Master waves a hand at us, his voice calm but firm. “Settle down first. Someone brew some tea.”

  The scent of steeping leaves fills the air as we sink into our seats.

  Samuel, Jamey and I decline, but the rest accept a cup. The earthy bitterness of Master’s green tea is something I never learned to stomach.

  He takes a slow sip, his gaze sweeping over us as we wait, breaths held in unspoken anticipation. “Well,” he begins, setting his Celadon cup down with a quiet clink. “You were right, he was neither a demon nor a dark entity.”

  Another sip. Another pause.

  He extends his cup for a refill, his fingers drumming lightly against the porcelain. “He could be one of two things.”

  His gaze drops to the floor, his expression unreadable. “A forsaken soul, trapped between realms, manipulated or cursed to serve as a vessel for cryptic messages.”

  No one says a word, listening like we’re in school. Only now, we’re grading whether a ghost boy is cursed, chosen, or just really bad at introductions.

  He exhales through his nose. “The tear… could signify his final release.”

  A murmur of unease ripples through us, but he raises a hand, silencing it before it can grow.

  “Or,” he continues, “he was a Divine Messenger in disguise.”

  His eyes flick between us, searching for understanding. “Not all messengers come in light and warmth. Some appear in corrupted forms, testing those who seek the truth. The tear could have been his last moment of humanity breaking through.”

  A thick silence settles over the room. No one moves. No one speaks.

  I can almost hear the weight of our thoughts pressing against the air.

  Alec is the first to break it. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice steady. “I think it was the latter.”

  Master picks up his cup again, swirling the liquid inside. “Pray, do tell. Why do you think so?”

  Alec doesn’t hesitate.

  He perches at the edge of his seat, eyes sharp with certainty.

  “When I held him in my arms at the road, he was cold. Not just cold, vacant. Like the body had been emptied long before we found him.”

  He pauses, frowning.

  “It felt… positioned. As if something moved him just far enough to be seen, then stepped back.”

  Something sharp twists in my stomach. I raise a hand instinctively, like a student seeking permission. “Yeah, but… wouldn’t that fit a forsaken soul too?” My brow furrows.

  Then it clicks.

  I slap the heel of my palm against my forehead. “Wait… no. You’re right. A forsaken soul wouldn’t have known that language.”

  I glance around at the others, realization settling over me like a heavy cloak. “That boy wasn’t just relaying a message. He was guiding us.”

  A moment of clarity. But even clarity comes with shadows.

  I look back at Master Dan. “But… if that’s true, if he was sent to help us, then who sent him?”

  That question hangs heavier than the silence.

  “If he was forsaken, someone used him. If he was divine… someone chose us.”

  No one answers. Not right away.

  And that, somehow, is worse.

  Samantha grimaces beside me, arms crossed as she sinks into the seat. “If we’re saying he was sent to guide us with that cryptic message, and factoring in what Thania mentioned about the Sepulcher of Echoes, then we have a lot to figure out.”

  Master Dan rises from his chair without a word and strides toward the cupboard.

  He pulls out a small handheld vacuum and, without looking at us, switches it on and begins sweeping up the remains of the boy.

  His voice cuts through the low hum. “What’s this about the Sepulcher of Echoes?”

  We wait until he settles back into his seat, then lay everything out: the ordeal with Aleesha and her demon, Jamey’s disappearance, Alec’s explosive power, the sudden surge in our abilities… and me.

  The Living Scripture.

  Master listens in silence, his face unreadable. Finally, he exhales through his nose, his fingers tapping the armrest.

  “The Sepulcher of Echoes is not a place you want to step into lightly,” he says, the edge in his voice sharp enough to draw blood. “It has taken more than it’s ever given and it’s tied to an older prophecy. One most have forgotten or deliberately buried, about a woman whose markings would awaken not from study… but sorrow. One whose words would not be read, but lived.”

  He taps the armrest. “They say she would not find her path through learning… but through remembering.”

  He pauses, then continues more softly, “If I may suggest, follow the boy’s lead first. Find the one who knows it all.”

  His sharp gaze scans each of us. “Do any of you have an idea who this person might be?”

  A collective shake of heads. The answer is obvious, but I say it anyway. “No. So our next best bet is finding someone who does.”

  Across the room, Samuel, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet, sticks out his tongue, sets his tea down with a soft clink, and fishes a candy from his pocket.

  He peels back the wrapper with deliberate slowness before speaking. “I think I might have an idea.”

  Every head turns toward him.

  “All prayer warriors are part of a chat group,” Samuel says, unwrapping a candy like he’s not about to drop a bomb. “There’s this one older guy, he’s been around longer than any of us. We just call him the Scribe.”

