Unnamed, page 7
Who are they?
Who am I to them?
A sharp pain tore through his head without warning, far more vicious than the physical agony numbing the rest of his body. It felt as though something inside his mind was being pulled in opposite directions—memories pressing forward, restraints dragging them back down.
His weak hand twitched.
Slowly—painfully—his fingers curled inward, forming a trembling fist as if instinctively grasping for something solid. The chains answered with a faint hum, a reminder that his body was still theirs.
Still trapped.
Still claimed.
The pain in his limbs dulled into a distant roar, but the pain in his head only intensified—white-hot, relentless, invasive. It pressed behind his eyes, at his temples, deep in places no blade or light should ever reach.
He clenched his eyes shut tighter.
As if that could keep the memories from tearing through.
As if that could stop whatever was waking up inside him.
With the last fragments of strength he had left—strength so thin it felt imaginary—Kreyn reached inward.
Not outward.
Not toward Heaven.
Toward the one presence that had not abandoned him.
Caelum.
His lips did not move.
His lungs could not shape words.
So he screamed in the only place still capable of sound.
Caelum, if you can hear me… please hear me.
The thought fractured, rebuilt itself, pushed forward again.
I don’t know where you are… I don’t know if this will reach you…
His vision darkened further, consciousness slipping like sand through open fingers.
But he forced the thought one last time.
I think… I think my name is…
The pain surged violently, as if the name itself resisted being remembered.
Ardwino.
The moment the name formed fully in his mind, something inside him gave way.
His grip loosened.
His thoughts scattered.
And Kreyn lost consciousness once more—his body hanging silent and broken on Heaven’s Platform, while a name Heaven had tried to bury echoed faintly, stubbornly, in the depths of his soul.
Chapter 9. The Connection
Caelum stepped fully into the Secret Archive—and the door ceased to exist behind him.
There was no sound.
No closing echo.
No sense of being sealed in.
The Greater Archive simply… stopped being there.
He stood still for a long moment, allowing his senses to adjust, his wings held close, his breathing controlled.
So this is what it looks like.
The thought formed quietly, reverently.
The Secret Archive was nothing like the Greater Archive above.
There were no towering columns of blinding light. No endless, pristine halls stretching beyond sight. No sense of spectacle, no intention to overwhelm.
Instead—
The light here was dim, but not oppressive. Soft. Focused. As if designed not to impress, but to invite. It was just bright enough to read by, just dim enough to hide in shadow. The kind of illumination meant for secrets, not proclamations.
This place felt… intimate.
Personal.
Almost uncomfortable in how close it felt, as though the knowledge stored here preferred to be whispered rather than announced.
The air was still. Not stale—but heavy with age. The kind of stillness that came from centuries of undisturbed presence. Dust did not coat the surfaces, yet nothing here felt new.
Shelves lined the walls—dozens of them—but not endless. Drawers were embedded into stone, stacked with deliberate care. Scroll cases rested in orderly rows. Books of varying sizes and bindings filled every available space, their spines marked not with titles, but with symbols, dates, and seals only a few would understand.
This was not an archive meant to be searched casually.
It was meant to be known.
Caelum moved slowly.
Deliberately.
Every step was careful—not from fear, but from awareness. He did not want to miss anything. Not a marking. Not a misplaced drawer. Not a pattern hidden beneath intentional order.
He reached the nearest shelf and removed the first book.
The binding was heavy, worn smooth by time rather than use. When he opened it, the pages responded immediately, as if recognizing his presence.
Records.
Transactions.
Formal agreements.
His eyes scanned quickly, trained to extract meaning without lingering.
Confidential dealings between Heaven’s internal divisions. Resource allocations. Sealed authorizations. Strategic decisions made in times of instability.
Important.
Sensitive.
But not this.
He closed the book and returned it to its place.
Another book.
Then another.
Scroll after scroll.
He worked methodically, not randomly—checking dates, seals, handwriting styles. Looking for anomalies. Looking for deviations. Looking for anything that felt out of place.
Nothing.
Every document was precise. Clean. Controlled.
Too controlled.
Minutes passed.
Then longer.
His jaw tightened.
This isn’t it.
He paused, fingers resting against the edge of a shelf, and forced himself to stop moving.
This won’t work, he thought. Not like this.
There were too many records—even here. Fewer than the Greater Archive, yes, but still far too many to comb through line by line. And time—precious, fragile time—was slipping away.
Kreyn doesn’t have this kind of time.
The thought cut sharply through his composure.
He exhaled slowly, then closed his eyes.
Think.
Not as Caelum.
Not as an angel.
Not as someone granted access.
