The darkness surged toward Noah, a living tide of shadow that rippled and writhed like it possessed a mind of its own. It gripped his legs first, cold and unyielding, snaking around his knees before tightening against his chest. The pressure was suffocating, as though invisible chains were wrapping tighter with every passing moment, pulling him inexorably closer to the flickering image on the book’s surface.

His breaths came fast and shallow, each gasp burning in his throat as panic clawed its way through his chest. He strained against the force, his muscles trembling as he tried to pull away, but the shadows refused to loosen their grip. Around him, the trial chamber warped and blurred, the walls bending as though retreating into some impossible distance. The once-solid floor beneath him seemed to ripple, shifting in and out of focus like water disturbed by an unseen hand.

The hum returned, deeper now, vibrating not just through the chamber but through Noah himself. It resonated in his chest, a dark and rhythmic pulse that matched the unrelenting pull of the shadows. It wasn’t just a sound—it was alive, pressing into his very bones with an alien intent.

"Noah!" Luma’s voice shrilled beside him, piercing the thick, oppressive air. Her glow, usually vibrant and steady, had dimmed to a faint, erratic flicker. She zipped around his head in frantic loops, her wings fluttering so fast they were almost invisible. "It’s pulling you in! The book—it’s… it’s dragging you into the memory! I don’t know how to stop it!"

Noah twisted his body, trying to free his legs from the cold, unyielding tendrils that held him in place. “I can’t—” he gasped, his words cut short as the shadows tightened further, constricting his chest and making it nearly impossible to speak. The air around him grew colder, biting at his skin, even as the tendrils burned like molten iron. He flailed his arms, desperately reaching for something solid to hold onto—anything to anchor himself—but the chamber offered no sanctuary. The walls had dissolved into a swirling void, and the floor beneath him felt as insubstantial as smoke.

The book on the pedestal trembled violently, its fractured light pulsing in chaotic bursts. The golden glow that once emanated from it had turned jagged and irregular, each flare accompanied by a sharp crackle of energy. On its surface, the shifting images began to solidify, the blurred edges sharpening into recognizable shapes. The house loomed larger now, its outline growing clearer as the rest of the chamber faded into obscurity.

“Noah…” A voice echoed faintly, threading its way through the oppressive hum. It wasn’t Luma’s voice, nor was it a sound he could place—it was faint, distorted, yet achingly familiar. It sent a jolt through him, his chest tightening with recognition and dread.

Laughter followed the voice, faint and hollow, like a sound carried across a vast and empty corridor. The tone was wrong, warped, as if whoever was laughing wasn’t entirely human. It chilled him more than the shadows ever could.

“Noah!” Luma’s voice cracked as she darted closer, her tiny hands grasping at his shirt as though she could pull him back. “The book—it’s feeding on you! On your memories! You have to fight it! Please, you have to!”

“I’m trying!” Noah shouted, but his voice was weak, strained against the weight of the shadows and the suffocating hum. The tendrils tightened again, jerking him forward. His body jolted, his knees buckling as the force nearly pulled him to the ground.

The book pulsed suddenly, a sharp burst of energy exploding outward like a silent shockwave. It hit Noah squarely in the chest, driving the air from his lungs and sending him stumbling. His vision blurred, the fractured light from the book searing against his retinas. The images shifted again, moving like oil across water, until they snapped into focus.

The house.

It stood solid and unyielding now, its wooden frame bathed in the faint glow of a setting sun. Around it, the rest of the chamber dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the house and the path leading to it. The laughter grew louder, echoing from within its walls, and Noah’s chest clenched as he recognized the sound—twisted and wrong, but familiar all the same.

“No…” he whispered, shaking his head even as the shadows coiled tighter, dragging him forward. “No, no, no. This isn’t real. It can’t be real!”

The book pulsed again, stronger this time, the force slamming into him like a wave. He staggered, his feet slipping against the insubstantial floor as the tendrils pulled him closer. The hum deepened, vibrating through his bones with a resonance that made his teeth ache.

“Noah, come inside!” The voice called again, clear and distinct now. It was warm, inviting—but it was wrong. The edges of its tone wavered, fractured like the flickering light of the book, and every word sent an icy chill down his spine.

The shadows surged, pulling him downward. His legs gave out beneath him, and for a brief, horrifying moment, it felt as though the ground itself had disappeared. His body twisted as he fell, the book’s light growing brighter, blinding, consuming him completely.

Luma’s scream was the last thing he heard before the void closed around him, and then—

Everything shifted.

----------------------------------------

{Trial Of the Memory.}

Noah’s knees hit the ground hard, the impact jarring every bone in his body. Pain lanced up his legs, but he barely felt it over the roar of his own heartbeat. The world spun around him as he pressed trembling hands into the cool, rough dirt beneath him. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and his chest heaved as though he had been running for miles.

The oppressive hum was gone. The suffocating shadows that had wrapped around him had vanished, leaving behind an almost deafening silence. For a moment, Noah didn’t move, didn’t dare to lift his head. He kept his eyes shut, hoping, praying, that when he opened them, he would be back in the chamber. That the memory—this place—would disappear.

But he wasn’t.

The scent hit him first. Fresh earth and pine, crisp and sharp, mingling with something softer—lavender, maybe, or wildflowers. It was a scent so achingly familiar that it pierced through his chest like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. His fingers curled into the dirt as if trying to ground himself, but the pounding in his ears only grew louder.

Slowly, as though fearing what he would see, Noah raised his head. His heart sank as his vision cleared.

He was back.

The small house stood before him, nestled at the edge of the forest. Its wooden frame glowed faintly in the fading light of the setting sun, the warm hues of dusk painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Wildflowers lined the dirt path leading to the front porch, their vibrant colors swaying gently in an unseen breeze. The swing on the porch creaked softly, moving just enough to suggest life, though no one sat on it. The sound was gentle, rhythmic, like a heartbeat, and yet it made the hair on the back of Noah’s neck stand on end.

It was perfect. Every detail was exactly as he remembered. The chipped paint on the windowsills, the crooked mailbox leaning just slightly to the left, the faint scuff marks on the door where he’d accidentally kicked a soccer ball too hard one summer. It was as though time itself had been rewound.

“No…” The word escaped him as a broken whisper, his voice cracking under the weight of disbelief. He stumbled to his feet, his legs unsteady as though the ground beneath him might give way. “No. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”

He staggered backward, his breaths coming faster, shallower. The warmth of the sunset didn’t reach him. The air was cold, biting at his skin and filling his lungs with frost. His breath fogged in front of him, curling into the golden light in a way that felt wrong—impossible. His skin prickled, a crawling sensation that spread from his arms to his chest, like the very world around him was rejecting his presence.

And yet, the house stood firm. Waiting.

“Noah, come inside!” The voice cut through the silence, warm and familiar, but fractured. It carried the same tone of gentle love he’d clung to as a child, but now it wavered, as though it was being played from an old, scratched record. “Dinner’s ready!”

The blood in his veins turned to ice. He froze where he stood, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks. He barely noticed the pain.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head, his voice trembling as his lips moved numbly. “No. This isn’t real. This is a memory—a trick.”

But the world didn’t dissolve. The house didn’t fade away. The path beneath his feet stayed firm, the wildflowers continued to sway, and the swing creaked once more. The voice called again, closer now, insistent. “Noah, come inside!”

The laughter followed, soft at first, bubbling like the giggles of a child. But it grew louder, more hollow, each note distorted and warped. It echoed unnaturally, bouncing off nothing and filling the air until it became something sinister. It didn’t belong. It didn’t belong here—or anywhere.

“Noah?” Luma’s voice came from somewhere beside him, trembling with hesitance and fear. She flitted into view, her glow faint and faltering, like a candle about to be snuffed out. “Where are we? What is this place?”

Noah didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was dry, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts that refused to form. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the house, from the warm light spilling through its windows, or from the faint shadow that now moved inside.

And then the figure appeared.

It stood on the porch, just beyond the edge of the warm light, shrouded in faint shadow. At first, its features were indistinct, blurred like a smudge on an old photograph. But as it stepped forward, its form sharpened. Its movements were jerky, unnatural, as though it wasn’t meant to move at all.

Noah’s stomach churned as recognition struck him like a physical blow. His knees threatened to give out, and his breath hitched painfully in his chest.

It wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be.

But it looked like his mother.

Her face was just as he remembered it—soft, kind, and framed by curls that caught the fading light like a halo.

