It wasn't a place most were allowed to see.
Ashur said as much the moment they reached the fork in the corridor, the one that led past the shrine cages and into the deeper storerooms. "This wing was closed after the Third Dissonance," he explained, running his fingers along the wall. "Most don't even remember the door exists. They walk right past it."
The boy saw it clearly.
A narrow seam in the stone, the width of a palm. When Ashur pressed his hand against it, something deep inside clicked. Not mechanically, conceptually. A permission unlocking in the world's memory.
The wall didn't swing open. It simply stopped being there.
Beyond it was silence.
Not the kind that came from stillness or reverence. A forced quiet. A room that had been bled of sound long ago and never forgiven for it. Even their footsteps felt wrong, muted like walking through wet ash.
Rows of stone plinths lined the chamber, each marked with faded spirals and twisted symbols. Upon each plinth sat a jar. Hundreds of them. Tall ones, short ones, sealed with wax or etched with sigils. Some glowed faintly. Others trembled. All were filled with sound, trapped like insects in amber.
"These are voices," Ashur said simply. "Echoes left behind when a person can no longer carry them."
The boy stepped closer to one. Inside the glass, a swirl of grey floated like breath underwater. A faint hum pressed against the walls, barely perceptible, like someone humming a lullaby they no longer remembered the words to.
"Why are they kept?" he asked.
Ashur didn't answer right away. He moved to one of the older jars, brushing dust from the lid with the edge of his robe. "Because sometimes, truth lives in sound long after it leaves the body. A vow. A scream. A name whispered only once."
"And you… keep them?" the boy asked.
Ashur looked at him carefully. "No. I listen to them. When necessary. But not all truths want to be heard. Some burn their way out."
He turned.
"You're not here to study. I need you to find something."
"What?"
"You'll know."
Ashur walked away, vanishing between the rows of jars.
The boy stood there a long time, unsure of what it meant to search a room full of voices for something you'd know without knowing. He moved slowly, letting instinct guide him. One jar flickered blue. Another rattled when he got too close. But none pulled at him.
Until he saw it.
Tucked near the back, sitting atop a cracked stone shelf, was a jar that looked no different from the others. But when he looked at it, really looked, he saw himself.
Not his reflection.
Not a memory.
But him, inside.
Just for a second.
Then it vanished.
He reached forward.
The moment his fingers brushed the glass, the jar shattered.
No warning. No force. Just a clean, silent break.
And then—
Noise.
Memory.
A rush of thought so intense it knocked him backward.
He was running.
Not himself.
Someone older. Taller.
Running through a narrow alley of red stone. Heavy breathing. Blood on his arm. A name being called, over and over.
"Tavrin. Tavrin. Come back—"
He turned.
A girl. Blonde. Crying.
He ran faster.
Then, darkness.
The memory ended.
The boy gasped on the cold floor of the vault. Shards of glass pricked his hand. The spiral mark on his shoulder burned.
He wasn't Tavrin.
But he knew that girl.
Or thought he did.
The name stung in his throat.
Ashur returned moments later, eyes widening when he saw the shattered jar.
"I didn't mean to," the boy said quickly.
Ashur crouched, examining the fragments.
"Who was it?" he asked.
"I don't know," the boy whispered. "But I think I left someone behind."
Ashur nodded slowly. "You always do, eventually."
The boy stood, still shaking. "That wasn't my memory."
"It is now," Ashur said. "The Hole doesn't care who the truth belonged to first."
They left the chamber in silence.
The next morning, the boy woke with a name in his mouth that didn't belong to him.
And couldn't make himself spit it out.