But as them.
As the ones who buried truths so deeply they believed them forgotten.
If I were hiding something that could destroy Heaven…
The thought formed carefully.
Would I lock it behind layers of obvious protection? Or would I hide it in plain sight—so ordinary, so unremarkable, that no one would think to question it?
He opened his eyes.
His gaze shifted—not toward the most sealed drawers, not toward the darkest corners.
But toward the most visible section of the archive.
The shelves that looked… mundane.
Records without heavy markings. Books that blended in. Scrolls placed where the eye naturally skimmed past them.
Sometimes the safest place to hide a secret, he thought grimly, is where no one believes a secret would ever be.
His fingers tightened slightly.
You don’t hide a lie by burying it too deep.
You hide it by making it look like truth.
Caelum straightened, resolve sharpening.
He changed his approach—not searching for what was hidden, but for what was too normal.
Too acceptable.
Too unquestioned.
And with that shift in perspective, the Secret Archive seemed to… respond.
Not with light.
Not with sound.
But with silence that suddenly felt intentional.
As if it had been waiting for him to think the right way.
Caelum moved deeper into the Secret Archive, his footsteps slow, measured, echoing softly against stone that had not felt urgency in centuries.
He reached for another volume.
Then another.
Then a scroll.
Nothing.
No disruption in the records. No anomaly in tone. No fracture in language. Everything he read was important—undeniably so—but not this. Not the truth Kreyn was bleeding for. Not the truth hidden deep enough to justify chains forged with both light and something darker.
His fingers tightened around the spine of a book before he returned it to the shelf.
Still nothing.
He walked farther in, letting the shelves guide him like a labyrinth of deliberate order. Drawer after drawer slid open beneath his touch. Scroll cases unlocked themselves only to reveal more carefully curated silence.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Frustration crept in—not as anger, but as something far more dangerous.
Uselessness.
Kreyn is hanging there, his mind whispered, sharper now. Broken. Chained. Enduring what Heaven calls justice.
Caelum stopped walking.
Kreyn did his part.
The thought landed hard.
Kreyn had walked into captivity knowingly. Had allowed himself to be tortured under the certainty that Caelum would succeed. Had trusted him with a faith that now felt unbearably heavy.
And Caelum—
He had access.
He had authority.
He had the key.
And still he had nothing.
His jaw clenched.
For the first time since entering the Secret Archive, his composure cracked—just slightly. His shoulders tensed. His breath hitched, shallow and sharp, before he forced himself to stop.
No.
He closed his eyes.
Not in defeat.
In refusal.
He drew in a deep breath—slow, deliberate—forcing the frustration back down where it belonged. Letting it burn into resolve instead of panic.
“No,” he said quietly to himself, his voice steady despite the storm beneath it. “I cannot stop.”
Another breath.
“I will not stop.”
His hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.
“I will get what I came here for.”
He opened his eyes.
And continued.
He searched differently now—not with desperation, but with patience sharpened by purpose. He let his fingers trail along spines without pulling them free. Let his eyes skim symbols rather than words. Let his instincts guide him where logic had failed.
Time blurred.
Then—
Something shifted.
Caelum faltered mid-step.
The floor did not move.
The shelves did not change.
But he did.
The world tilted violently.
Weight vanished from his limbs as if gravity had forgotten him. His head spun sharply, vision blurring, the dim light smearing into pale streaks.
He staggered forward, boots scraping against stone as he tried to steady himself.
W–what’s going on?
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Then—
A voice.
Not heard.
Felt.
“Caelum… if you can hear me… please hear me…”
His breath left him in a sharp gasp.
He staggered again, balance completely gone now. His knees buckled, and he fell backward, landing hard in a sitting position against the base of a shelf. Pain flared briefly in his back—but it barely registered.
Because his mind was screaming.
That voice—
The voice came again, fragmented, strained, carried on desperation rather than sound.
“I don’t know where you are… I don’t know if this will reach you…”
Caelum’s hands pressed flat against the floor as he struggled to steady himself.
No…
His head snapped up violently, eyes flying toward the entrance of the Secret Archive—as if Kreyn might somehow be standing there, bloodied and broken, reaching out across impossible distance.
Kreyn.
The realization struck with such force it stole his breath.
It’s him.
The voice did not come through his ears.
It rose inside him.
Through whatever bond had been forged by trust, sacrifice, and shared defiance.
Then the voice came again—weaker now, fading, as if the effort itself was tearing something apart.
“I think… I think my name is…”
Caelum’s heart clenched painfully.
No…
The pause stretched, unbearable.
Then—
“Ardwino.”
The name detonated through him.
