Elion did not remember climbing the stairs.
One moment, he had been on his knees in the echo chamber.
The next, he stood in the corridor above, the hatch sealed behind him. His hands trembled. The mark behind his ear pulsed in slow, deliberate rhythm.
It wasn't pain anymore.
It was hunger.
He staggered back through the narrow passage, out into Archive Hall E. His footsteps echoed louder than they should have, and shadows dragged a moment too long across the floor behind him.
The building felt thinner.
Or maybe he had changed.
He moved through the silent halls of the Department like a man underwater, each turn familiar and alien at once. Lamps dimmed when he passed beneath them. A clerk he passed in the main hallway paused, frowned—and said nothing.
They looked at him like he wasn't entirely there.
He turned a corner and stopped abruptly.
The air was colder here.
At the far end of the hallway, a mirror hung crooked on the wall.
It hadn't been there before.
The Department never hung mirrors.
Ever.
He approached slowly. Each step brought a faint ringing to his ears—soft, deep, like the memory of a cathedral bell.
The mirror's surface was tarnished, cloudy. When he looked into it, he did not see himself.
He saw a hallway, just like the one he stood in.
But he was not in it.
Instead, a man in a wide-brimmed hat and dark coat stood in the reflection, facing away. The same figure he had seen in the fog days ago.
— Who are you — Elion whispered.
The figure turned.
And smiled.
It was his face.
Not quite.
The eyes were too still.
The skin too perfect.
The smile too certain.
The reflection raised a finger to its lips.
— Shhh — it mouthed, though no sound came.
And then, it spoke directly into Elion's mind.
— You let the horn in.
— Now it listens through you.
— You are an ear with no lid, a door with no lock.
— They will find you, Listener.
Elion's hand twitched.
He blinked—and the mirror was normal again.
His own reflection stared back.
No figure. No voice.
Just the sound of breathing.
His breathing.
Or was it?
He turned to leave—and saw someone standing at the entrance of the hall.
A boy, no older than twenty, wearing a tattered archivist's cloak. Thin, pale, eyes too wide for his face.
He held no books.
Only a spiral pendant.
The boy spoke softly.
— You saw it, didn't you?
Elion narrowed his eyes.
— Saw what?
The boy smiled—tired, almost relieved.
— The mirror doesn't lie to the chosen.
— You're not the first.
— But maybe you'll last longer.
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the side corridor without another word.
Elion remained frozen for a long time.
The whisper inside him had fallen silent.
But not gone.
Just… waiting.