“Noah, come inside,” she said again, her voice lilting like an eerie, broken melody. Her head tilted to the side with a sharp, unnatural motion, the sound of her neck cracking reverberating in the silence. Her smile stretched wider, too wide, pulling her cheeks taut as her hollow eyes fixed on him. “Dinner’s ready.”

Noah staggered back, his heart pounding against his ribs like a caged bird desperate to escape. His legs felt heavy, as if they were rooted to the ground, yet his instincts screamed at him to run. To escape. But no matter how much distance he tried to put between himself and the house, the voice—her voice—seemed to close the gap effortlessly, wrapping around him like a chain.

His lips trembled as he whispered, “No. You’re not… you’re not real. This isn’t real.”

“Noah!” Luma’s voice broke through the haze, sharp and desperate. She darted into his line of sight, her dim glow flickering violently, as if struggling to keep from extinguishing. “You need to fight it! This isn’t her! This isn’t real!”

Noah’s chest tightened at the words, a surge of anger and grief swelling inside him like a storm about to break. He knew Luma was right. He knew this wasn’t real. His mother wasn’t here—she was bedridden, trapped in a coma she had never woken from. She hadn’t spoken a word in years.

This was a memory—a trial, a trick—but it felt so achingly real. The scent of fresh earth and pine, the warmth of the sunset on his skin, the rhythmic creak of the porch swing. All of it clawed at his heart, tearing open wounds he’d tried to bury. And then there was her. The way she looked at him, even with those hollow, empty eyes, was a gut-wrenching facsimile of the woman he had lost. It wasn’t her, but it was enough to make him ache for what used to be.

The figure on the porch took another step forward, its jerky, unnatural movements making Noah flinch. But the voice… the voice was soft, almost mournful now, pleading in a way that made his chest constrict. “Noah, don’t you want to come home? It’s been so long. I’ve missed you.”

His breath hitched, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The words struck him like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. He had heard those exact words once—on the last day he saw her awake, before the fire, before everything fell apart.

The memory crashed over him like a wave, blurring the lines between past and present. He could see her so clearly now, standing at the door, smiling warmly despite the weight of the world on her shoulders. She’d called to him in that same gentle voice, and he had run to her, burying himself in her arms like he’d done a thousand times before. It was a moment he had clung to, the last true connection he had to her before it was all ripped away.

“I…” Noah stammered, his voice barely a whisper. His feet moved without his permission, carrying him forward. His hand reached out, trembling, desperate to close the distance. For a fleeting moment, all he wanted to do was hold her. To feel the warmth he had lost, the comfort he had been denied. To say goodbye.

But something stopped him. The faint sting of his nails digging into his palms brought him back, grounding him in the present. He pulled his hand back sharply, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.

“Noah, don’t listen to it!” Luma cried, darting in front of him like a flickering shield. Her glow surged briefly as she hovered between him and the figure, her wings trembling with the effort. “It’s the trial—it’s feeding on you! On your memories! It’s trying to trap you! Fight it!”

Her words barely reached him. Noah’s hands trembled, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The echoes of his mother’s voice intertwined with Luma’s desperate pleas, and the hum returned, low and insistent, pressing against his skull like a drumbeat. It clouded his thoughts, pulling him in every direction at once.

The figure stepped off the porch, its movements stiff but deliberate, closing the distance between them. The shadows around it deepened, stretching like tendrils across the dirt path, reaching for Noah with silent intent. “You don’t have to fight anymore,” it cooed, its voice almost soothing. “Just come home, Noah. Stay with me.”

The temptation whispered at the edges of his mind, warm and inviting. The weight in his chest seemed to lift, just slightly, as the thought took root. One step. That was all it would take. He wouldn’t have to carry the pain anymore, the guilt, the constant ache of what he’d lost. All of it could disappear, if only he gave in.

Luma’s voice faltered, growing faint in the haze. “Noah…” she whispered, her glow dimming again. “You can’t… don’t…”

But Noah’s voice cut through hers, trembling yet resolute. “One hug won’t hurt,” he whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks. His voice cracked, the weight of the memory too much to bear. “Just to say goodbye.”

He rushed forward, his body moving on instinct. As he closed the distance, his form flickered and shifted, the present slipping away. His adult frame shrank, his shoulders narrowing, his movements becoming smaller, unsteady. By the time he reached her, he was no longer the man he had become but the boy he once was—a child, tearful and vulnerable, reaching for the one person who had always been his safe place.

“Mom,” he choked out as he wrapped his arms around her, clinging to her with the desperate strength of a child afraid to let go. Her form was warm, solid, familiar. For a moment, everything felt real. The scent of lavender in her hair, the gentle rhythm of her breathing, the soft hum of her voice as she whispered his name. Tears streamed down his face as he buried himself in her embrace, his small hands clutching her tightly. “I miss you…”

Her arms wrapped around him, the embrace almost perfect. Almost.

But then, the warmth began to fade. The hum grew louder, darker, resonating through the air like a war drum. The shadows, once distant and still, curled closer, their cold tendrils brushing against his back like icy fingers. Her embrace, so familiar and comforting moments ago, shifted. Her hand tightened on his shoulder, too hard, her fingers digging into his skin with unnatural strength.

And then she spoke, her voice no longer soft and warm but low, dripping with malice.

“You’re mine now, Noah.”

The words sent a shiver down his spine, but the sensation passed quickly, melting into the warmth of her hold. He felt safe here, at home. His tears slowed, and he looked up at her, his young face breaking into a hesitant smile. “What was that you said, mummy?” His voice was light, almost cheerful, though something tickled at the back of his mind—a faint, gnawing unease.

Her smile stretched wider, the motion smooth now, almost perfect. “Nothing, Noah,” she said, her tone sweet but too steady, too precise. She tilted her head slightly, her curls bouncing as they always had. “Your father’s just about to get home. Go clean up. You don’t want him to see you like this.”

Noah nodded absently, his small hands wiping at his tear-streaked cheeks. “Okay, mummy,” he said softly, but as he turned, the faint tickle in his mind grew sharper, a nagging sense that something was wrong. His steps faltered.

The dirt beneath his feet didn’t feel right. It was warm, too warm, and when he looked down, the path seemed to shimmer like heat waves on a summer’s day. He shook his head, his small hands clutching at his temples as the world around him flickered.

This is wrong, a voice whispered faintly, barely audible over the deep hum. It was gentle, light, familiar, but it came and went like a flicker of a candle. His head snapped up, looking around, but the house stood as it always had. The porch swing creaked softly in the breeze. The sun was setting behind the forest, casting golden light across the scene.

“Did you hear that, mummy?” Noah asked, turning back to her, his voice small and uncertain.

She stood still, her eyes wide and unblinking, her smile frozen in place. The sight sent a cold spike of fear through him, but when she blinked and laughed softly, the tension eased again. “Oh, Noah, you’ve always had such an imagination. Now go on, be a good boy.”

Her words felt like syrup, too sweet and thick, coating his thoughts and pulling him forward. He shook his head again, his vision blurring as the hum deepened, vibrating through his chest.

“Noah…” The whisper came again, clearer now, tinged with desperation. It wasn’t his mother’s voice. It was higher, softer—Luma. A faint glimmer flickered at the edge of his vision, a small spark of golden light that darted past before disappearing into the shadows.

He stumbled back, his breath catching. “Luma?” The name felt foreign on his tongue, yet right, as though it were something he should hold on to, a thread in the dark.

“Noah…” The voice called again, but this time it wasn’t Luma. It was lower, slower, a voice that felt ancient and vast. The sound echoed through his mind, familiar but distant. Images flashed through his head—a towering tree, its branches stretching into the heavens, its roots entwined with the earth. The World Tree.

The hum in the air shifted, a sharp, jarring note cutting through the oppressive rhythm. The ground beneath Noah’s feet trembled, the dirt cracking slightly as a faint golden glow seeped through. His mother’s form flickered for a moment, her smile faltering.

“Noah, don’t listen to it!” Luma’s voice pierced through the haze, louder now, and the flickering light reappeared, darting closer. “It’s not real! She’s not real!”

Noah clutched his head, his small form trembling as the world around him wavered like a reflection on disturbed water. The house shimmered, its wooden frame bending unnaturally, warping as though it were struggling to hold itself together. For a moment, Noah thought it might dissolve completely, but it snapped back into place, perfect and unchanged, its familiar shape standing firm against the trembling backdrop.

His mother’s voice rang out again, sweet and coaxing, but there was a jagged edge to it, a distortion that made his skin crawl. The words skipped unnaturally, like an old cassette caught in a loop. “Come on, Noah. Clean up. Your father… is pulling up, be quick in the shower.”

