Chapter 1:
The bell above the door jingled. But no one entered.
Elian Vale didn't flinch anymore when it rang. Sometimes it was the wind. Sometimes it was nothing. Lately, the empty shop liked pretending it still had life.
He sat cross-legged behind the counter of Vale & Sons Books and Relics, polishing the edge of an old brass candlestick with a frayed cloth. The room smelled of aging parchment, lemon oil, and the kind of silence that felt too still—like something was waiting to be remembered.
Elian had spent most of his sixteen years in this store, and the last two managing it alone. His grandfather was gone. No body. No phone call. Just a letter left under the counter, like it had been there for days before he found it:
"Keep the books alive. That's all that matters." —E. Vale
Elian memorized that line long before he understood it. At first, he thought it meant organizing shelves or logging titles. But the older he got, the more he realized—half the books in this store didn't exist in any catalog. Some had no authors, no publication dates. Some even changed their titles when you weren't looking.
And then there was the attic.
He hadn't planned on going up there today. But one of the store's ceiling lamps had flickered out, and the spare bulbs were stored in a battered wooden crate upstairs. With the power acting strange and rainclouds darkening the windows, Elian figured he might as well take care of it now before it got darker.
He climbed the ladder, flashlight in hand, and pushed open the creaking attic door. He hadn't been up here in months. Maybe longer.
The air was dry and heavy, like breathing through parchment. Dust clung to everything—lanterns, shelves, old signs from decades past. It was a quiet graveyard of forgotten things.
He stepped carefully between boxes, searching for the crate marked "STORAGE – LIGHTING." As he crouched near the back wall, something caught his eye.
A book sat upright in the center of the room. Alone. Waiting.
It was thick, wrapped in green leather, unmarked by title or symbol. Cobwebs covered everything else, but the book looked like it had been placed there minutes ago.
He knelt beside it, heart thudding. The moment his fingers brushed the cover, something inside him flinched—not from pain, but from recognition.
It was cold, like winter stone. The kind of cold that carried meaning.
Slowly, he opened it.
On the first page, in pale brown ink:
To the last Vale who still believes in stories. —A. Vale
His breath caught in his throat.
Not E. Vale—his grandfather's name.
A. Vale. A name he didn't recognize, but one that echoed. Somewhere deep in the vault of his blood.
He flipped the next page.
Nothing.
Then the next. Still blank.
Another. Empty.
He was about to close the book when the attic dimmed around him—not by shadow, but by silence. The kind of silence that swells before something happens. Even the floating dust stilled midair. Elian felt the pressure in his ears shift, like the world had inhaled and held its breath.
The pages rippled.
One by one, ink began to bleed up from the bottom margins—not in straight lines, but in curling, glowing script. They danced and shimmered like language trying to form itself. They didn't settle into any alphabet he knew.
He stumbled back.
Then came the whisper.
"Is it finally time?"
The voice was soft—not in his ears, but behind them. Like a thought that wasn't his.
He dropped the book. It hit the wooden floor with a hollow thud, yet the pages didn't stop glowing. Instead, light poured upward from its spine. Thin ribbons of golden script coiled into the air and wove themselves into shape—a small figure, no taller than his hand, hovering just above the book.
She had wings of parchment and hair like dripping ink. Her eyes were made of candlelight. Floating midair, she looked fragile—yet impossibly ancient.
Elian blinked.
"What—"
"You're not the one I remember."
She tilted her head. Her voice was both young and ageless, like someone who had read too much and forgotten what silence was.
"You are not Elias Vale."
"He's... gone," Elian said, unsure if he was dreaming. "He was my grandfather."
The girl's glow dimmed for a moment. Then she hovered forward, staring directly into his eyes.
"Then that explains the echo. I once met Elias, years ago. He was not my contractor, but he protected books like yours. He kept many of us hidden, safe. We knew each other—briefly."
Elian's breath hitched. "You knew him?"
"Only in passing," Lyra said softly. "I am not of his line. I was born from a book written long before his time—by one of your oldest ancestors. A. Vale."
She drifted closer.
"You carry his blood. That's why I can speak to you."
"What are you?"
"I am an Inkborn," she said. "My name is Lyra. I was born from a book your ancestor wrote nearly two centuries ago. I have waited in silence. And now... something terrible is happening again."
Elian sat slowly on the floor.
Inkborn.
A fairy born from a book.
He wanted to laugh, but somehow, it all felt right—like a dream he hadn't remembered dreaming.
"Why now? Why me?"
"Because a Devourer has awakened. One that should not exist. A book was consumed. Its memory... gone."
"Gone?"
"Not burned. Not banned. Not forgotten. Gone."
She floated gently, her glow warming.
"I sensed the erasure. One moment it was there—a story beloved by thousands. The next, even its name had vanished. Only those bonded to books can feel such loss."
Elian swallowed hard. "And you want me to stop it?"
"You may be the only one who can. But I won't force the bond."
He hesitated. "You said... a contract?"
"Yes," Lyra replied gently. "A pact between you and the book. To awaken the power sealed within me, you must write your name at the back of the book and mark it with your blood. That is how the bond is sealed—and how I know you are of the Vale line."
Elian looked at the book again. The silence of the attic seemed deeper now. Heavy.
He thought of the letter his grandfather left. Of how the store felt wrong without him. Of how half the books on the shelves whispered when no one was near.
A part of him wanted to walk away. Pretend this was a dream.
But another part—the part that had grown up believing books were more than just paper—leaned forward.
"Alright," he said. "I'll do it. Not because I understand all of this... but because I feel like I should. And if there's even a chance my blood still carries something worth remembering—then I'll trust it."
With trembling fingers, he took the pen tucked behind his ear and turned to the inside of the back cover. He wrote his full name.
Elian Vale.
Then, with a pin taken from the nearby crate, he pricked the tip of his finger. A single drop fell, staining the paper red.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the ink glowed.
The letters of his name shimmered gold. His blood darkened, then vanished into the page.
Lyra's eyes widened. "You are worthy. The line remains unbroken."
A warm wind swirled through the attic. The book pulsed beneath his palm. Ink curled up his arm like a living ribbon.
Lyra smiled.
"Elian Vale... the Library has found you."