The days that followed were strangely calm.
The Covenant riders who had come with Kethra didn't return to their keep immediately. Instead, they set up camp just beyond sight of Eren's. No hostilities. No threats. Just… presence.
Elira didn't trust it.
"Silence after contact is still a weapon," she said. "They're testing how long we hold our ground."
Syra disagreed.
"No. This is observation. They've shifted from judgment to recording."
Eren stood between them both, gaze fixed on the treeline where the Covenant banners fluttered. The firelight from his own camp flickered against his back.
"Then let them write."
He wasn't afraid of being observed anymore.
He welcomed it.
That night, the camp was quiet not from fear, but from reflection. The people who followed him were not bound by duty or allegiance. They weren't soldiers or zealots. They were witnesses. Some scribbled journals by firelight. Others carved names into stones. One of the swordhands began teaching the younger ones how to parry properly.
Elira approached Eren as he sat sharpening Akreth.
"You're changing," she said.
He didn't stop working.
"I was always changing."
"No," she corrected. "You're letting it show."
He looked up.
"And that worries you?"
"It humbles me," she said simply.
By dawn, a messenger arrived from the Covenant camp.
A boy. Maybe thirteen. Too young to be a soldier. He wore no armor, just a grey tunic marked with the rune of record.
He didn't bow. Didn't hesitate.
He handed Eren a scroll.
Eren read it in silence.
Syra leaned close.
"What is it?"
He handed it to her.
"It's an invitation."
"To what?"
"To the Archive."
The Ninth Archive was not a fortress.
It was a wound carved into a mountainside part temple, part vault, part grave.
They arrived at its gates two days later. Only Eren, Elira, and Syra were permitted to enter. The others waited in the valley below.
Massive silver doors opened without touch.
Inside, the air shimmered with stillness. Words hung in the air like dust motes echoes of voices long past. The halls were carved with timelines etched in reverse, from death to birth, each marked with the names of those who had shaped the fate of flame.
Eren's name had already been carved.
He stopped in front of it.
"Too soon," he muttered.
A voice responded.
"No. Timely."
Kethra descended from the upper gallery, her robe trailing behind her like parchment caught in wind.
"You are the first bearer to return here alive."
Eren turned to face her.
"That's not a title I asked for."
"No one asks for titles," she replied. "Only remembrance."
She gestured for them to follow.
The inner chamber of the archive was a perfect circle.
At its center: a pool of still water.
Above it: nothing.
No ceiling. No stars. Just blank, endless dark.
Kethra spoke again.
"This is the Room of Echoes. Speak here, and your words live forever."
Eren stepped forward.
"Is that a threat?"
"It is truth," she said.
He looked down into the water.
Saw nothing.
Then his reflection shimmered and changed.
Not his face. Not his clothes.
But his flame.
It blazed, silver and steady. No longer wild. No longer fractured.
Just... his.
Eren spoke.
"Let this be my record."
The words hung in the air, luminous.
"I did not seek this blade. It found me. I did not want war. But silence made it. I did not rise to become fire. I rose to stop forgetting."
He turned to Elira. Then to Syra.
"To those who follow me, remember: I am not your savior. I am not your weapon. I am not your ruler."
Then back to the pool.
"I am the first flame to remember itself. And I will not burn alone."
The words etched themselves into the walls.
Kethra nodded.
"The Archive accepts."
Syra stepped beside Eren.
"What happens now?"
Kethra gave her a quiet smile.
"Now... others begin to speak."
Outside, the wind shifted.
Across the valley, more torches lit.
Not from Covenant hands.
From people.
Messengers. Nomads. Lost sword-bearers. Children of the Seers. Traders who remembered the fire.
They came not because they were summoned.
But because they had heard.
The first voice had been raised.
And now, a chorus stirred.