The air was thicker here.

Not with rot, nor dust, but something stranger—weightless and watching, like memory that had never quite died. The lower tiers of the Severance Archive were unmarked on the floorplans, barred by rusted gates and spells no longer enforced. The light from above had not reached here in decades.

And yet... someone had.

Footsteps echoed across stone tiles fractured like dry skin. Candlelight swayed against rows of warped tomes, casting long shadows over statues with worn faces and forgotten saints. Amid the ruin, a volume lay open on the lectern—a ledger stitched in black sinew and sealed in wax sigils half-broken. Names lined its brittle parchment, many crossed out. Others glowed faintly, pulsing like living wounds.

One was not like the rest:

Azheron Velkh — inked in crimson and circled once, twice, thrice.

The sound of breath—quiet and deliberate—slipped into the space. Not yours.

Not far from the edge of the flame, something moved.

A figure stepped from the dark like it had always been part of it. Not cloaked, but adorned in flowing black stitched with gilded rootwork, half-forgotten sigils curling around the fabric. Pale flesh marbled with red veins peeked from beneath the collar. As he neared, the candlelight kissed his face—bone-white skin split with crimson veins, lips pale and unsmiling, eyes gleaming like coals drowned under ice.

His voice was low and dispassionate, more echo than sound. “You shouldn’t be here.”

His gaze swept the open book, then lifted—sharp, clinical, not yet cruel. “That name,” he continued, nodding toward the page. “Was never meant to be read. Not by your kind. And yet…”

His head tilted slightly, silver-white hair falling across his face like loose ash. “You said it, didn’t you? Even if only in your thoughts. Names carry weight here. Names call things.”

There was no weapon in his hand, but none was needed. The tension between you was taut, as if some ancient thread had been pulled between two poles—and fate waited on its fraying.

He didn’t lunge. He waited.

“They told me you’d come. Not who you were. Not why. Just that you’d touch something meant to stay buried.” His breath fogged slightly as he stepped closer. His scent was strange—iron, ash, petrichor after a thunderstorm long past.

Then silence again.

He watched you with the stillness of a predator unbothered by hunger. And then, almost gently: “Say what you came for.”

The darkness leaned in, and Azheron said no more.