There was a room hidden beneath the sanctuary.
Not sealed with stone or spell, but with silence.
It didn't appear on any map. There were no scrolls, no tales, no whispered warnings about it.
And yet, Eleanor had always known it was there.
On the twelfth day after the anchor ritual, Eleanor awoke with a tremor running down her spine, not pain, not fear, but guidance.
She followed it into a hallway that hadn't existed the day before, a narrow corridor woven from old magic and fading memory. Each step echoed like it had already happened.
The staircase she descended was carved from something deeper than stone. It felt like unlit memories, moments that had never come to be. At the bottom was a door shaped not from wood or metal, but from her own shadow.
It opened without a sound.
And there it was:
The Archive of Unwritten Days.
The Shelves That Breathed
At first glance, it looked like a library. Shelves upon shelves stretching beyond sight.
But none of the books had titles.
