We take the safer fork—if a place riddled with glowing mould can qualify—descending into the phosphor-moss ravine at what passes for dusk-ink hour.
Light here isn't light, it's spore-dust caught mid-glimmer, coating every ledge like frost. The moss radiates cold jade luminescence that ebbs when stepped on, brightens when ignored, as if demanding respect.
Wind prowls the gulch, lazy and low, ferrying the tang of rain-soaked paper and metallic ozone. Somewhere farther in, a chorus of croaks answers the breeze—echoey baritones that slur into one another until you swear the canyon itself is clearing its throat.
Prism leads, boots crunching chalky shale, violet eyes scanning overhead crevices. Each blink leaves faint after-images in the moss glow; fatigue is sketching her edges thinner.
I try my best to match her cadence.
'How much further to this shelter?'
'Half-watch, maybe two.' She taps her wrist chrono, which shows no hands, only concentric rings drifting like clockwork planets. 'Hard to gauge when time's a rumour.'
We walk.
Tick-tick-hitch.
My chest gear stutters, resets. With every pulse, the brands along my forearms pulse ember-red then settle to dull garnet, like coals buried in ash. Hunger nags but doesn't bark—last broth purchase still paying dividends.
The ravine narrows, walls climbing sheer—strata of parchment and obsidian pressed into wavering lines like someone ruled a notebook while drunk. Moss gutters between layers, dribbling cold green tears that evaporate mid-air.
Above, blot-toad croaks pitch into higher registers. Prism flinches.
'Echoes carry wrong down here,' she mutters. 'Sound bounces till it forgets where it started.'
'Would love if danger did the same.'
She snorts—a small concession to camaraderie.
Minutes blur. Occasionally, we pass abandoned way-markers: origami cranes pinned to spikes, their wings annotated with names already half-erased by damp. Weight of Ink eating memorials.
Then the smell shifts—smoke, spiced stew, singed copper wire. Prism raises a fist. We crouch behind a bulge of rock.
Ahead, the ravine widens into an amphitheatre bowl. Lanterns of bottled lightning hang from cables strung between stalagmite pillars, casting pale arcs over a ramshackle camp.
Tents sewn from vellum scraps stud the ground like mushroom caps. Between them move figures—some human aspirants, grey-named RAW or IRON; others… illusions? Citizens, maybe, but rendered in stuttering frames, faces glitching into calligraphy masks before resolving again. They carry baskets, pass water-skins, laugh at jokes I can't hear.
Prism exhales. 'Outpost Twelve. Didn't think it would manifest this cycle.'
'Safe?'
'Safe-ish. Guardian signature weak here, but Zone Accord still applies: no hostile Marks inside perimeter. Illusions anchor morale.'
'Anchor or bait?'
She shrugs. 'Same thing when you're desperate.'
We descend.
Camp sentry greets us—an IRON aspirant wearing a breastplate etched with tally marks. His Mark shimmer forms a hooked chain coiled round his wrist: a cousin to Crag's design, maybe distant clan. He raises palm, scanning our sigils.
'Names?'
'Prism.'
'Inkless.'
He gestures us through. 'No scratching, no flaming, no corrupt glyphwork. Curfew one bell into dark-ink. Latrines east trench. Expedition muster at dawn-greyline.'
I catch that last bit. 'Expedition?'
'Briefing soon.' He's already looking past us for new arrivals. Conversation closed.
Inside perimeter, the ravine floor has been levelled with packed parchment shale. Fire pits ringed by quill-stalks burn slate-blue flame that gives heat but no smoke. Stew cauldrons bubble on tripods whose legs are repurposed Scribe staves—insignia scratched off.
Illusionary townsfolk wander among tents, offering cups, blankets, bits of gossip. Their voices buzz like old gramophones; the syllables loop every few sentences. One in a baker's apron presses a roll into my hand. When I bite, taste floods real: honey, sesame, childhood. The roll crumbles to ash the moment flavour fades—illusion sustained only long enough to remind teeth of bread.
I wipe crumbs. Prism watches the illusions with something like longing.
'They're memory constructs,' she explains. 'Pulled from collective nostalgia of nearby aspirants. Cheap comfort, but comfort.'
'Realm throwing crumbs to keep us obedient.'
'Obedient enough to stick around for Trial, yes.'
She steers toward a central fire where half-a-dozen aspirants sit on crates. Two recognise Prism, wave. She introduces them in quick strokes.
—Talus: RAW, medic background, brass spectacles cracked at corner.
—Lint: IRON scout, twin daggers flicker in and out of existence around her hips—a Mark of micro-teleport anchors.
—Wardley & Sykes: paired RAW siblings sharing one Mark ribbon between wrists—symbiotic ability unknown.
They nod at me, polite but reserved—the way soldiers greet fresh conscripts.
Talus ladles stew into ceramic cups. I sip; broth tastes of pepper, marrow, and something sweetly chemical, like candy boiled wrong. It calms stomach nonetheless.
Conversation hums around the fire. Topic: the expedition. Prism tucks hair behind ear, leans closer.
Talus sets cup aside. 'Scout parties spotted a Bastion-class cipherbeast three klicks north-north-west. Classified "Archivore".'
'Archivore?' I ask.
Lint flicks a dagger into flame then catches it without burn. 'Imagine a library rat with the appetite of a plague year. Eats written matter, regurgitates warped copies—turns territory to static. Nasty if it nests near Seed Narrative.'
Wardley, the elder twin, adds, 'Payoff's good though. Its core gemstone holds compressed script. Some obsidian-rank hunters pay fortunes.'