Caelum froze.
The archive seemed to fall utterly silent—as if even the ancient knowledge surrounding him was listening.
His lips moved before he realized he was speaking.
“Ardwino…”
The word felt right in his mouth.
Familiar.
Heavy.
Alive.
Caelum’s breathing turned uneven as realization crashed into place.
That’s not a hallucination, he thought fiercely. That’s not torture-induced delusion.
That was memory.
Truth.
A name buried so deeply that even Heaven believed it erased.
And Kreyn—no, Ardwino—had just reached across realms, chains, and suppression to give it back to him.
Caelum pushed himself up from the floor, resolve burning white-hot in his chest.
I hear you, he thought, gripping the edge of a shelf hard enough to crack the stone beneath his fingers. I hear you.
And now—
Now he knew exactly what he was looking for.
Caelum forced himself forward.
His legs felt unsteady at first, as if the floor beneath him had subtly shifted—not physically, but in the way reality sometimes did after truth revealed itself too abruptly. He took one step, then another, his balance wavering before discipline reasserted control. His breathing slowed. His posture straightened.
He could not afford weakness.
Not now.
How… he thought, the question spiralling even as he moved, how did Kreyn manage to reach me?
The Secret Archive remained silent around him, shelves standing in mute witness as his mind raced far faster than his feet. His hand brushed against the spines of books without truly seeing them.
Even if this is a hallucination, he reasoned grimly, even if it’s nothing more than my mind breaking under pressure—
His jaw set.
—then I will still search for anything connected to that name.
Ardwino.
The name echoed again, heavier now, no longer just a sound but a direction.
Does Kreyn connect to me… and me to him?
Or has he always been something else entirely, and I’m only now brushing against it?
Caelum slowed, his thoughts tightening into sharper lines.
How did we get connected?
The answer—or possibilities—rose unbidden, one after another, each more dangerous than the last.
The forbidden ritual.
His steps halted.
The memory surfaced vividly: the Abyss, the ancient shackles, the seal interwoven with both Heaven’s light and Hell’s darkness. The moment he had made the decision—the moment he had chosen defiance over obedience.
Is it because of the ritual I performed to break his shackles in the Abyss?
His pulse quickened.
I didn’t just break them, he reminded himself. I absorbed the power. Redirected it.
He had taken in both forces—light and dark—balanced them within himself long enough to undo what was never meant to be undone.
Did that create a connection?
The thought chilled him.
When I was injured after the ritual…
His mind drifted unwillingly back to that moment—his body torn, consciousness slipping, reality dissolving.
I dreamed.
The same place.
White beyond Heaven. Silent beyond Hell.
Not Heaven. Not Hell, he thought slowly. But something else.
A realm that felt older than both. A place untouched by judgment, untouched by war.
I dreamed of gates closing. The ground collapsing. I was running.
His breath caught.
Exactly the same as Kreyn.
No—
Exactly the same as Ardwino.
The difference struck him then, sharp and unmistakable.
Kreyn’s dream had more detail, he realized. More familiarity.
As if that place remembered him.
As if it belonged to him.
Is that his real home?
No… Ardwino’s real home.
The thought sent a shiver through Caelum’s entire being.
If that place is real… and if we both saw it…
His steps resumed, slower now, more deliberate.
Then the ritual didn’t just break shackles.
It bridged something.
A connection.
Not forged by spell alone, but by shared exposure to a power Heaven and Hell were never meant to combine.
If that’s true, Caelum thought, heart pounding, then we aren’t just allies.
We’re linked.
His thoughts sharpened into urgency.
If he reached me once… then it wasn’t coincidence.
If he spoke to me through thought… then this connection works both ways.
Caelum stopped walking.
He turned inward.
If Kreyn—no, Ardwino—was able to send me that message… then he must have been awake.
The memory of the voice returned, raw and strained.
He was struggling.
Caelum’s hand clenched at his side.
Is he still awake?
The answer mattered more than anything else in this archive.
No, Caelum decided. I won’t speculate.
I’ll test it.
He stepped away from the shelves and closed his eyes, deliberately, carefully, shutting out the physical world. He focused inward—toward the subtle resonance he had felt when the voice reached him.
Toward the place where light and dark once crossed inside him.
Kreyn, he called silently.
He waited.
Nothing.
He tried again, pushing a little deeper.
Kreyn. If you can hear me…
Seconds stretched.
The silence pressed in.
His brow furrowed.
Ardwino, he tried instead, carefully shaping the name in thought.
Still nothing.
The connection—if it existed—felt distant now. Faded. As though whatever strength had carried the message across had burned itself out in the attempt.