“Okay, Mum!” he chirped instinctively, the words slipping out before he could think. The ticking at the back of his mind quieted, dulled by the warm familiarity of her tone. He turned quickly and ran upstairs, his small feet thudding lightly against the wooden steps.

The bathroom was just as he remembered it, the pale tiles gleaming under the golden light of the overhead bulb. Noah reached for the taps, the cool metal feeling almost too real against his fingertips. The water sputtered for a moment, then rushed out, filling the air with steam and the faint scent of lavender soap—the kind his mother always kept on the edge of the tub.

He shrugged off his clothes, slipping into the shower as the warm water cascaded over him, washing away the grime of the day. His mind began to relax, lulled by the rhythm of droplets hitting the tiles. For a moment, the unease faded, replaced by the simple comfort of routine.

After the shower, he dried off quickly, wrapping a towel around himself before darting into his room. The small space was cozy, the bed tucked neatly into the corner, a patchwork quilt draped over it. His nightwear lay folded on the bed, just as it always had been, the familiar pattern bringing a small smile to his face.

They were his favorite. The pants, soft and worn, were adorned with tiny patterns of trees and seeds, the images carefully stitched in vibrant colors. The central tree stood tall and proud, its emerald leaves shimmering against the fabric, while its roots twisted around each seed in intricate designs. There was the frosted elegance of the Fern of Winters, the vivid bloom of the Earthvine Blossom, and the faintly glowing threads of the rare Celestial Aegis Blossom, its luminescence almost invisible unless you looked closely.

Sliding into the nightwear, he felt a faint sense of peace, a small anchor to the life he’d once known. For a fleeting moment, the doubts and the strange tickle in his mind faded. This was home. This was safe.

He bounded down the stairs, his small hands sliding along the polished wooden banister. As he reached the bottom, his father’s face came into view, smiling warmly. His father stood near the kitchen, his broad frame lit softly by the warm glow of the hanging light. He looked exactly as Noah remembered—strong and reassuring, with kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

“Hey, Noah,” his father greeted, his voice rich with affection. “How was your day, champ?”

A wide grin spread across Noah’s face as he rushed forward, throwing his small arms around his father’s waist. The scent of leather and faint cologne enveloped him as he buried his face against his father’s shirt. The embrace was warm, solid, and so achingly familiar that Noah’s chest tightened with emotion.

“It was good,” Noah said softly, his voice muffled against the fabric. “I missed you, Dad.”

His father chuckled, a deep and soothing sound. “I missed you too, buddy. Now, what do you say we sit down and have some dinner? Your mum made your favorite.”

Noah nodded eagerly, his smile unwavering as he pulled back and looked up at his father. The moment felt so real, so perfect, that the faint tickle in his mind began to fade again, buried under the comfort of being surrounded by love.

But as they moved toward the kitchen, the edges of the room seemed to darken, the golden glow dimming ever so slightly. The hum returned, faint at first, but it pulsed just beneath the surface, like an unsteady heartbeat.

From the corner of his eye, Noah thought he saw something—a flicker of gold, darting just out of reach. He paused mid-step, his head turning sharply toward the living room. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw a small light, faint but steady, hovering just beyond the doorway.

“Noah, what’s wrong?” his father asked, his voice soft but carrying an unnatural stillness.

Noah hesitated, his small hand gripping the edge of his father’s shirt. “I thought… I saw…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

His father smiled again, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. “It’s nothing, son. You’re home now. You’re safe.”

The hum grew louder, but Noah pushed it aside, clinging to the moment, to the warmth of his father’s hand as it rested on his shoulder. He wanted this to be real. He needed it to be real.

But the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to shift, stretching and curling closer, their movements subtle yet deliberate, like creeping tendrils of smoke. Noah glanced toward them, his steps slowing, but when he blinked, they were gone. The warm light of the house seemed to push them back, its glow steady and reassuring.

Reaching the dining room, Noah’s smile widened as he saw the table laid out before him. Plates of steaming food filled every inch, their aromas wafting through the room and making his stomach growl. His mother stood by the table, her back to him as she carefully adjusted a serving dish. The golden light framed her figure, and for a moment, everything felt right.

“Dinner’s ready!” she announced brightly, turning to smile at him. Her voice was perfect again—warm and familiar—and Noah couldn’t help but feel the knot of unease in his chest loosen just a little.

The table was a feast of his favorites, each dish prepared with care. There was a steaming casserole with the cheesy crust he loved to break open, a platter of roasted vegetables glistening with butter, and a plate of warm rolls with their golden tops brushed with honey. In the center sat a bowl of rich stew, its aroma filling the room and tugging at memories of cold nights warmed by laughter and stories.

“Looks great, Mum!” Noah said as he climbed into his seat, his feet swinging just above the floor. His father took the chair next to him, ruffling his hair as he sat.

“Your mum really outdid herself tonight,” his father said, his grin wide and proud.

“Anything for my boys,” his mother replied, her voice soft and full of love as she placed the final dish on the table and sat across from Noah.

Noah picked up his fork eagerly, the weight of it feeling cool and familiar in his hand. But as he dug into the food, a strange chill prickled the back of his neck. The hum, faint and distant, seemed to echo again, low and uneven. He glanced up at his parents. They were both smiling, but there was something in their expressions—a stillness in their eyes that made his chest tighten.

“You’re not eating, champ,” his father said suddenly, his tone light but carrying a subtle edge. “Don’t you like it?”

Noah blinked, his fork hovering over the casserole. “No, I—” He hesitated. The words felt stuck in his throat. He looked down at the food on his plate, and for a moment, it seemed wrong. The colors were too vibrant, the textures too smooth. The scent that had filled him with warmth seconds ago now felt cloying, too sweet.

“Eat, sweetheart,” his mother urged, her voice soft but insistent. She tilted her head slightly, her smile widening in a way that made Noah’s stomach twist. “You’ve always loved my cooking.”

The fork in his hand trembled as a faint whisper tickled the edge of his mind. Noah… It was distant, like a breeze carrying the remnants of a word. His hand stilled as he looked down at his plate again. The casserole wasn’t steaming anymore, its edges darkening, curling inward like burnt paper. The stew in the center of the table rippled, its surface unnaturally still, as though something beneath it were waiting to surface.

“Noah?” His father’s voice broke the moment, pulling his gaze upward. The warmth that had always colored his father’s tone was gone now, replaced by something sharper, colder. The smile on his father’s face remained fixed, almost too perfect, but his eyes… His eyes were dark, hollow, and unblinking, as though they were painted on.

Noah’s stomach churned. His grip tightened around the fork in his hand, the metal pressing hard against his palm. “I’m not hungry,” he said, his voice trembling slightly.

His father’s head tilted ever so slightly, the movement subtle but unnatural, like a puppet’s strings being tugged. The smile widened just a fraction, but his eyes didn’t change. “Not hungry?” he repeated, his voice flat now, lacking its earlier lilt of affection. “But your mother worked so hard on this. Isn’t it your favorite?”

Noah looked down at the plate in front of him. The food no longer smelled enticing. The casserole seemed to have deflated, its golden crust now dark and cracked like scorched earth. The vibrant roasted vegetables glistened unnaturally, their colors too bright, too saturated, as if painted on. The stew in the center bowl had gone still, its surface eerily smooth, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something ripple beneath it.

“I…” Noah began, but his throat felt dry, his words caught in the tightening vice of his chest.

“You should eat,” his mother interjected, her voice light and musical again, though a sharp edge now undercut her words, insistent and unwavering. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. Her smile mirrored his father’s—too wide, too still, as though it had been painted onto her face. “You’ve always loved my cooking, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

Noah hesitated, his fork hovering over the plate. The hum throbbed faintly at the edge of his awareness, a steady pulse that tugged at his thoughts. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to pause, their curling tendrils retreating slightly, as if waiting. His mother’s gaze bore into him, unblinking, unyielding, and his father’s dark eyes remained fixed on him, watching, expectant.

Noah sighed, the weight of their attention pressing heavily against his chest. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice small, resigned. He speared a bite of casserole with his fork, lifting it to his lips. The food felt warm, solid, comforting in a way that made his stomach twist with conflicting emotions.

He took a bite.

The flavors exploded on his tongue, rich and familiar, and for a moment, the tension in his chest eased. It tasted exactly as he remembered—creamy, savory, with the perfect balance of herbs his mother had always used. The hum quieted, fading into the background, and the air seemed to lighten. The colors of the dinner spread before him shifted, brightening once more. The golden crust of the casserole gleamed invitingly, the vegetables regained their vibrant hues, and the stew in the center of the table shimmered with warmth.

