Chapter 17 · The Heart in the Ink

"Stop looking at me like I'm a ghost, Riven. I'm the only real thing in this room."

Soren’s voice didn't come from a throat. It bled out of a black, viscous mass that had just finished molding itself into a twisted mirror of the archivist. No eyes. Just two hollow pits of ink weeping down its cheeks. It stepped toward Riven with a predatory grace that made the skin on my arms crawl.

I scrambled back, heels skidding on the cold stone. "Get away from him!"

Soren—or whatever this memory-leech was—didn't even glance at me. His focus was locked on Riven. Riven was shaking, breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. He had one hand clamped over his chest, right where the contract mark burned through his shirt. He looked shattered. Not just broken—like someone had reached inside his head and snapped every single string holding him together.

"Remember the smell of ozone?" the ink-thing whispered. The sound was like wet paper tearing. "The way the Council’s spellbreakers pinned you down. The way you screamed when they peeled the first year away. Then the second. Then the decade."

"Shut up," Riven croaked. He tried to stand. His knees buckled.