing faintly, pulsing like veins beneath skin. The room seemed alive.
"What happens if I keep going?" I asked.
Cylian's gaze met mine. "Then you'll learn why this place exists—and why no one ever leaves."
He stepped back into the shadows, his voice fading as he spoke:
"Follow the whispers, but do not trust them. They tell the truth only when it hurts the most."
And then he was gone again.
Left alone, I approached the door. The key pulsed in my hand, guiding me. When I turned the handle, a sudden gust of wind rushed through, carrying with it faint whispers—voices speaking my name, repeating it over and over.
I stepped through.
The corridor beyond was long and narrow, lit by lanterns that emitted a strange bluish flame. The walls were covered in carvings—scenes of people walking into the city and never returning. Some of the figures looked eerily familiar.
As I walked, I felt the floor beneath me change texture—first stone, then wood, then something soft, almost like flesh. I froze. The whispers grew louder, blending into faint cries.
At the end of the corridor stood a massive gate made of black iron. On it was engraved a single sentence:
"The truth is not found—it is remembered."
The key in my hand vibrated violently, pulling me closer. My pulse raced as I inserted it into the lock. The moment it turned, the entire corridor shook. The lanterns flickered, the air grew colder, and the gate slowly creaked open.
Beyond it was a staircase descending into pure darkness.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward. Each step echoed like thunder, and with every echo, a memory returned—my childhood, the first lie I told, the first time I ran from fear. It was as if the city itself was peeling back the layers of who I was.
When I reached the bottom, I saw it—a door unlike any other, carved from glass and shadow. Through it, I could see shapes moving, whispering, waiting.
The voice returned, now echoing from everywhere:
"Welcome deeper, seeker. The next truth awaits."
I reached for the door handle, knowing that whatever lay beyond would change everything.
And as I pushed it open, the shadows surged forward—alive, whispering, hungry.