“See?” his mother said, her smile softening into something more natural, her tone gentle, almost loving. “Isn’t that better? You’ve always been such a good boy, Noah.”

His father chuckled, the sound low and warm, the sharpness from before gone. “That’s my champ,” he said, ruffling Noah’s hair. “You see? Everything’s just fine.”

Noah chewed slowly, his hands trembling slightly as he set the fork back down on his plate. The hum was faint now, barely there, but the shadows lingered in the corners of the room, shifting subtly, like they were breathing.

“Better, isn’t it?” his mother pressed, her hands still clasped together, her gaze unwavering. Her voice carried a faint urgency, as though she needed him to agree. “Doesn’t it feel good to be home again?”

Noah swallowed hard, the food sitting heavy in his stomach. For a fleeting moment, he almost nodded, almost let himself sink into the illusion. But something gnawed at the edges of his mind, a faint, persistent whisper he couldn’t quite make out. It wasn’t loud enough to disrupt the moment, but it was there, steady, insistent, a thread of something he couldn’t grasp.

He glanced down at his plate, at the vibrant colors and the inviting warmth. It all looked so perfect, so real, but the feeling from earlier—the wrongness—clung to him, refusing to let go. His hands curled into fists on the table, his knuckles white as he tried to steady his breathing.

“It’s perfect, isn’t it?” his father said, his tone almost too casual, though his eyes remained unnervingly still. “This is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Noah nodded hesitantly, unsure of his own thoughts, unsure of anything in this moment. The hum receded further, the warmth of the room enveloping him like a blanket, and for a fleeting instant, he allowed himself to believe that this was real.

But the shadows in the corners of the room didn’t disappear. They didn’t retreat.

Instead, they waited. Watching. Waiting for the moment to strike.

Noah shifted in his seat, the hum still faint in the back of his mind. He glanced toward the empty chair at the table, his brow furrowing slightly. “Where’s Claire?” he asked aloud, his voice cutting through the lingering tension in the room.

His mother paused for a moment, her smile unchanging, before answering smoothly. “Oh, she’s staying the night at a friend’s house, don’t you remember?” Her voice was light, casual, but there was something in her tone—something rehearsed—that made the tickle at the back of Noah’s head grow stronger.

He froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. The answer felt wrong. His sister never stayed overnight at friends’ houses—she always hated sleeping anywhere but her own bed. The thought lingered, a growing itch in the corners of his mind, but as quickly as it came, it faded again, smothered by the warmth of his mother’s smile and the soothing glow of the room.

“Oh, that’s right,” Noah said, his voice softer now, as if agreeing with her would make the unease disappear. He forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

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Across the table, his father chuckled, his voice rich and warm again, pulling Noah’s focus back. “You want to know what I got from the shop on my way home, buddy?” he asked, his own small smile spreading across his face.

Noah tilted his head, curiosity tugging at him despite the lingering discomfort. “A puppy?” he asked hopefully, his voice rising with excitement. He’d wanted a puppy for years, ever since his best friend had gotten one for their birthday. He could still remember the excitement he’d felt when he got to play with it, and how badly he’d wished for one of his own.

His father laughed, a deep, rolling sound that filled the room. “No, buddy,” he said, shaking his head. “No puppy today. But I did get something special. I got some nice cream.”

Noah blinked. “Ice cream?” he asked, his disappointment softened by the thought of a sweet treat. Ice cream was still something to look forward to, even if it wasn’t a puppy. “What kind?”

“Your favorite,” his father said with a knowing grin. “Double chocolate with caramel swirl. The one you always ask for.”

Noah’s smile brightened at that. His favorite flavor. The thought was enough to push back the nagging discomfort, at least for a moment. The warmth of the room felt more solid now, the soft glow of the lights above the table comforting and familiar.

His mother stood, her chair scraping lightly against the floor as she moved to the freezer. She hummed softly under her breath, her movements smooth and graceful, but there was a stiffness to her shoulders that Noah couldn’t quite place. She opened the freezer door and pulled out a tub of ice cream, the label bright and colorful, just as he remembered. She placed it on the counter and began to scoop, her motions methodical, precise.

The sound of the metal spoon scraping against the frozen dessert echoed in the quiet room. Noah’s father leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ve been doing great at school, champ,” he said, his voice steady, almost too steady. “You deserve a treat.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Noah replied, though a faint twinge of unease prickled at him again. Something about this moment—about all of it—felt too perfect. Too constructed. But the ice cream, the warmth of his parents’ smiles, and the glow of the house all worked to soothe those doubts, pushing them further and further away.

When his mother returned to the table with two bowls of ice cream, she set one gently in front of Noah. Her smile was soft and sweet, a perfect replica of the warmth he had known growing up. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she said, her voice gentle and melodic, as though nothing in the world could be more right than this moment.

“Thanks, Mum,” Noah said with a small smile, picking up his spoon. The sight of his favorite dessert—double chocolate with caramel swirl—made him momentarily forget the nagging sense of wrongness that had been following him. The hum in his mind faded into the background, barely noticeable.

As he dipped the spoon into the ice cream, the cool treat melted on his tongue, its rich flavors spreading through his mouth like a comforting balm. The chocolate was smooth and decadent, the caramel adding just the right amount of sweetness, perfectly balanced as though it had been made just for him. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it, letting the sugary goodness wrap around his senses.

“This is really good,” Noah said softly, his voice carrying a note of genuine appreciation. The taste was cold and sweet, a nostalgic blend that felt like a piece of home, a piece of simpler, happier times. It was the kind of dessert he’d always begged for as a child, the one he’d sneak extra bites of when no one was looking.

The familiar flavors stirred something deep inside him—a faint echo of laughter around this very table, the clinking of spoons as he and Claire competed to see who could finish their bowl faster. For a moment, he let himself sink into the memory, let the sweetness dull the edges of his unease.

“You like it?” his mother asked, her voice as soft as the chocolate swirling on his spoon. Her gaze remained fixed on him, her hands clasped neatly on the table. “I knew you would.”

Noah nodded, taking another bite. “It’s perfect,” he said, and for a fleeting second, he believed it. The hum was quieter now, barely a whisper, and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to recede, their curling tendrils pulling back into the darkness. The light above the table felt warmer, softer, cradling him in its glow.

His father leaned back in his chair, his grin wide and easy. “See, champ? Nothing beats your mum’s treats.”

Noah chuckled lightly, the sound awkward but genuine enough. He scraped the edge of his bowl with his spoon, letting the ice cream linger on his tongue. The sugary goodness was exactly what he needed, a small piece of normalcy in a world that felt anything but.

But then, as he dipped his spoon in for another bite, something flickered. It was small at first—a faint shiver in the air, a subtle shift in the texture of the dessert. The caramel swirl seemed to ripple, just slightly, as though something beneath it had stirred. Noah frowned, blinking at his bowl.

The ice cream was still. Perfectly normal. He shook his head and scooped up another bite, letting the sweet, familiar taste calm his nerves. But as the flavors melted on his tongue, a chill that had nothing to do with the dessert prickled the back of his neck.

The hum returned, sharper this time, vibrating faintly through his chest. It was a low, steady rhythm, like a heartbeat out of sync with his own. Noah’s hand tightened around his spoon, his appetite waning as the shadows at the edges of the room began to shift again, their movements slow and deliberate.

“You’ve always loved this,” his mother said, her smile still soft, but her tone carried a strange weight, as though she needed him to agree. “Doesn’t it taste just like home, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” Noah replied automatically, though the word felt heavy on his tongue. He set the spoon down, his gaze flicking toward the empty chair at the table, the one where Claire always sat. The tickle in the back of his mind returned, more insistent this time. Claire was never one to stay at a friend’s house overnight. That much he knew.

His father’s voice broke through his thoughts. “What’s wrong, buddy?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes unblinking. “You’re not finished. Don’t you want to enjoy it?”

Noah hesitated, glancing back at the bowl. The chocolate looked richer than before, almost too rich, its sheen unnatural in the soft light of the room. The caramel swirls shifted faintly again, the motion so slight he almost thought he’d imagined it.

“I just…” He faltered, his voice trailing off as the hum grew louder. His chest tightened, and his hands clenched into fists beneath the table. Something about this moment, about the way his parents were looking at him, didn’t feel right. The warmth that had wrapped around him earlier was still there, but now it felt smothering, like a blanket too heavy to bear.

