The hollow echo of the door closing reverberated softly through the dark, empty house. Cor muttered under his breath, and a small, eldritch flame cast its sickly green light down the corridor in which they stood. To the left, stairs rose up and turned a corner, leading to the second floor. The Archivist press forward, taking no time to appreciate the intricate patterns of silver upon a blue background that decorated the walls. The Dwiilar, however, reach out his hand and touched the masterwork engravings. They were beautiful and, somehow, familiar.

He paused as a question taunted him from just beyond the edge of his mind.

“You good, Kryos?” Cor asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Fine,” he replied, letting his hand drop to his side.

He strode down the hallway and moved past his companion into the house’s bare common area. On the far side of the room, broad windows arched across the wall, darkened by the sturdy shutters on the outside. To the right, more corridors and rooms to be explored, and to the left, a large, yet modest, fireplace. The fine brick was devoid of fuel for the fire, just as the house seemed to be barest of the commodities of daily living. Good thing, then, that they were used to living among the dead.

Cor stooped by the hearthstones, fingers reaching out and tracing an elegant, circular seal into the dust within the fireplace. Kryos reached out and opened the flue just as the Cor finished. The runes within the seal began to glow, first green, and then quickly a molten red. Sparks began to spray from their surface, hissing and fizzing and spiraling together before blossoming into a energetic fire, floating a few inches above the stone. Warmth radiated outward and the gentle, flickering light cast their long shadows against the walls behind them. Kryos breathed deeply, letting his pack fall from his shoulders under his cloak to the ground.

“Nice. That’s a cool trick,” he said as he dropped to the floor before the fire. “Why didn’t you use this on the journey over?”

“Because it’s easier and less magic to hurl a fireball on dead wood,” Cor quipped. The Salvic man dropped to the floor as well, but rather than laying down, he leaned against the bricks next to the fire, the infernal tome locked between his body and the wall. “Elder Flame requires an immense amount of magic. As we’ll be here for a while, I figured that this would be more appropriate.” Reading the confusion evident on Kryos’ face, he smirked and added, “You’ll see.”

Kryos rolled his eyes as he adjusted his pack into a makeshift pillow. As he lay down, he wrapped the edges of his cloak around his body. His eyes glowed briefly for a moment as he rechecked the vicinity for any threats. Finding none, he finally allowed his body to begin to relax. His breathing deepened, heart slowed and muscles unwound. The soft whispers of dancing tongues of mage-fire mixed with the light tinkling of Cor’s chains. Rather, the Forgotten One’s chains. Kryos wondered what incredible power lay within the pages that Cor was bound to.

Despite the two years he had spent working with the Death Lord Maeril Thyrrian, he had learned almost nothing concerning the wretched existences that were known as the Archivists. No doubt it had been to Maeril’s design. He knew that while the grimoires held magics and knowledge that only Xem’Zund could fully utilize, they also held power available to others. That is certainly why the Maeril Thyrrian spent significant effort searching for any signs of surviving Archivists. The Death Lords, the generals of Xem’Zund, could access and read from the dark pages without being consumed by madness and death. If they could, then it was certainly reasonable to think that someone else could as well. Kryos held back a small chuckle as he thought of what the faces of the College Arcana would look like if they learned that an Archivist rested right under their noses.

Kryos glanced at his resting companion, although he realized that ‘companion’ wasn’t the most accurate. For they had an almost symbiotic relationship. He knew that Cor was keeping an eye on him. Two years of service be damned, Maeril wasn’t one to trust others. It was why he had survived when most of the other Dread Lords had fallen. Despite this, Kryos and Cor had the unspoken duty to protect each other, for if either of them were to be captured or killed, the other would face a punishment worse than death at Maeril’s hand.

After all, what is death, to a necromancer like Maeril?

Cor’s breathing deepened as he sunk into the embrace of sleep. As he did, the chains binding him to the huge tome slowly receded into the dark, violet folds of his robes, locking both Archive and Archivist together. Kryos wondered if those black chains had a will of their own, or if they were simply an extension of the Archive.

Curiosity concerning the relationship between book and ward pulled at his tired mind but he pushed them away. Maeril was right; such matters didn’t concern him. His job lay beyond the walls of this house in which they rested. What mattered to him was not a single person, or group, or even an army. Instead, what mattered to him was the entire physical city in which he now lay. This amazing, impossible city. Built with the fugitive souls of those who defied Xem’Zund at the conclusion to the Siege of Anebrilith. He had heard that, in a feat of magic that rivaled the breaking of the tap, a single wizard had replaced the ancient port with an entirely novel city. Perhaps the rumors had become exaggerated over the years since it happened, but regardless, the truth was that Anebrilith was no more.

Beinost.

The city of souls. The city where memories of the past slept within walls of stone.

Beinost.

The key to all of Maeril’s designs. The key that would enable the Forgotten One to achieve victory from beyond oblivion.

The key, to all that had been lost.

Kryos smiled as his sleepy eyes followed the beautiful, weaving patterns of silver on blue that filled the arched ceiling. He adjusted himself slightly, fingers lightly brushing the hilts of his weapons that lay next to him, wrapped in the shadowy confines of his cloak. His mind began to slide like the leaves of a ream of parchment placed upon a lectern–slowly at first, but then with increasing speed, his consciousness slipped into the forgetful embrace of slumber.