The library had secrets.
Irin felt it the moment they stepped back inside. Not just the strange murals or the ruined scrolls, but something underneath — beneath the floor, under the ash, under the silence.
A presence.
Not hostile. Not kind. Just… waiting.
He ran his hand along one of the stone columns. The mark on his wrist sparked faintly, reacting to something close by. Closer than it had ever been.
"This place isn't just a ruin," he murmured.
Lera glanced over from the corner, where she was carefully unrolling a half-burned scroll. "It's a grave," she said. "Everything here feels like it's been buried twice."
"No," Irin said quietly. "It feels like it's still alive. Buried... but breathing."
He moved to the center of the hall, where the ash was thickest. The symbol on the floor — the same broken circle marked on his wrist — wasn't just carved. It was fused into the stone, seared there with old power.
He knelt and brushed away the ash. A line of ancient runes shimmered beneath.
And then the floor shifted.
Not much. Just a tremor. But he felt it — something responding to his touch.
Lera stood quickly. "What did you do?"
"I think," Irin said, "I opened something."
With a slow grind, the marble split in the center, revealing a spiral staircase descending into shadow. Cold air drifted upward, thick with dust and the scent of forgotten magic.
They exchanged a glance. No words.
Only agreement.
They went down together.
The descent was steep and silent, the air growing colder with every step. The torch Irin conjured flickered oddly, as if the light didn't want to stay here.
After what felt like hours, they reached the bottom. The staircase opened into a chamber of black stone, untouched by time. The walls were smooth, the floor clean. The air was dry — not stale, but still.
Like time itself had stopped here.
At the far end stood a massive circular structure — part altar, part machine, part monument. It pulsed with a deep red light. Floating in its center, suspended by strands of runes, was a shard of crystal — not unlike the Ashstone… but fractured.
It spun slowly, humming.
"Irin…" Lera whispered. "What is this?"
He stepped closer. The mark on his wrist pulsed in time with the crystal.
"It's like… part of something," he said. "Or maybe... a memory."
As he neared the altar, the shard reacted.
A rush of wind. Runes flared to life across the walls.
And Irin fell.
Not in body — in mind.
The chamber vanished.
He stood in a field of black glass, under a sky made of shifting flame.
The ground was scorched, the trees burned to their roots. In the distance, a city crumbled — not the one they had entered, but another. Taller. Alive.
And at its heart, a tower of ash.
A figure stood atop it. Cloaked in shadow, crowned in fire.
Ashborn.
Irin staggered. He could feel the word echo through his ribs, like it came from inside him.
The figure turned.
It had no face. Only a mark glowing on its chest — the same broken circle.
But in its presence, Irin felt small.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was him. Or what he could become.
And then—
The vision snapped.
He gasped, dropping to one knee as the chamber came back into focus.
Lera grabbed his arm. "Are you okay?"
"I saw…" He didn't know how to explain it. "Another Ashborn. A city burning. A choice."
She looked pale, but focused. "There are records here — barely readable, but I saw names. One of them keeps repeating. A leader. A traitor."
"What name?"
She hesitated. "Sirat Nol."
The name was cold. Like a blade across skin.
"I think he was one of you," she added softly. "But… he gave something away. Or someone."
Irin stood slowly, heart pounding.
So it was true.
He wasn't the first.
And someone had destroyed the others.
They searched the chamber further. Old books, scrolls preserved in runic wards, fragments of armor fused with stone. Some pages glowed when touched by Irin's hand — as if remembering who had once written them.
One page stood out. Unlike the others, it was sealed in crystal, suspended midair.
Lera reached for it, but the crystal didn't move.
Irin tried.
The moment his fingers brushed the edge, the crystal split, revealing a simple piece of parchment.
On it — a warning.
When the Ash returns, the world must choose: consume or become. The fire cannot sleep forever. The fire becomes what we feed it.
He looked at Lera. "They knew this would happen again."
She nodded. "And someone tried very hard to bury it."
They returned to the surface before nightfall, carrying a handful of pages and a head full of ghosts.
As they stepped into the ruined city's light, Irin looked up at the broken skyline — towers shattered by time, archways cracked, the wind whispering through the bones of civilization.
But now, he didn't just feel watched.
He felt summoned.
Whatever was coming for him had a name now.
And it had already burned the world once before.