“Noah…” a faint whisper cut through the hum, brushing against the edges of his thoughts like a breeze slipping through a crack in a door. It was distant but familiar, carrying a flicker of golden light with it. His gaze darted toward the corners of the room, but there was nothing there—just shadows, deep and still.

“Are you okay, Noah?” his mother asked, tilting her head slightly. Her smile remained unchanged, but her eyes… there was something in them now, something hollow and dark, just beneath the surface.

“I…” Noah’s breath hitched, his words caught in his throat as the tickle at the back of his mind flared sharply, clawing at the edges of his thoughts. His gaze dropped to the bowl in front of him, the spoon trembling slightly in his hand. The ice cream sat there, still and perfect, its chocolate and caramel swirls gleaming under the soft glow of the dining room light.

The hum in his ears grew louder, vibrating through his skull, relentless in its rhythm. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a pressure, an urging, as though something unseen was pushing him to look deeper. To notice the cracks beneath the illusion. His chest tightened, his breathing shallow as the shadows at the edge of the room rippled faintly, their curling tendrils inching closer, darker, hungrier.

And then—just as suddenly as it had started—the hum vanished.

The tension drained from his body like water from a broken vessel. The tightness in his chest faded, replaced by a familiar warmth that spread through his limbs. His grip on the spoon steadied, and the corners of his mouth curved into a soft smile. The tickle in the back of his mind quieted, retreating into the farthest reaches of his thoughts until it was nothing more than a faint memory of unease.

Noah scooped up another bite of ice cream, the creamy sweetness melting on his tongue. The richness of the chocolate and the smooth, sugary tang of the caramel felt perfect again, as though nothing had ever been wrong. He let out a small hum of approval, the dessert’s comforting familiarity wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

“Good, isn’t it?” his mother asked, her voice light and soothing. She watched him intently, her hands still clasped neatly on the table, her smile soft and unchanging.

Noah nodded, taking another bite. “It’s really good,” he said, his voice carrying an easy warmth that felt natural, right.

“That’s my boy,” his father said with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair. His smile was wide and proud, his dark eyes fixed on Noah. “Knew you’d enjoy it. Your mum’s always been the best at making you feel at home.”

Noah grinned, scraping the bottom of his bowl with the spoon. The unease he’d felt earlier seemed like a distant dream now, slipping through his fingers as he savored the dessert. The glow of the dining room lights seemed softer, warmer, the shadows in the corners stilled as though they’d never moved at all.

“See?” his mother said, her tone filled with a quiet satisfaction. “Everything’s just as it should be.”

Noah glanced up at her, his heart swelling with a sudden rush of affection. “Yeah,” he said, the word coming easily. “It is.”

The hum was gone, the shadows unmoving. For the first time since the trial began, Noah felt at peace. The warmth of the house enveloped him, the lingering sweetness of the ice cream comforting in a way that made him forget the faint whispers and flickering unease from before. Everything here felt familiar, safe, like a memory he could step into and stay forever.

“Finish up, buddy,” his father said, his tone light and cheerful, yet carrying an odd note of firmness beneath it. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as he smiled at Noah. “Then get ready to head to bed soon. Big day tomorrow.”

Noah blinked, tilting his head. “What’s tomorrow?” he asked, scooping up the last bit of ice cream in his bowl. The words felt natural as they left his lips, but something about the question didn’t sit right, like he’d forgotten something important—or been made to forget it.

His father’s grin didn’t waver, though his eyes remained fixed on Noah in a way that made his chest tighten just slightly. “Don’t you remember?” he said, his voice carrying an easy, almost playful tone. “Tomorrow’s the fair. You’ve been talking about it for weeks, champ.”

“The fair?” Noah repeated, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall. The word stirred something faint in his mind, like the ghost of a memory just out of reach. But the more he tried to grab hold of it, the more it slipped away, buried beneath the comforting glow of the house and the warmth of his father’s gaze.

“Yes, the fair!” his mother chimed in, her hands resting neatly in her lap. Her voice was soft and musical again, filled with a quiet excitement that seemed designed to sweep him up in it. “You’ve been so excited about it. All those rides, the games, the food—you kept asking when it would be here.”

Noah hesitated, the spoon still in his hand. He had been excited about the fair, hadn’t he? The thought felt real, solid, but it was surrounded by a haze that made it hard to place. He looked down at his empty bowl, the faint tickle at the back of his mind returning, but it faded again when his mother spoke.

“You’ll want to be rested,” she said, her smile soft and encouraging. “A big day like that, you’ll need all your energy.”

“Yeah,” Noah murmured, setting the spoon down. “I guess you’re right.”

“That’s my boy,” his father said, reaching out to ruffle Noah’s hair, the gesture so familiar it brought a genuine smile to his face. “Go brush your teeth. We’ll see you in the morning.”

Noah nodded, sliding out of his chair. The hum didn’t return, and the shadows stayed still. The faint sense of unease that had prickled at the edges of his thoughts earlier seemed to vanish completely, leaving only the warm glow of the house and the steady, reassuring presence of his parents.

As he turned to head up the stairs, his mother’s voice called after him, sweet and gentle. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Mum,” Noah replied automatically, his smile lingering as he climbed the steps.

Behind him, the dining room fell silent. The glow of the lights softened, and the shadows at the edges of the room began to stir once more, their curling tendrils inching forward like predators waiting for the right moment to strike.

Reaching his bedroom, Noah closed the door behind him, the familiar click of the latch bringing a sense of finality. He climbed into bed, his small frame sinking into the soft mattress, the quilt pulled up to his chin. The house was quiet, the warmth and peace lulling him into what felt like a dreamless sleep.

But the tranquility didn’t last.

Noah awoke hours later to the acrid, stinging smell of smoke. His eyes snapped open, burning as they adjusted to the dim glow of orange light filtering under his bedroom door. A wave of heat hit him, oppressive and suffocating. He coughed, his small body shuddering with each ragged breath, as panic began to claw its way into his chest.

The house was on fire.

He scrambled out of bed, his feet hitting the cool floor as he doubled over, coughing violently. Smoke curled into his room through the cracks around the door, thick and dark, wrapping around him like a living thing. His heart pounded, his small hands trembling as he reached for the door handle.

Swinging it open, Noah was met with a wall of smoke, the dark tendrils rising and twisting through the hallway like malevolent spirits. The air was thick, heavy, and each breath felt like swallowing embers. Flames licked at the edges of the wallpaper, climbing upward, consuming everything in their path.

And then came the sound.

A scream. High-pitched and soul-piercing, echoing from his parents’ room. The sound froze Noah in place, his small body trembling as the raw anguish and terror in that voice carved into him. His mother.

“Mum?” he called out, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the flames. He coughed again, stumbling forward, his eyes stinging as tears mixed with the smoke. The scream came again, but this time it was followed by something else—laughter. Low and guttural, the sound of something not human, echoing from the same room. It was his father’s voice, twisted into something monstrous.

“No… no…” Noah whispered, shaking his head as he stepped back. His small hands pressed against his ears, trying to block out the sound, but it burrowed into his mind like thorns.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, Noah turned and ran into his sister’s bedroom. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside. The room was eerily untouched—no smoke, no fire, only the faint glow of the flames from the hallway casting dancing shadows on the walls. His gaze swept the room, looking for Claire, but it was empty. Her bed was neatly made, her favorite stuffed animal sitting on the pillow as though waiting for her return.

“Claire?” he called softly, but the room gave no answer. He lingered for a moment, his small hand clutching the doorframe, before something pulled him back into the hall.

As he stepped out, his bare feet trembling on the scorched floorboards, his gaze fell to the staircase. Below, standing in the foyer, was his mother.

She was smiling.

“Mum?” Noah called out, his voice shaky as he took a hesitant step forward. Her figure was bathed in the orange glow of the fire, her dress flickering as though it were part of the flames themselves. Her smile was wide, too wide, and her eyes gleamed with something dark and unrecognizable.

Instinctively, Noah raised his arm, shielding himself from the suffocating heat that seemed to emanate from her. His skin prickled, then burned, as though invisible flames had licked at him. He bit back a cry of pain, his small body shuddering as the scent of charred skin filled his nostrils.

“Mum!” he cried again, desperation cutting through his voice, but she didn’t respond. She just stood there, her smile unwavering, her hollow eyes fixed on him.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, heavy and deliberate, and Noah turned toward his parents’ room. The door was open now, smoke billowing out in dark waves. A figure emerged from the thick haze, stepping into the fiery glow.

