Nightfall.

The house was quiet.

Soren sat at his desk, the candlelight flickering unevenly as he stared down at his journal.

The pages felt heavier tonight.

He hadn’t written in it since waking up in Luthathel. Since reading the words he didn’t remember writing.

> You must not look too soon.

His fingers hovered over the paper.

He should write something. Anything. Maybe if he put his thoughts into words, they’d make sense.

His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the pen.

He pressed it against the page—

And the ink bled outward.

Soren’s breath hitched.

The ink moved.

It spread in curling lines, shifting, forming letters—forming words.

> Rowan Blackwood.

Soren’s chest tightened painfully.

That name.

That wasn’t his name.

He shoved back from the desk, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. His breathing was uneven, his pulse hammering.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The journal sat perfectly still on the wooden surface, the name staring back at him.

Rowan Blackwood.

His hands clenched into fists.

Tia had called him that.

He didn’t know why.

And now—it was here, appearing in his own handwriting, without his touch.

He needed answers.

The Library of Forgotten Names.

Luthathel had many libraries. Some public, some private. And some—

Some existed in the spaces between things.

The library Soren sought tonight was one of the latter.

It had no official name. No recorded location. But he knew where to find it.

It stood at the very edge of the Scholar’s District, nestled between two taller buildings—a space that should not have been wide enough for a doorway, and yet, it fit.

The entrance was narrow and unmarked, a single wooden door that only those who knew what they were looking for would see.

Soren hesitated before knocking.

He had never needed to come here before.

But he needed to understand.

The door creaked open before he touched it.

Inside, the library smelled of dust, ink, and time.

Dim oil lamps flickered along the tall, towering shelves. The books were old, their spines cracked, their covers worn smooth by hands that did not exist anymore.

A single figure sat at the center desk, hunched over a stack of parchment.

His spectacles gleamed in the lamplight.

His bony fingers curled around an old quill, pausing mid-stroke as Soren stepped inside.

A long moment passed.

Then, without looking up, the man spoke.

“Ah.” His voice was low, rasping. Too knowing.

“Soren Blackwood.”

A chill crawled up Soren’s spine.

His throat felt dry. “You know me?”

The old scholar lifted his gaze, peering at him through clouded lenses.

“I know all who seek this place,” he murmured. “But I have never met you before.”

A pause.

Then, a slow, deliberate tilt of the head.

“Or rather… I do not remember meeting you.”

Soren’s breath caught.

A faint prickle of wrongness settled in his chest.

The scholar leaned back in his chair, regarding him curiously.

“Tell me, boy,” he said. “What name are you looking for?”

Soren hesitated.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

Then, slowly, the words slipped from his tongue.

“…Rowan Blackwood.”

Something shifted in the room.

The flames of the oil lamps flickered all at once.

The old man’s expression did not change.

But—something did.

The bookshelves seemed taller. The space felt deeper than before.

The scholar exhaled softly. “I see.”

He reached for a ledger. One of many stacked beside him.

His fingers traced the spine before flipping it open.

Soren stepped closer, peering over the pages. The text was small, cramped—names upon names, neatly recorded.

Then, the scholar stopped.

His finger pressed against a name.

Rowan Blackwood.

But something was wrong.

The ink was smudged, like something had tried to erase it.

Or—

Like it had been rewritten.

Soren’s breath turned shallow.

The scholar regarded the page for a long, quiet moment.

Then, his voice came quieter this time.

“…You are not the first to look for this name.”

A cold weight settled in Soren’s chest.

His hands curled into fists. “Then—who was?”

The old man lifted his gaze, peering at him through the dim light.

A flicker of something like recognition passed across his features.

But his lips did not move.

Because the answer was already there.

It was him.

Soren had come before.

And he did not remember.