What the Council Hides
The archive doors had not been opened in nearly a century.
They recognized Blake anyway.
Shadows peeled back from the seams of the massive obsidian slabs, sigils flickering awake as if startled from sleep. The doors groaned open, releasing a breath of air so old it tasted of dust, iron, and regret.
Lumi paused at the threshold.
The truth inside her recoiled.
"Something here remembers pain," she murmured.
Blake glanced at her. "This is where the council keeps what it fears being spoken."
They stepped inside.
The archive descended in spiraling tiers, shelves carved directly into stone and stacked with relics, scrolls, and shadowbound tomes. Faint lights drifted overhead like captive stars, illuminating words etched in blood-ink and bone.
At twenty-two, Lumi had read many forbidden things. None had ever felt quite so… aware.
Blake moved with purpose, bypassing entire sections until he stopped before a sealed plinth marked with the sigil of the first crown.
"This," he said, "is where the curse began."
He pressed his palm to the stone.
The shadows hesitated.
Then they parted.
The lid slid back, revealing a single book—its cover stitched from something that might once have been skin. Lumi swallowed hard as the truth surged, sharp and immediate.
This was written by someone who did not survive it.
Blake opened the book carefully.
The pages were brittle, the script uneven.
> The night was not always cursed.
Lumi felt the words strike like a bell.
Blake read aloud, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in the room.
> Noctyrrh was bound when the first kings feared losing power. They sought permanence. Control. They bound the realm to shadow, and shadow to obedience.
Lumi's breath caught.
"Not protection," she whispered. "Domination."
Blake turned the page.
> But shadow cannot be ruled without truth. So they created the Truth Bearers—not to free the realm, but to punish lies that threatened the crown.
The pain came suddenly, vicious and blinding.
Lumi staggered, clutching the edge of the plinth.
"They made us," she gasped. "We were never meant to be human."
Blake was at her side instantly. "Stop. You don't need to read—"
"I do," she said fiercely. "I need to know what they did to us."
The truth roared now, furious.
> Truth Bearers were designed to break. Their pain would deter rebellion. Their suffering would teach obedience.
Blood spilled freely now, dark against Lumi's lips.
Blake's hands shook as he closed the book.
"They used you," he said hoarsely. "They used all of you."
Lumi wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes blazing despite the tears gathering there.
"And when truth began to soften?" she asked. "When it stopped punishing?"
Blake's jaw tightened. "They called it corruption."
The truth inside her screamed agreement.
"That's why they're afraid," Lumi said. "Not because I weaken the curse—but because I prove it was never necessary."
Silence settled heavy between them.
"If the curse breaks," Blake said slowly, "the crown loses its authority."
"And if it doesn't," Lumi replied, "the realm will keep bleeding us dry."
Blake looked at her then—not as prince to consort, but as man to woman standing at the edge of history.
"They will try to erase you," he said. "Truth Bearers who don't suffer are dangerous."
Lumi straightened, pain still pulsing through her veins.
"Then let them choke on it," she said quietly. "I will not be their weapon anymore."
The shadows around them stirred—uncertain, restless.
Deep within the archive, something ancient shifted, as if listening.
Blake reached for Lumi's hand, holding it firmly.
"Whatever comes," he said, voice low and resolute, "we face it together."
The truth surged—strong, clear, unyielding.
That was not a lie.
And in the depths of Noctyrrh, the night trembled—not in fear, but in recognition.