It was his father—or at least, it had been. Half of his face remained human, his features twisted in a grimace of pain, but the other half… It was something else entirely. His skin stretched and darkened, his eye replaced by a glowing red orb, and his mouth twisted into a grin that stretched too far, revealing jagged, yellowed teeth.

“Noah,” his father’s voice called out, a sickening mix of a scream and a laugh, layered with a deeper, inhuman growl. He took a step closer, his malformed hand reaching out, its fingers elongated and claw-like. “Bane… bane… bane…” The word echoed from his lips like a chant, each repetition laced with madness and glee.

Noah stumbled back, his back hitting the wall as he stared at the grotesque figure before him. The flames roared higher, surrounding him, and the shadows twisted and surged like they were alive. The air was thick with heat and smoke, and the walls around him groaned as the fire consumed them.

“Noah!” A voice cut through the chaos, faint but insistent. It was high and desperate, a glimmer of light in the suffocating darkness. “Noah, you have to wake up!”

His gaze darted around, searching for the source, but the voice faded as quickly as it had come. His mother’s smile remained fixed, and his father’s distorted face stretched into an expression of pure malice as he took another step forward, his laughter shaking the walls.

“Noah…” The voice came again, louder now, breaking through the din. Golden light flickered at the edge of his vision, and the cracks beneath him began to glow faintly.

Then, as if the world itself shattered around him, everything went dark.

Noah awoke to the sensation of cool grass beneath him, the faint scent of earth and greenery filling his lungs. The oppressive heat and suffocating smoke were gone, replaced by the crisp evening air. He blinked, disoriented, his vision swimming as the orange glow of flames gave way to the soft hues of a fading afternoon.

The sky above was streaked with shades of pink and gold, the sun sinking toward the horizon as the light bled gently into twilight. Noah pushed himself up on his elbows, his breath coming in uneven gasps. His heart still raced, the echoes of screams and laughter reverberating in his mind like a fading nightmare.

He looked around, confusion clouding his thoughts. How had he gotten here? The memory of the fire, the shadows, his parents—it all felt so vivid, so real, yet now it seemed impossibly far away, like a dream slipping through his fingers.

“Noah, sweetie, why are you lying on the ground?”

The voice startled him, soft and familiar. He turned toward it, his muscles tense, his mind still grappling with the trial’s remnants. His gaze settled on the figure standing nearby, her silhouette framed by the dimming light.

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- Luma POV -

Luma hovered anxiously in the air, her tiny wings fluttering so fast they were a blur. There had been moments—brief, flickering moments—when she’d been able to call out to Noah, her voice piercing through the oppressive haze of the trial. But the Book of Memories had quickly silenced her each time, its ancient magic pressing against her presence like a heavy door slamming shut. It wasn’t just keeping her out—it was keeping him in.

“Oh, sugar cubes, this isn’t good. This isn’t good. No, no, no,” she muttered to herself, her glow flickering erratically as she zipped back and forth. “What do I do? What do I do?”

Her tiny fists clenched as she spun toward the projection hovering before her—a shimmering window into the trial. Noah was there, his small form trembling as he wandered through the same memory, the same burning house, for the fourth time now. Each cycle was the same, but somehow worse, the shadows growing darker, the flames more consuming, the screams more haunting. The scene twisted subtly with each replay, the edges warping like a reflection on rippling water. It wasn’t breaking him all at once—it was wearing him down, piece by piece.

“This isn’t meant to happen,” Luma whispered, her voice quivering. Her wings drooped slightly, her glow dimming. “The Book of Memories isn’t supposed to do this. Trials are hard, yes, but not like this. Never like this.”

Her gaze shifted to Noah again, her heart aching as she saw the exhaustion etched into his face. His small hands clutched the banister of the burning staircase, his wide eyes filled with confusion and fear. He called out for his mother again, his voice cracking with desperation as he tried to push through the memory.

And the book held him there, unwavering, unrelenting.

Luma bit her lip, frustration bubbling inside her. She didn’t understand. The Book of Memories was ancient, yes, and its magic had its quirks, but it was a tool designed to test, not torment. It shouldn’t be sucking him in, binding him to this single, terrible memory as though it were feeding off his pain. Something had gone wrong—terribly wrong.

Her tiny hands flew to her head as she whirled in the air, trying to piece it together. “What’s doing this? What’s causing this?” she murmured, her voice rising with panic. Her thoughts raced, circling the possibilities.

Was it the creature—the thing that had corrupted the memory of his father? Its presence had twisted the trial into something far darker than it should have been. But… no, it couldn’t be that alone. The shadows had been too precise, too deliberate in their cruelty. This wasn’t random chaos.

Something else was at play here. Something bigger.

Her glow flared suddenly as another thought struck her, sending her heart plummeting. “Or… what if it’s him?” she whispered, her gaze snapping back to Noah. Her voice dropped to a tremble, the idea taking root. “What if he’s the reason?”

The Book of Memories was designed to draw on the essence of its challenger, pulling forth moments that defined their character—their fears, their regrets, their truths. But Noah… he wasn’t like anyone the book had tested before. His connection to the World Tree, his unspoken grief, his unresolved questions about himself—they were all tangled in ways that the book might not have been prepared to handle.

And then there was the hum. The hum she’d heard faintly through the trial, deeper and darker than the golden one she knew. It didn’t belong to the Book of Memories. It didn’t belong to her world at all.

“Noah…” she whispered, her glow dimming further as the weight of it all pressed down on her. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

Another flicker drew her attention back to the projection. The memory was shifting again, resetting, dragging Noah back to the start. He awoke in his bed, the smell of smoke creeping in, the glow of flames licking at the edges of the hallway. The cycle began anew, relentless in its attempt to break him.

“No, no, no!” Luma cried, darting toward the shimmering image, her tiny fists pounding uselessly against its surface. “Leave him alone! He’s just a kid! This isn’t fair!”

But the book didn’t listen. It never did. Its magic pulsed faintly, ancient and impenetrable, like the heartbeat of something timeless and unmoved. Luma hovered there for a moment, her tiny form trembling with helplessness.

Then, a faint light caught her eye—small, golden, and flickering like a distant star. Her breath hitched as she turned toward it, her wings stilling for the briefest moment. The glow was faint but steady, emanating from the cracks in the ground near the base of the pedestal where the book rested. It pulsed softly, out of rhythm with the book’s magic, as though trying to reach him.

“His World Tree…” Luma breathed, hope blooming faintly in her chest. The soft golden light that pulsed from the cracks in the ground was faint, almost fragile, but it was there—a reminder that Noah wasn’t entirely alone. The tree’s connection to him hadn’t been severed, not entirely. It wasn’t much—just a glimmer—but it was something. Something she could cling to.

“You’re still there,” she whispered, her voice trembling with equal parts relief and worry. “You’re still trying to help him.”

But as quickly as the hope surfaced, a crushing realization followed, tightening like a band around her chest. The World Tree—his World Tree—hadn’t existed during this memory. This was a fragment of the past, a time when Noah had no anchor, no guidance, no golden threads to hold him steady. It wasn’t enough. The tree’s magic was like a faint whisper in a storm, and the Book of Memories was too strong, too relentless.

The trial was dragging him deeper, replaying the same harrowing moments over and over, each cycle eroding his will like waves wearing down stone. The golden light from the World Tree pulsed faintly, a beacon of hope, but it couldn’t reach into the core of the memory. It wasn’t of this moment—it existed outside of this time, this place. It needed something—someone—to bridge the gap.

“Luma.”

The voice cut through the chaos, steady and deliberate, like the turning of a heavy page in a silent library. Luma froze, her wings fluttering erratically as she glanced over her shoulder. The golden cracks beneath her glowed faintly, but the sound of the voice sent a shiver down her small frame.

The Archivist stood behind her, his towering figure bathed in the dim light of the library’s vast, endless shelves. He didn’t move immediately, his ancient eyes fixed on the trembling projection of Noah’s trial. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way his fingers tapped lightly against his side—a tension, a calculation—as though he were weighing options.

“You—” Luma started, her voice sharp and frantic. She flew toward him, her glow brightening as her emotions flared. “You’ve been watching this whole time, haven’t you? Why didn’t you help? You could’ve—”

“Calm yourself,” the Archivist said, raising a hand to stop her tirade. His voice wasn’t stern, but it carried the weight of authority, enough to make her pause mid-flight. “I have been watching, yes. But this trial is Noah’s to face. Interference from me would only worsen things.”