Sykes grins. 'And Outpost Twelve wants to retire in bronze at least.'
Talus sighs. 'Expedition leaves two dark-inks from now. Volunteers needed: extraction team, distraction wing, containment netters.' He eyes Prism. 'Your phasing Mark could flank.'
Prism's smile is taut. 'Maybe.'
They turn to me. Hope edges Talus's voice. 'Null-type erasure would neuter Archivore defences.'
I swallow. My arms tingle as if brands eavesdrop. Null Scratch might indeed nullify beast plating—if I don't black out first.
'Still learning throttle,' I admit.
Lint shrugs. 'Plenty of RAWs run logistics. Ferry supplies manage illusions. Fewer risks, but still share bounty.'
Prism elbows me gently. 'Think on it. Expedition might buy strokes enough to eat without auctioning childhood memories.'
We drop the subject.
⊹˚₊‧──────────────────── ＿〆(..)ˎˊ˗
Hours slip. Camp chores rotate. I help Wardley stoke the flame with parchment logs that don't burn down but fold inward like collapsing paragraphs. Prism inspects my brands, prodding gently.
'Heat's steady,' she notes. 'Inkquake spike lowered. Good sign.'
'Means Ledger's giving me a grace period?'
'Means you haven't lied in the last cycle.' She arches her brow. 'Let's keep that streak alive.'
Across camp, a child's illusion laughs—the sound of bells in rain. It chases a paper kite that never dips, looping figure-eights overhead. Aspirants stop to watch, smile small and hungry.
Threat level hides beneath gentleness. The ravine croaks echo deeper now, closer. Prism stiffens.
'Hear that?'
I listen. Croaks overlap, forming near-human syllables. The wall behind us glimmers—moss dims as shadow mass creeps along stone: blot-toad scouts, smaller than ridge sentinel but enough to ruin dinner.
Camp alarm chimes—three crystalline clacks. Sentries brandish Marks: chains, grapnels, lightning arcs. Illusions scatter, de-res.
A blot-toad lurches into the lantern circle, mouth unhinging into the speaker cone. It belches sonic pulse—words blurred—campfires shudder sideways.
I dart under its jaws, palm sparking Null Scratch just long enough to erase the incoming sonic ring. It fizzles mid-air. Hunger flares but is bearable. Sentries pounce, chains binding limbs. The beast thrashes, vomiting garbled pages that ignite on moss.
Lint back-stabs with twin daggers that flick in and out, severing whatever passes for spine. The toad collapses into a puddle of bubbling ink. Talus salts it with powder; ink crusts over. The threat ended.
Camp exhales. My gut groans—erasure tax due. Prism presses a sustenance wafer into my palm. 'Eat before you faceplant.'
I chew cardboard-cinnamon, gag, swallow.
Talus claps me on the shoulder. 'See? Archivore gig will need that trick. Think about it, Inkless. We sort soon after dark-ink.'
'How soon?'
'Two cycles. Ledger willing.'
Prism and I retreat to a tent offered by Wardley—vellum walls rune-stitched for privacy. She lights a single rune crystal; it glows amber, projecting faint warmth.
She sits cross-legged, begins sharpening a pen-shaped dirk. Ink dust falls, disappears into the floor.
'You're tempted,' she says without looking up.
'Bounty could buy strokes, maybe answer what Null Scratch costs to upgrade. But Archivore—unknown tier, risk off charts.'
'Everything here is off the charts.' She finally meets my gaze. 'But choose slow. Safe paths end at the same cliff; they just take longer.'
I stretch, feeling my vertebrae crackle. 'What's your aim, Prism?'
She considers. 'To remember my real name without dying. Archivore cores hold meta-data—they say one spark can rebuild memories devoured by the Realm.'
Ah. Motivation laid bare. 'Then I'm in.'
Surprise flickers, quickly masked by a practical nod. 'We'll file together at briefing.'
Silence drapes the tent. She returns to sharpening. I lay back on a bedroll stuffed with shredded scrolls, staring through vellum roof at constellations—tonight shaped into a staircase spiralling into the dark, step after step of glowing script.
Tick-tick-tick.
Eighth beat, hitch, resync.
The lull should calm, yet dread trickles under calm like groundwater. Trial threshold at seventy-whatever percent; blot-toads screaming syllables we'd rather not parse; an Archivore hunger-printing our doom if we fail.
Prism blows dust from the blade, extinguishes crystal.
Night in the ravine is never silent. Moss pulse rhythms under our breathing, and somewhere past the lantern perimeter, another croak begins to mutter—this time syllables too crisp:
—i n k l e s s—
I clench fists, brands simmering.
Lie? Truth? Or the Realm rehearsing my epithet in the dark?
⊹˚₊‧──────────────────── ＿〆(..)ˎˊ˗
Dawn-greyline—if the shift in moss hue counts—our tent flap rustles. Lint pokes head in.
'Briefing in ten. Bring nerves.'
She's gone.
Prism straps gear. I tuck blank card from Mirror Lake into jacket sleeve—reminder of debt noted. We step into crisp air, camp bustles around a chalkboard erected near stew pit. Talus stands before it, pointer rod already tapping.
On the board: a charcoal sketch of a serpentine beast coiled round stacks of books—mouth a shredding maw, eyes gummed shut with wax seals. Above it, expedition roster in shaky script—eleven names so far. Twelfth line blank.
Talus sights us. 'Fill?'
Prism chalks her alias. I chalk mine under. The board swallows ink, glows acknowledgement.
Lint grins wicked. 'All right then, Null Rat and Prism. Let's go catch a story that eats stories.'