Page 47 of The City Of Fractured Memory

I shake my head slowly. “That’s what frightens me. I don’t know about you, but he doesn’t strike me as a man who wastes effort. Every move he makes feels…deliberate. Purposeful.” I stare at the inked script before me without really seeing it.

“So why kill Cyril? Did he know something he shouldn’t have?”

“Unlikely,” I muse. “If that was the case, then we would be dead too. You know, to cover his tracks.”

She nods thoughtfully, but remains silent, the only sound the flutter of parchment as I turn another page.

I force myself to focus, pushing the unease down where it can’t reach me. Guilt will have to wait. Regret, too. For now, I need to focus on the task at hand. If we can hunt down the truth buried in this labyrinth of words, then finally Rivenéan Ashfell’s empire of secrets might come crashing down.

Hours tick by, the tips of my fingers red and chaffed from turning so many pages, even with the gloves on. Stryx has become more restless as time passes, and I can’t say I blame her. Given what happened the last time we were here, I can’t help but constantly check over my shoulder every few minutes, the constant silence of the Archives pressing in on me until I feel so stifled I can’t breathe. My Shadow watches me always, occasionally whispering awful things in my ear while I try my best to ignore him, but the silence makes it impossible. Alone with my thoughts and his incessant whispers, I slowly start to spiral, my anxiety reaching the point of overwhelming paranoia.

I slam the Book of Velmoran Societies shut, my frustration getting the better of me. “We’ve been here for hours and nothing. Not a single reference to anything Raph mentioned. I must have read every Voyding book about ancient societies and Velmoran histories and there’s not even a vague mention of this stupid cult.”

Stryx grimaces. “Maybe he was wrong? Or maybe we aren’t looking in the right place?”

I huff a sigh, trying to rein in my temper. “I can’t think straight. I swear these last few days, I’ve slowly been losing control of my emotions, my head is all over the place. Could this be a lasting effect of Mindweaving without my circlet?”

She shrugs, biting her cheek. “I don’t know, maybe? I feel like the obvious answer might not be the right one in this case, though–”

“That’s it,” I breathe, tuning out the rest of her words as my eyes widen. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.”

I launch into a sprint through the stacks, a very confused Stryx keeping pace behind me. I skid to a stop at the far corner of the library where the oldest texts are kept, and run my finger along the spines, muttering the titles out loud until I find what I’m looking for.

“Here we go,” I announce, pulling out a tome so enormous I need both hands to carry it. I thump it down onto a nearby table, dust cascading around us from the impact. Stryx coughs, waving the dust from her face before looking down at it with her eyebrows raised.

“A History of the Fracturing?” she reads, confusion etched into her features.

“Not just a history,” I explain. “It’s a history with a primary focus on the Pantheon, written at the time when Echofae were given permission to leave Lunoreth under enslavement. It’s like you said—the most obvious answer isn’t the one we are looking for. We’ve been wasting time looking at societies when we should have been learning about the Fracturing itself. If any restless sentiment came from it, then it’ll be in this book.”

She bites her lip, her eyes dancing with curiosity. I check the glossary before thumbing through the pages, keeping an eye out for certain words or anything that could relate to our case, but my confidence quickly starts to waver once I reach halfway through the book and nothing of note stands out. I’m about to give up and close the book when my eye catches on a page hosting a large illustration of Augustus, the original mortal leader of Velmora, robed in ceremonial garb and stood upon a dais surrounded by worshippers.

My heart starts beating rapidly in my chest as I frantically scan the drawing, my eyes falling onto Augustus’s wrist where a dark mark is inked there.

“No way, it can’t be,” I breathe, staring at a crude yet undeniable rendering of the magpie tattoo. Beneath, the text reads:

THE RISE OF THE FIRST MEMONIC COUNCIL

“Stryx, I think that tattoo might be the symbol for the council,” I whisper in awe. “At least, it used to be.”

A chill runs down my spine and I instinctively check over my shoulder, but there’s nothing there.

I really need to get a hold of myself.

The candlelight flickers against the parchment, turning the ink to liquid shadow as I frantically scan the text below the illustration, my lips moving silently before I begin to read aloud. “And with the Fracturing, the minds of men were severed from the divine, and order was born from the ashes of chaos. From among them rose Augustus, keeper of the Codex of Thorns, chosen by the Gods to guard the Veil between realms…”

I trail off. “Guard the Veil?” I repeat. “Not destroy it?”

Stryx frowns. “So if Raph is right, then how did this become the symbol of a cult trying to tear the Veil apart? And what in the Voyd is the Codex of Thorns?”

“Maybe,” I say slowly, “the council changed. Over the decades, maybe they grew restless with their limited magic and their purpose twisted. Each generation shaping it into something new, something darker.”

I glance back down at the tattoo. “What if there were always a few—those who still believed that the Faceless God didn’t curse humanity when he was bound behind the Veil, but saved them from limitation? And now, after lying dormant for nearly a century, they think it’s time to reclaim that so-called power? Maybe this Codex is linked to that?”

Stryx’s ears shimmer faintly as they twitch, her glamour flickering with unease. “You think this cult could be the remnant of the old council?”

“What’s left of it, yes,” I murmur. “A splintered shadow of the first rulers of Velmora. A secret lineage of believers, waiting for their chance to finish what Augustus began?”

Stryx crosses her arms, brow furrowing. “But why now? Why after all this time?”