“Worsen?” Luma’s voice cracked with frustration, her tiny fists clenched as she hovered in front of him. “It’s already worse! That book is tearing him apart, and you just—just stand there! Do you even care what happens to him?”

The Archivist’s gaze shifted to her, his expression softening slightly. “Of course I care, little one. More than you might imagine. But the Book of Memories is an ancient artifact. Its magic is not easily altered, even by me.” He gestured toward the projection, where Noah’s small figure stumbled through the smoke and flames again, the cycle resetting once more. “This trial has become corrupted, yes. But it’s not just the book at play here.”

“What do you mean?” Luma asked, her voice trembling. “What’s doing this?”

The Archivist stepped closer to the golden cracks, his sharp gaze fixed on the faint light seeping upward. He knelt, his long fingers brushing against the glow, and for a moment, his expression grew distant, contemplative. “The World Tree’s connection to Noah is trying to protect him. It senses the trial’s corruption, but it cannot act directly. This light is a bridge, yes, but it needs more—someone to carry its strength into the heart of the memory.”

“Me,” Luma said immediately, darting closer to the cracks. Her glow brightened with determination as she glanced back at him, her tiny form radiating conviction. “I can do it. I can get to him.”

The Archivist’s brow furrowed slightly, his expression shadowed with doubt. He straightened, his long fingers brushing against his robes as he stepped closer to the glowing cracks. His ancient gaze shifted from Luma to the trembling projection of Noah’s trial, where the boy stumbled once more, the smoke curling around him like a living thing.

“No,” the Archivist said finally, his voice calm but firm. “The memory needs to stay the same. If you were to force yourself inside this trial, you might just kill him.”

Luma froze mid-flight, her glow dimming as the weight of his words struck her. “Kill him?” she repeated, her voice small and disbelieving. “I’m trying to save him. How could I—”

“The Book of Memories,” the Archivist interrupted gently, “is ancient and powerful, but it is rigid. It operates within its own rules, weaving its magic around the essence of the one being tested. If you enter, you introduce an element that doesn’t belong—a foreign force. The book will see it as a threat and react accordingly. Noah’s trial will not adapt; it will collapse.”

“And if it collapses?” Luma pressed, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her fear.

The Archivist’s expression darkened. “If the trial collapses while he is still inside, it will not release him. The memory will consume him whole, binding him to it forever.”

Luma hovered in stunned silence, the golden cracks flickering faintly beneath her. She glanced at the projection again, at Noah’s small, trembling form as he relived the flames and screams for the fifth time. His cries for his mother echoed faintly through the magic, a heartbreaking sound that made her fists clench.

“But—” she began, her voice breaking. “I can’t just do nothing. I can’t watch him break like this.”

The Archivist’s gaze softened, his ancient eyes filled with something akin to understanding. “I know, little one,” he said quietly. “And that is why we must tread carefully. You cannot force your way in, but there may be another path.”

“Another path?” Luma’s wings beat faster as she darted closer to him. “What path? Tell me, please!”

The Archivist turned his attention back to the glowing cracks, his long fingers tracing the golden edges with a deliberate precision. The light pulsed faintly beneath his touch, responding to his presence as if recognizing something familiar. “The World Tree’s connection to Noah is faint, but it is strong enough to act as a bridge,” he said, his voice contemplative, as though he were piecing together a delicate puzzle.

Then, without turning to face her, he asked, “Tell me, Luma, how are you fairies birthed into your world?”

The question caught her off guard. Luma froze mid-flight, her glow flickering with confusion as she stared at him. “What?” she blurted, tilting her head. “What kind of question is that? You know how fairies are born in my world. Why would you ask that now of all times?”

The Archivist didn’t answer immediately. His fingers continued to trace the glowing cracks, his movements deliberate, as though searching for something just out of reach. “Humor me,” he said at last, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of curiosity. “Indulge an old Archivist’s wandering thoughts.”

Luma hovered closer, still baffled, her wings buzzing faintly with agitation. She glanced at the projection of Noah, where the cycle of the memory continued to replay, then turned back to the Archivist. “Fine,” she muttered, though her tone was laced with irritation. “Fairies are born from fairy trees.”

Her glow flickered as she began to explain, her voice taking on the rhythm of a well-rehearsed lesson. “When there’s a high level of magic in the air, fairies will sometimes mix their magic together over a blossomed flower. It takes time, but eventually, a fairy is born.” Her gaze softened slightly, as though recalling something distant and dear. “But that can only happen because the fairy trees themselves come from the World Tree. They’re born of its roots, its life essence.” She hesitated, glancing at the Archivist. “So, in part, we come from the World Tree’s essence, too. It’s… it’s part of us.”

The Archivist nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful as he traced the edges of the glowing cracks with his fingertips. “Exactly,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of understanding. “The World Tree’s essence flows through you, through every fairy born from its life-giving roots. That connection is not merely a bond; it is a truth, woven into the very fabric of your being.”

Luma tilted her head, her wings pausing for a brief moment. “Why are you telling me this now?” she asked, her glow dimming slightly. “What does it have to do with Noah?”

The Archivist’s gaze didn’t waver, his eyes sharp and thoughtful as he considered his next words. “Tell me, fairy,” he began, his tone slow and deliberate, “at any given time, does any of the fairies mother a newborn fairy? Do you help raise the new fairy, guide it as it grows? Or do they simply… know? Do they instinctively understand their magic, their purpose, what they are?”

Luma blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. Her wings fluttered unevenly as she thought, her glow flickering faintly. “We… inherit a few memories from our parents,” she said slowly, her voice uncertain, “but they don’t need to care for us. Not really. When a fairy is born, they just know what to do. It’s in our essence, our magic. It’s who we are.”

The Archivist nodded, his expression remaining unreadable. “I see. And you’ve never thought it strange? That you would awaken, whole and complete, knowing your purpose without guidance?”

Luma frowned, crossing her arms. “I don’t see what this has to do with anything. That’s just how we’re made. Why are you asking this now?”

“Because,” the Archivist said, turning his gaze back to the golden cracks, “this is not unlike what Noah is facing now. He does not know who he truly is, what lies within him. He is floundering, lost in the depths of a memory that does not define him, because he does not yet understand his essence. The trial is not merely testing him; it is trying to force him to see.”

“But… we don’t force newborn fairies to learn!” Luma protested, her glow brightening with agitation. “They just know. It’s different!”

“Is it?” The Archivist turned to her again, his voice calm but firm. “You said it yourself: fairies inherit a fragment of their parents’ memories. They are given just enough to anchor them, to help them step into their purpose. But Noah?” He gestured to the projection, where the boy stumbled through the memory once more, his small form trembling as the cycle reset. “He has no such inheritance. He has no one to guide him through this trial. He has only himself, and those he cares for—those who shaped him as he grew.”

Luma’s glow dimmed as she turned back to the projection, her heart twisting at the sight of Noah reliving the same pain over and over. “But he was guided,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “His parents guided him when he was young, didn’t they?”

The Archivist inclined his head slightly, his ancient eyes glinting as he glanced at her. “Indeed, they did. Two people who loved him deeply, who shaped his world and gave him the tools to navigate it. But based on the memory he’s being forced to relive, it seems one of those guides was taken from him. One of them… left his mortal world.”

Luma froze, her wings faltering mid-flutter. “His father,” she whispered, her glow flickering as realization settled over her. “That’s why the memory keeps pulling him back to him. He’s—he’s still holding on, isn’t he?”

The Archivist nodded, his expression softening. “It is more than that, little one. This memory is not merely a fragment of his past. It is a wound, a deep and unhealed scar that he has carried with him. The trial is forcing him to confront it, to relive it, because it knows this is where he is most vulnerable.”

He paused, his fingers lightly tapping against his temple as though organizing his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter but carried a weight that made Luma shiver. “Do you know a mother’s love, Luma?” he asked, his tone contemplative. “The instinctual, unwavering love for her child?”

Luma hesitated, her glow dimming further. “I… I don’t think I do,” she admitted, her voice small. “Fairies don’t have mothers the way mortals do. We don’t… experience love like that.”

The Archivist’s gaze lingered on her, his expression unreadable. “It is one of the oldest and most profound forces in existence,” he said softly. “A mother’s love is a law of the worlds, woven into the very fabric of creation. Even gods fear it.”

Luma blinked, startled. “Fear it? Why?”

