Chapter 127: The Archivist Of The Forgotten Paths
The Lunareth pack lived far from the borders of Lycanthria. The pack lands were no different from his own: forests, wide cold rivers, endless stretches of pine, and hills. The buildings were made of dark stone and timber, built close together to block the wind. People here minded their business. Strangers were noticed but rarely questioned unless they caused trouble.
Marek was currently present in the Lunareth pack. He moved through the crowded marketplace with his head down, the rough wool of his black cloak pulled tight around him. The hood was drawn forward, casting his face in deep shadow. His boots were worn at the edges.
He has now become a ghost among the living, a man trying to exist in the spaces between glances. His body was a map of his journey so far. His muscles ached with a deep bone-tired fatigue that sleep could not cure. His skin was pale. The stubble on his jaw was thick and unkempt. His eyes were rimmed with red from too many nights spent with one eye open.
The months since he had left Lycanthria had been a brutal education. He had learned to sleep in the hollows of trees. He had learned to move only at dusk and dawn and sleep in short intervals. He avoided inns when he could. When he couldn’t, he chose the worst ones—places where no one asked questions because everyone had something to hide. He had learned to read the landscape for danger as easily as he once read the stars.
Hunters and scouts were a constant threat. They had tracked him for weeks at first. Some of whom he learned that are loyal to his father. Some were working for other packs that wanted to hand him over for a favor. He had evaded two parties in the past week alone. The first had been a pair of travelers from a minor border pack, men he’d spotted by the smoke of their fire before they ever saw him. The second had been closer, a lone rider on the road who had slowed as he approached, his eyes scanning through the forest carefully. Marek had melted into the undergrowth, not breathing until the hoofbeats faded entirely.
He had developed a sixth sense now, a pickling at the back of his neck that told him when a gaze was lingering a moment too long. He could tell when someone was really following him. But the external threats were only half the battle. The true war was being waged inside his own mind.
His mind had not been quiet once. It was a constant, grinding split. One part of him, the part that still held the memory of Aveloria, the sound of her laugh, and the way she spoke, screamed at him to turn back. That part painted vivid pictures of what he had abandoned: a life of a wealthy elder’s son, a future son-in-law of the King of Lycanthria, a woman whom he loved without condition or magic. That part was steady and constant. It whispered that this quest was madness, that he was chasing a phantom, that he should go home.
But the other part of him was a relentless burning fire. It was the pull towards Rowena, a force that was not a gentle tug but a violent physical yank on the very core of his being. It was an urge he could not fight, a need he had to fill. It did not let him sleep. Sometimes he would wake in the middle of the night, convinced he heard her calling him. Other times, he would find himself walking in a direction he had not consciously chosen.
Finding her was not a desire; it was like a command. He was going mad. Marek knew it. He could feel his own sanity fracturing, piece by piece, the two halves of his soul grinding against each other until he felt he would shake apart. But he could not stop.
The bewitchment had not broken. Distance had not weakened it. If anything, being away from Lycanthria made it worse. There was nothing to distract him here. No court politics. No familiar faces. Just the road and the thoughts in his head. The urge to find Rowena was the only constant thing that gave his fractured mind a single terrible purpose.
And so far, that purpose had yielded nothing. His search had been a litany of failure. In small villages and trading posts, he had asked careful questions. He had traded coin for whispered rumors and fragments of information. A woman fitting Rowena’s description. But each lead had turned to dust in his hands.
A healer traveling alone has told him about the prophecy of the Tetrabond, and also a Witch-Queen crowned to bring darkness to the world. He mentioned a place named Drakwyne, home for the forsaken. And Marek had enough half-truths to piece everything together. He just knew Rowena had to be there.
He moved through the market slowly, pretending to study goods laid out on wooden tables—salted meat, rough fabric, iron tools. He checked reflections in polished metal. He paused at a stall long enough to look behind him. A woman was haggling over a chicken, a child was chasing a rolling apple, and a man was mending a cart wheel. No one looked his way. No one stood out. No one’s eyes lingered.
Satisfied, he turned and moved towards a building on the far side of the square, its stone darker and more worn than the others.
He had come to Lunareth because of rumors. A trader had mentioned an older man who kept maps no one else could find. Maps to abandoned territories. Maps to lands people said no longer existed. Marek had followed that rumor for two weeks.
He stopped in front of the building. The wooden sign was faded, and the long, painted words had worn away over time. This was the place they had spoken of. The library, the archive, the repository of knowledge, he didn’t remember what they called it. All he knew was that it was where you went when you needed to find what wasn’t meant to be found.
He looked around one last time before pushing the heavy oak door open. A small dulled bell gave a flat tinny ring. The air inside was thick with the smell of dust, old paper, and dry leather. The room was long and narrow. The lighting was dim but steady, coming from oil lamps fixed to the walls. Shelves lined every side of the room, filled with countless thick books, scrolls tied with string, and rolled maps secured with leather straps. More stacks were pulled on the floor, creating a maze of paper and parchment.
At the far end of the room, a large wooden desk was piled high with tottering stacks of books, opened parchment, loose maps, writing quills, and an ink-pot. An aged man sat behind it. His face was a map of wrinkles, his hair was white and thin, falling to his shoulders. A pair of tiny eyeglasses rested on the bridge of his nose. He wore a simple off-white robe, ink stains visible on the sleeves. He was bent over a heavy, leather-bound tome, his nose inches from the page.
Marek took a step forward, and a sudden shriek pierced the silence. A large grey cat darted out from between two shelves, dashed between his feet, nearly tripping him. It darted into the shadows under a shelf, its yellow eyes glowing briefly in the dark before it disappeared.
The older man at the desk lifted his head slowly, his pale eyes fixated on Marek.
"How may I help you?" he asked in a steady voice.
Marek stayed where he was for a moment, studying him. "I am looking for someone," Marek said.
The older man blinked slowly, studying him. He set down the quill he was holding and leaned back in his creaking chair. "Who do you seek, young man?"
"Your name."
It wasn’t a question but a demand. The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. "And why is that?"
"To confirm you are who I was told to find."
The older man nodded slowly. "My name is Eryndor Alistair Vane," He said, his gaze unwavering. "Archivist of the Forgotten Path."
Marek let out a slow breath. That was the name. The name had been spoken with a kind of reverence by the few who had been willing to talk. A man who could find anything on a map. Some called him The Keeper of Lost Ways. Some called him a Cartographer.
