The words on the page had vanished again. Liam stared at the blank parchment, unsure if he'd imagined the message. He touched the paper—it was warm.
"Okay," he whispered, "either I haven't slept in thirty hours, or this book is... alive?"
The words reappeared—this time in his native English:
Not alive. Remembered.
Liam flinched and stood abruptly, the old wooden chair scraping loudly across the floor. No reaction from Mrs. Helgens. In fact, she wasn't at her desk anymore.
He walked down the aisle, past endless shelves, calling her name quietly. The lights buzzed overhead, but the shadows between bookcases were oddly thick—as though they were clinging.
He returned to the book. This time, the page had changed again:
The King left his name. You must take it back.
"What does that mean?" Liam asked aloud. "Who are you?"
The answer came not as ink, but as a shiver through the air. Then the book flipped its own page.
A new chapter. No heading. No number.
Just a sigil Liam had seen once in a dig site photo—impossibly old, predating known civilization. A sun with three arrows.
He reached to touch it—and his fingers went through the page.
Not like water. Not like light.
Like a hole in the world.
His breath hitched. He yanked his hand back, heart pounding.
Then the text returned:
You can leave. Or follow.
Liam looked around the silent library. Outside, the rain had stopped. The streetlights were out.
He turned his eyes back to the book and whispered, "If I die in here, Emma's never going to let it go."
Then he touched the page again.
And fell through it.