  He pops the candy into his mouth, tone casual. “Never gave a real name. He’s the one who taught most of us how to read the ancient glyphs.”

  He pauses, rolling the candy over his tongue. “Says he was trained by someone who ‘walked with God before Heaven closed its doors.’”

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  The air tightens, but Samuel shrugs like he just commented on the weather.

  “If we drop something in the group, someone’s bound to have info on this ‘one who knows it all.’”

  He flicks his eyes toward us, unfazed. “Only question is… what exactly do we post?”

  I glance around the room, waiting to see whose lightbulb flickers first.

  Eric leans forward, fingers steepled. “Post the exact message the boy gave us,” he says, eyes dark with thought. “And see where it leads.”

  A beat of silence follows, too long.

  Alec narrows his eyes. “That move could backfire. What if the Judicars see it? Or worse … hidden enemies we are unaware of?”

  The air tightens. Even the candy seems to stop rolling in Samuel’s mouth.

  “That’s the point,” I say, locking eyes with Alec. “If they bite, we’ll know who’s watching.”

  Master Dan doesn’t interrupt, but the slight lift of his brow says he approves, and that he’s worried.

  After posting the message and assuring Master Dan we’d keep him updated, we finally headed home.

  Exhaustion clings to us like a second skin. Heavy in our steps, etched into our faces, dulling the very air around us. No one says it out loud, but we all silently agree: tomorrow will be a lazy day. A day to sleep in, to breathe, to wait.

  We didn’t have to wait long.

  Samuel comes barreling into the dining room, his phone waving wildly in the air. “We have feedback!”

  The weight in the room lifts instantly. Backs straighten, eyes sharpen. I barely manage to swallow the last bite of my croissant before snapping, “Well? Don’t just stand there like an idiot who won a prize, spit it out!”

  He grins, eyes gleaming. “The message was posted by a trustworthy ally and only to me. It says…” He clears his throat for effect. “…‘The person you seek can be found in the Labyrinth of Books.’”

  Jamey shuffles in, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, barely registering the excitement buzzing around the table.

  He mutters something unintelligible before reaching for the coffee pot. “Labyrinth of Books,” he repeats groggily. “I’ve been there before. The place is massive, filled with scribes.” He takes a slow sip, then frowns. “How the hell are we supposed to know who we’re looking for?”

  Samuel claps a hand on Jamey’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Already ahead of you, bro. The next part of the message says…” He glances at his phone again. “…‘He will find you. He knows you are coming.’”

  My hand jerks, knocking my coffee mug against the table. Coffee spills over the edge, seeping into the grain.

  “I am so tired of all the maybes and mysteries,” I mutter, jaw tight. “Now it’s someone who will find us? Someone who already knows we’re coming?”

  I shove back from the table, my chair screeching across the floor as I rise. “It’s always someone, something, somewhere…”

  I slam both fists down, the sound cracking through the room. “Some this or some that, and somehow, we’re the last to know!”

  Eric exhales, pushing a napkin toward me with deliberate calm.

  “Well, that settles it,” he says dryly. “No day off, then. Just riddles, ghost kids, and someone who apparently knows we’re coming.”

  He leans back, eyes narrowing.

  “Maybe we should start by finding this guy who ‘knows it all.’ If he does… maybe he can help us cut through all the ifs and buts, before they bury us.”

  We decide to depart in two days, it gives us enough time to prepare our gear and steel our minds for the task ahead.

  The Labyrinth of Books does not exist in this world as we know it. It lies beyond the veil of time and space, concealed within an unseen dimension. The only way to reach it is by sailing across Lake Astral Maw. A vast, glassy expanse that swallows the sky in its reflection. Even the air feels different here, thicker, charged, humming with an unseen force. As though the lake itself holds the breath of forgotten knowledge.

  As we cross, the mist begins to part, revealing Nyxveil Summit, a mountain so vast and ancient, it looks like it clawed its way out of time itself.

  Its jagged peaks vanish into the heavens. A waterfall, so high it seems to spill directly from the sky, cascades down its stone face, its torrents silver and luminous, feeding the lake below in an endless stream. The water glistens unnaturally, as if laced with starlight.

  Our boat glides to shore. The soft crunch of gravel beneath our feet breaks the silence as we disembark.

  Ahead of us, a colossal granite door looms, untouched by decay yet worn by time. Intricate symbols are carved into its surface, constantly shifting, alive. They whisper things we can’t understand but somehow still hear.

  Then, as we step forward, the carvings begin to glow, faint at first, then stronger. The energy hums through our bones, searching us. Measuring us. Only those whose reflections match their true selves will be allowed to pass.

  And so, we wait to see if the mountain deems us worthy.