The Archivist’s lips curved into a faint smile, though there was no humor in it. “Because if wielded with purpose, a mother’s love can shape worlds and tear them apart. It is selfless, boundless, and unyielding. Even the great systems that govern existence cannot stand against it. It is a power beyond calculation—a force that defies logic and shatters reason. Entire realms tremble at its potential.”

He tapped his temple gently, his tone softening further. “And yet, for all its power, it is fragile. The loss of that love—the severing of that connection—leaves wounds that even time struggles to heal. Noah’s trial is forcing him to stand in the shadow of that loss, over and over again, until he either succumbs to it… or finds the strength to move beyond it.”

Luma’s wings buzzed faintly as she processed his words, her small form trembling. “But… how can he find that strength if he doesn’t even realize what’s happening? If the trial keeps pulling him deeper into the pain?”

The Archivist regarded her quietly for a long moment before gesturing to the golden cracks beneath their feet. “That a mother’s love does not leave this world entirely,” the Archivist said, his voice steady but tinged with sorrow. “It lingers, woven into the lives it touched, the hearts it nurtured. Noah must see that his mother’s love has not abandoned him, even if her presence has. Only then will he find the strength to face what lies ahead.” The Archivist offered a faint smile before turning to leave, his steps slow and deliberate as he disappeared into the shadows of the library.

Luma hovered in silence, her glow flickering as she stared at the projection of Noah once more. His small form trembled at the top of the burning staircase, his tiny hands clutching the banister as though it could anchor him to safety. The flames raged below, smoke curling around him like a living thing. His cries echoed through the illusion, sharp and desperate, cutting through Luma’s chest like shards of glass.

“A mother’s love…” Luma whispered, her voice barely audible. The Archivist’s words lingered in her mind, heavy with meaning. Something about them sparked a thought, a connection she hadn’t considered before.

Her wings buzzed faintly as the idea began to take shape, her glow growing brighter. “A mother’s love,” she murmured again, this time with more certainty. “It doesn’t disappear… it doesn’t fade…”

Her gaze snapped to the golden cracks beneath her feet, the faint light pulsing in rhythm with the hum of the World Tree. The energy was steady and warm, waiting for her to act. She darted closer, her small hands hovering over the glow, her determination building.

----------------------------------------

-{The Archivist}-

The Archivist sighed as he lowered himself into his comfortable chair, the worn leather creaking slightly beneath him. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though every joint protested with a dull ache. He rested his hands on the armrests, his long fingers tapping a soft rhythm against the wood. “Old bones,” he muttered with a faint chuckle. “Always reminding me of the time I no longer have.”

He leaned back, his sharp eyes fixed on the shimmering display of Noah’s trial. The golden light of the cracks intertwined with the darker pulses of the Book of Memories’ magic, creating a chaotic dance that reflected the boy’s internal struggle. The faintest smile tugged at his lips. “I wonder if she will understand what I was hinting at,” he mused aloud, his voice carrying a note of amusement.

Behind him, a rustling sound broke the quiet. One of the Paper Society members stepped forward, its parchment-like body crackling softly with each movement. It tilted its ink-marked head toward the Archivist, its curiosity almost palpable. “Sir Archivist,” it began, its voice crisp and precise, “why did you speak with Miss Luma? What are you scheming at?”

The Archivist chuckled, his laughter low and rich, as though the question itself was a source of endless entertainment. “Scheming, you say?” He glanced over his shoulder at the Paper Society member, his eyes glinting with a mischievous light. “Do you think me capable of such things, old friend?”

The Paper Society member fluttered its edges, the parchment ruffling like the pages of an impatient book. “You are always scheming,” it replied bluntly. “Your words to the fairy carried weight, though you cloaked them in riddles. What is your intent?”

The Archivist turned back to the display, his expression shifting into something quieter, more contemplative. “Intent, hmm? That is a dangerous word. To have intent implies control, forethought, and certainty.” He gestured toward the glowing cracks, his long fingers slicing through the air like quills across paper. “And yet, this trial? This memory? It is chaos given form. Noah’s pain, his fear, his love—they shape the trial, not me.”

“You did not answer the question,” the Paper Society member pressed, its tone sharp but devoid of malice.

The Archivist smiled faintly, his gaze never leaving the display. “I gave her a spark,” he said at last, his voice softer. “A thread of understanding to hold onto as she steps into the unknown. The fairy has strength, yes, but even the strongest need a compass when the world around them crumbles.”

“A compass?” the Paper Society member echoed, its parchment shifting with faint skepticism. “Or a burden?”

“Perhaps both,” the Archivist admitted, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “But a burden shared is one lightened. Luma must understand the weight of her role, just as Noah must understand the weight of his truth. Only then can they step beyond the shadows of this trial.”

The Paper Society member remained silent for a moment, its inked edges rippling thoughtfully. “And what of you, Sir Archivist? What weight do you carry?”

The Archivist chuckled again, his voice deep and resonant. “Oh, my weight is an old one,” he replied with a wry smile. “It has settled into my bones and my thoughts, familiar and unyielding. But do not worry yourself over an old man’s aches. Focus instead on the present—for the boy and the fairy have a path to tread, and it is not mine to walk.”

The Paper Society member tilted its head once more, as though considering his words. “You always speak in riddles.”

“And you always listen,” the Archivist replied, his tone playful. “Now, be still. I wish to watch what unfolds next.”

With that, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the glowing display, his expression a careful mask of curiosity and something deeper—something he kept hidden even from the ancient books and pages that surrounded him.

“And how are we able to watch what is happening inside,” the Paper Society member asked, its parchment edges fluttering faintly as it stepped closer, “since the crystal within the trial was distorted?”

The Archivist smiled, a faint, knowing curve of his lips. His fingers steepled before him, tapping together lightly as though the question itself amused him. “Ah, a fine observation,” he said, his voice warm and layered with an almost teasing tone. “The crystal in the trial chamber was indeed compromised. The corruption that plagues the Book of Memories distorts its connection, like static across an old transmission.”

The Paper Society member tilted its ink-marked head, its curiosity unyielding. “Then how do we see what unfolds? What source are you using?”

The Archivist’s gaze flicked toward the projection, the glowing display shimmering faintly as it depicted Noah’s trembling form, caught once more in the endless cycle of fire and shadow. “The crystal’s distortion blinds those bound to the rules of the trial,” he explained, his tone patient. “But I am not bound to those rules. My connection to the library, to the greater threads of this world’s magic, allows me to see beyond the confines of the trial’s design.”

He gestured lazily toward the projection, his fingers trailing through the air as though brushing against unseen strings. “This image, this glimpse, is not bound to the crystal alone. It is woven from fragments of the World Tree’s light, from the echoes of the trial’s magic, and from the boy’s own essence. A tapestry of glimpses, stitched together by the library’s wisdom.”

The Paper Society member rippled faintly, its pages fluttering in thoughtful silence. “So you use the library itself as a lens?” it asked after a moment, its tone laced with cautious admiration. “You draw upon its magic to bypass the trial’s corruption?”

The Archivist inclined his head slightly, his smile deepening. “In a manner of speaking. The library is not merely a repository of knowledge—it is a living, breathing thing, connected to the very fabric of existence. It holds whispers of what is, what was, and even what may yet come. By attuning myself to those whispers, I can weave a clearer image, even when the direct path is obscured.”

“And yet,” the Paper Society member pressed, its edges fluttering with a faint ripple of unease, “to do so risks pulling the library into the trial’s corruption. Is it not dangerous to tether yourself so closely to chaos?”

The Archivist’s expression grew quieter, his gaze fixed on the projection. “Danger and knowledge are often close companions,” he said softly. “But without risk, there is no understanding. And without understanding, there is no guidance. I have walked this path for centuries, my friend. The boy’s trial is not the first shadow I have peered into, and it will not be the last.”

The Paper Society member remained still, its form rustling faintly as though contemplating his words. “And yet,” it said after a moment, its voice quieter, “there is something different about this one, isn’t there? Something… more.”

The Archivist did not answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the projection, on the trembling boy and the faint golden light of the cracks seeping into the edges of the trial. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Yes,” he admitted. “There is more at play here than the boy, the book, or the trial. Threads are converging, threads I cannot yet see clearly. But I know this: whatever lies at the heart of this moment will ripple far beyond this library.”

His gaze sharpened, his voice steady as he added, “And that is why we watch. To understand. To prepare.”

The Paper Society member inclined its head, a faint rustle of acknowledgment passing through its form. “As you say, Sir Archivist. We watch.”

The Archivist leaned back in his chair once more, his fingers steepled again as his eyes remained fixed on the shimmering display. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice almost to himself. “We watch.”