Chapter 2: The Librarian of Souls

Chapter 2: The Librarian of Souls

The two beams of light from the intruders' weapons converged on Kaelen, pinning him like a terrified specimen. The golden tracings on his hand pulsed in the harsh glare, a beacon of otherworldly light that seemed to mock the sterile, concrete environment of the archive. The men in black exchanged a look—a shared, predatory gleam that needed no words. Their objective had changed. The prize was no longer in the crate. It was him.

They are Unravelers. Soul-eaters. They see the bond.

The voice boomed in his mind again, no longer a single, explosive word but a coherent, terrifying thought. It was ancient and resonant, a voice that had commanded the sun to rise, now trapped within the confines of his skull. Kaelen flinched, his own thoughts scattering like startled birds. He was going insane. The blow to his head must have been harder than he thought.

"Don't kill him," the lead Unraveler commanded, his voice a low growl. "Finch wants the anchor intact."

Anchor? The same word the voice had used. This wasn't a hallucination.

You are the lock. I am the key. Your blood has reforged the chain. You are my anchor in this world, little scribe. A frail one.

The voice, which he now knew belonged to the Sun-Priest—Inti-Phaqsi, a name that surfaced from the flood of memories like a forgotten truth—was laced with a profound, weary disappointment. It was the tone of a master craftsman handed a shoddy tool for a vital task.

Kaelen’s mind, the meticulous library where he stored and cross-referenced every fact he’d ever learned, was being invaded. He was no longer just Kaelen Vance, archivist. He was a vessel, a host, a… a librarian of souls. The thought was so absurd, so utterly alien, that a hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat, choked off by raw fear.

The Unravelers began to advance, spreading out to cut off any escape. Their movements were fluid, professional. They were hunters, and he was cornered prey. His world had shrunk to this single, dusty room, the smell of old paper, and the promise of imminent, brutal violence.

His desire to live, a primal instinct he’d never had to truly confront, surged past his panic. He couldn't fight them. But he knew this place better than they did. This was his kingdom.

Your knowledge of this place is now my own. A fleeting advantage. Use it. To your left. The cart.

The instruction was sharp, a commander’s snap in the chaos of his mind. Kaelen didn't hesitate. Fueled by adrenaline and the priest's directive, he lunged to his left, grabbing the heavy steel cart he’d slammed into earlier. With a desperate roar, he shoved it with all his might.

The cart, laden with clay tablet replicas, careened across the floor. One of the Unravelers sidestepped, but the other was too slow. The cart crashed into his legs with a sickening crunch of bone and a sharp cry of pain.

It was the opening he needed.

"The service corridor!" Kaelen yelled, not to anyone, but to himself, to the voice in his head. He scrambled towards a nondescript metal door at the far end of the room, a door only staff knew led to a labyrinth of maintenance tunnels that snaked through the museum's foundations.

They will follow. The bond sings to them. A beacon in the dark. You cannot hide. You can only run.

The priest’s words were a cold dose of reality, extinguishing the small spark of hope. The museum, his sanctuary, was no longer safe. Every corner he knew, every shadow he might use for cover, was useless as long as his own hand glowed like a cursed lantern.

He fumbled with the keypad on the door, his trembling fingers slipping on the numbers. The code was his own employee ID. He punched it in. The lock clicked open with a sound that was deafening in the charged silence. He threw himself through the door, not daring to look back, and slammed it shut behind him.

He was in a narrow, dimly lit corridor. Pipes and electrical conduits lined the walls, and the air was thick with the hum of the building's hidden machinery. He leaned against the cool metal of the door, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. His injured arm throbbed in time with his frantic heartbeat.

The connection has been made, Inti-Phaqsi’s voice stated, calmer now, a deep, resonant current beneath the surface of Kaelen's fear. They felt the surge of power when your life-force touched mine. They know I am awake. And they know I am tethered to you.

"What do they want?" Kaelen whispered aloud, the words scraping his raw throat.

They do not want the knowledge I keep. They want the engine that powers it. They wish to consume me. To consume what I hold prisoner.

A fresh wave of terror washed over Kaelen. This wasn't about a simple theft. These Unravelers weren't after an artifact for its historical value or black-market price. They were after its very essence, its power. They were monsters wearing human skin.

A heavy thud against the corridor door made him jump. A second, louder bang followed, and the metal began to buckle inward. They weren't bothering with the keypad.

This place is a cage, and you have let the wolves inside. You must leave. Now.

"Where can I go?" Kaelen’s mind was blank with panic. The police? What would he say? ‘Hello, I seem to have accidentally bonded with a 3000-year-old magic mummy, and now I’m being chased by cultists?’ They’d lock him in a padded room.

There are others. Those who have not forgotten the old ways. The Keepers. There is a sanctuary. A place of hidden things. I can feel its resonance, a faint echo in the symphony of this city. Seek the sign of the ouroboros entwined with the key.

The instruction was bizarre, cryptic, a line out of a fantasy novel. But it was the only thing he had.

Another tremendous crash shook the door. The lock was beginning to splinter.

Kaelen turned and ran. He fled blindly down the concrete corridor, his worn leather shoes slapping against the floor. The voice of the Sun-Priest was a constant presence in his head now, a fusion of ancient wisdom and grim reality. He was no longer Kaelen Vance, the quiet archivist who preferred the company of the dead. His mundane world was gone forever, shattered in a spray of his own blood. Now he was the anchor, the target, the keeper of a terrible secret, hunted through the bones of his own museum. And the only guide he had was a ghost in his soul.