  The Labyrinth of Books isn’t just a library. It breathes. It changes. It observes. Towering bookshelves spiral toward an unseen ceiling, rearranging themselves with a grace that borders on sentient. Pathways form and vanish at will, as if the building itself is guiding or misleading those who enter.

  Samantha spins around, clutching Samuel’s arm. Her eyes sparkle with wonder. “Oh my word! This place is insane. Look at the books, they’re literally hovering! And they move when the robed librarian walks by. This is like magic on steroids!”

  Samuel yanks his arm away, swatting her hand. “Yeah, great. But their faces are veiled, so how the hell are we supposed to find our guy? What, are we just supposed to vibe-check the librarians?”

  Before I can answer, a book the size of a suitcase zooms past my head, missing me by an inch. I yelp and stumble straight into Alec. He catches me effortlessly, steady and solid as ever.

  “Shit,” I mutter, righting myself. “Can you imagine getting smacked in the face by a book that’s heavier than I am? Instant death by literature.”

  One of the veiled librarians glides toward us, his movements unnervingly smooth, as if his feet don’t quite believe in friction.

  Without a word, he lowers his hood…

  …and time stutters.

  Not just for me.

  The air thickens. The shelves around us seem to lean in, listening.

  He’s stunning.

  Not just handsome, but unreasonable. The kind of beauty that doesn’t belong in a library or a battlefield but should be painted on cathedral ceilings or locked inside long-lost prophecies. His features are sculpted with ridiculous precision, the symmetry almost rude. And yet… softened by something older. Deeper.

  Sea-green eyes find mine. Not searching. Knowing.

  Serene.

  Certain.

  Like he’s reading the end of a story I haven’t caught up to yet.

  There’s power there, quiet and massive, like an ocean pretending to be still.

  His skin glows faintly, as if lit from within. Lashes far too long for fairness. And when he smiles…

  …well, it should be illegal.

  I don’t realize I’m staring until Eric clears his throat beside me, the sound sharp and not-so-subtle. Possessive, even.

  Seth extends a hand to Jamey, completely unfazed by the chaos in his wake.

  “I am Seth,” he says, voice smooth and low, like something a cello dreams of becoming. “The person you’re looking for.”

  Jamey, caught mid-snark, takes the hand awkwardly and jerks a thumb toward me.

  “This is Max. She’s the boss.”

  Seth’s gaze lands back on me. Still no reaction. Just that quiet certainty that burns hotter than any praise.

  I force a polite smile. “Hi. Max. Local apocalypse deterrent. Occasionally caffeinated.”

  His lips twitch, just a hint. Almost a smile. Almost holy.

  My Living Scripture stirs along my spine. Not violently. Not protectively.

  Reverently.

  For the first time in my life… it doesn’t flare. It bows.

  Seth turns, gesturing for us to follow, and we trail him through a narrow archway tucked between shifting shelves.

  I brace for ancient stone, maybe candlelight, and whispered Gregorian drama.

  What we step into instead is… a luxury retreat.

  Plush chairs. Cool air hums gently. Comfortable lighting. A room that belongs in the dreams of tired prophets.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Right. Holy archives, my foot.”

  I could stay here forever.

  Seth gestures for us to sit. We don’t hesitate. We give him a brief rundown about the boy, the message, and how it led us here.

  He listens without interrupting, then settles into a meditative posture. Eyes closed. Breathing steadily.

  When he speaks, his voice is low and reverent. He repeats the riddle like a sacred chant:

  “Find the one who knows it all… to show the one that needs it. Guide him to his place of birth… to uncover the Holy secret.”

  Then, his eyes snap open.

  But they’re no longer sea-green.

  They shimmer, woven through with silver, like silk strands of living energy.

  He locks eyes with me, and the ancient markings across my body ignite. The golden script flares to life, racing across my skin like wildfire. Living fire. Holy fire.

  The heat builds. My pulse stutters. My control fractures.

  Before I can cry out, Seth raises a single hand.

  No words. No force. Just one calm gesture…

  … and everything stops.

  The markings freeze mid-surge, suspended like they’ve been caught between breath and command.

  I stagger, breath caught in my throat. No one’s ever done that before.

  Then, something impossible happens.

  The golden writings lift from my skin, unraveling into the air like smoke. They twist, swirl, hover above us… and take shape.

  A map.

  Its symbols burn with sacred energy. A pulse ripples through the room like a heartbeat from the heavens.

  Seth exhales, calm but unshakable.

  “She has returned… and the breath remembers her.”

  He looks at me, not like I’m a warrior. Not even like I’m chosen.

  Like I’m known.

  Max may not understand yet… but her soul does.

  He is still watching… because it’s not him they were meant to fear.

  It’s what sent him.

  You’ve now met the man who changes everything.