A Door That Should Not Have Opened

Soren did not think.

He did not hesitate.

The statue had taken another step forward.

The air had thickened, pressing down on him like something alive.

The city had spoken.

And now, it wanted to erase him.

So he ran.

Straight through the black iron gate.

Into the Chapel of the Nameless.

The Air Inside Did Not Belong to This World

The moment he crossed the threshold, the noise from the city vanished.

No whispering.

No shifting streets.

No sound at all.

Only silence.

It was like stepping into a world that had been sealed off from time itself.

The doors slammed shut behind him.

The instant they did—the pressure in his chest lifted.

The city had been pushing down on him.

Now, for the first time, it wasn’t.

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The chapel was different.

The city had sent the masked figures.

It had sent the statue.

But it had not sent this.

This place was outside of its control.

And that, more than anything, terrified him.

A Place Built for Those Who Have No Names

The chapel was ancient.

The pews were old, their wood darkened with age.

The candles burned low, their wax dripping onto stone.

But the strangest thing—

The thing that sent a slow wave of unease curling through his stomach—

Were the inscriptions that covered every surface.

> Names.

Not carved.

Not painted.

Scratched.

Deep into the walls.

The pews.

The pillars.

And yet, as Soren looked at them—

As he tried to read them—

They blurred.

Like the city had already erased them from existence.

The People Who Did Not Speak

Then—

A sound.

Not a whisper.

Not a voice.

The scratching of ink on parchment.

Soren’s breath hitched.

He turned toward the altar.

And for the first time, he saw them.

The congregation.

Sitting in the pews.

Dressed in black.

Hoods pulled over their faces.

And all of them—

Writing.

The Truth That Could Not Be Spoken

Soren did not move.

The figures did not look at him.

Did not react to his presence.

They only continued to write.

Their quills scratching against paper, over and over.

And as Soren stepped closer—

As he passed the pews, his eyes drifting toward the parchment in their hands—

He saw what they were writing.

The same sentence.

Again.

And again.

And again.

> Do not speak the forgotten name.

Do not write the forgotten name.

Do not remember the forgotten name.

Over and over.

The same warning.

A mantra.

A desperate attempt to erase something from existence.

Soren’s throat tightened.

Because the way they wrote—

The frantic movements of their hands—

It was not a choice.

It was a compulsion.

The Keeper of the Chapel

At the far end of the chapel, behind the altar—

A figure sat in a high-backed chair.

Not writing.

Not moving.

But watching.

Soren could not see their face.

Only the outline of their hood, the way their hands rested against the arms of the chair.

They had been waiting for him.

And now, as he stood before them, the silence of the chapel shifted.

A new sound.

Soft.

Measured.

The figure raised a single gloved hand—

And pointed toward the open book resting on the altar.

> Write your name.

The Choice That Could Not Be Undone

Soren’s pulse slammed.

He had seen what happened to names here.

Scratched out.

Blurred beyond recognition.

Erased.

And now—

The figure wanted him to write his own.

Soren stepped back.

The congregation did not react.

They continued their endless writing.

But the figure at the altar—

They did not move their hand away.

They only waited.

The Warning That Came Too Late

Then, from the pews—

A hand jerked.

A quill snapped.

One of the hooded figures seized.

Their entire body convulsed.

Their ink bottle tipped, spilling black across the parchment.

Soren’s breath caught.

And then—

A voice.

A whisper from somewhere within the congregation.

So soft he almost did not hear it.

But when he did—

His blood ran cold.

"Your name is already here."