The world returned in a single, shuddering heartbeat. Then it vanished again.
Caelum barely had time to gasp before the hall of the Spire fractured into dust and starlight, dissolving around him as if reality had been nothing more than a thin veil. His friends' voices—Lyra's first, Astra's sharp right after, Seraphine calling his name—echoed, stretched, and snapped.
The Emissary's hand brushed his shoulder. The universe inverted.
A rush of light swept him upward, then inward, then through something he couldn't name.
And suddenly— He stood in silence.
A vast silence, like the pause between two cosmic breaths.
The place he found himself was not a room. Not a landscape. Not a void.
It was all of them. And none of them.
Floating steps formed beneath his feet—stairs made of memory, starlight, and echo. Each one hummed faintly with a note he felt more than heard. Caelum steadied himself. The Emissary stood ahead, tall and luminous, watching.
"Welcome," it said, "to the Celestial Archive."
Caelum turned slowly. Horizons stretched into infinity. Shelves spiraled into fractal shapes, carrying books, crystals, broken helms, shards of light, feathers that glowed, seeds that pulsed like hearts. Every item radiated a story.
"This place…" Caelum whispered. "What is it?"
"The Archive stores origins," the Emissary replied. "Every world. Every lineage. Every beginning that shaped what exists now." It gestured. "Including yours."
A chill crept up Caelum's spine. "Why me?"
The Emissary studied him with eyes like shifting constellations. "Because you are the only bearer whose story was erased."
Caelum's breath caught. "Erased?"
"Not forgotten. Vanished."
He clenched his fists. "By who?"
"By you."
The floor slipped. He grabbed a railing of light that formed just in time.
"I erased my own story?"
The Emissary nodded. "To survive what came before."
Before he could speak, the Archive changed. A ripple passed through the infinite halls. Items rearranged themselves like metal pulled by magnetism. Stars dimmed in reverence. A path opened ahead—straight, narrow, lined with glowing glyphs.
"This," the Emissary said softly, "is the Aetheris Path. It leads to your origin memory—the one you sealed."
Caelum swallowed. "And if I walk it?"
"You will remember who you were."
"And if I don't?"
"The Harbinger rises unchecked."
Silence pressed against him.
Caelum took a breath. "I'm not doing this alone."
The Emissary tilted its head. "Your companions are bound to the mortal plane. They cannot enter."
Caelum stepped forward anyway. "Then they'll wait for me. And I'll return."
He placed a foot on the path.
Light flared. The Archive inhaled.
The moment Caelum stepped fully onto the Aetheris Path, the ground vanished beneath him—replaced by memories he had never lived, or had lived but abandoned.
He fell.
Through fire. Through water. Through worlds collapsing, worlds forming, worlds burning with starfire not gold but a deep, ancient blue.
A voice whispered. Not the Harbinger. Not the sky. Not the Emissary.
His own.
"You ran."
He gasped as images flickered—a temple of shattered stone; a Crown different from his own, cracked and sparking; a battlefield suspended in the void, warriors made of light falling one by one.
"You chose to forget."
Caelum tried to pull away from the vision—but the memory wrapped around him like chains.
A figure stood in the center of the battlefield. Tall. Radiant. Wearing a Crown of pure aether.
His face was Caelum's. But older. Sharper. Burned with purpose.
The memory version of him spoke. A single sentence.
"You abandoned everything to stop him."
Caelum staggered. "Stop who?"
The memory stepped closer.
"The Harbinger?" Caelum whispered.
"No," the echo said, eyes piercing him.
"His successor."
A shockwave blasted through the vision—hurling Caelum backward until the Archive reformed around him. His knees hit solid light, and he choked, gasping for breath.
The Emissary stood over him. "You saw the first fragment." Caelum pushed himself up. "There's more."
"Yes."
Caelum steadied himself. "I need to see all of it."
The Emissary raised a glowing hand. "The next memory lies deeper. And it is the one you feared most."
Caelum's pulse hammered. "Show me."
The Archive dimmed. A second path unfurled.
And far away—beyond worlds, beyond time—a familiar presence stirred.
The Harbinger. Watching. Waiting.
Smiling.
Because Caelum Aetheris had begun to remember. And that was exactly what the Harbinger wanted.