The interior of the High Tower didn't look like a building. It looked like the inside of a massive, golden ribcage.
Every wall was lined with crystalline tubes, each one glowing with the soft, rhythmic pulse of a stolen dream. There were millions of them—vials of blue, gold, and crimson light, stacked in endless spirals that reached so high they disappeared into a haze of artificial incense. This was the Archive of Dreams, the source of every Mark in Oakhaven.
"It's... it's beautiful," Jaxon whispered, his illusory silk suit flickering as he leaned against a crystal pillar. He reached out a hand to touch a vial of bright emerald light labeled 'Master Surgeon – Grade A.' "Don't touch it!" I hissed, grabbing his wrist.
The moment my fingers brushed the glass, the locket in my pocket didn't just vibrate—it screamed. A wave of cold nausea washed over me.
"What's wrong?" Jaxon asked, pulling back, his eyes wide.
"They aren't dreams, Jaxon," I said, my voice trembling. I looked closer at the emerald vial. Inside the glowing liquid, I saw something tiny and grey, shriveled like a dried leaf. "These aren't 'excess' talents harvested from the blessed. These are Souls."
The Scholar's logic in my mind processed the data at a terrifying speed. The city didn't just "give" people Marks. It took a child, drained them of their potential until they were a "Blank," and then bottled that potential to sell it back to the highest bidder.
"Oakhaven isn't a city of destiny," I whispered, the horror sinking into my bones. "It's a city of cannibals. They're eating the futures of the poor to power the lives of the rich."
"Subject 006. Always so quick to understand the technicalities."
The voice didn't come from the stairs. It came from the very air around us.
A platform of white light descended from the ceiling. Standing on it was the man in the Silver Mask—the Hunter—and beside him stood a man in robes so white they hurt to look at. This man didn't have a Mark on his wrist or his temple. He had a Halo of golden light that hovered inches above his head.
The Prime Minister.
"Your 'Light-Skin' is impressive, Elara," the Prime Minister said, his voice as smooth as polished silk. "To project a White Mark using only the residual energy of three dead Hollows... you are truly the masterpiece of the Archive."
Jaxon stepped in front of me, his illusory staff glowing with fake blue sparks. "Stay back! She's an Oracle! If you touch her, the city will—"
The Prime Minister gave a small, bored wave of his hand.
A ripple of golden force slammed into Jaxon, throwing him across the marble floor. The "Light-Skin" illusion shattered instantly, revealing his dirty rags and his broken, sparking Blue Mark. He groaned, clutching his ribs as he slid against a wall of crystal vials.
"Enough with the theater," the Hunter said, his Crimson Mark flaring with a violent, bloody intensity. He stepped off the platform, his silver mask reflecting my terrified face. "The girl is a Blank. A Void. A mistake that we turned into a miracle."
I backed away, my hand gripping the locket. "You made me. You wiped my memory and turned me into a 'Ghost Key' to fix your dying machines."
"Not just to fix machines, Elara," the Prime Minister said, stepping closer. His golden halo pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat. "The Archive is running dry. The people are greedy. They want more talent, more success, more life. But the 'Blanks' we harvest are getting weaker. We needed a vessel that could hold everything. A vessel that could drink the dreams of a thousand men and not break."
He pointed to the center of the room, where a massive, empty crystal throne sat beneath a dome of swirling black energy.
"You aren't here to destroy us," the Prime Minister smiled, and it was the cruelest thing I had ever seen. "You're here to be the Crown. Once you sit on that throne, the locket will act as a bridge. You will absorb the entire Archive into your Void, and then we will bleed you for eternity. A thousand years of perfect Marks, all coming from one, beautiful, empty girl."
"I'd rather die," I spat, the silver light in my eyes flaring.
"Death is a luxury for those with a destiny," the Hunter said, lunging forward with a speed that defied physics.
He didn't use a sword. He used his Crimson Mark to weave a net of red light in the air. It moved like a living thing, closing in on me from all sides.
I reached for the locket, ready to "Invert" the energy, but the Hunter was faster. He slapped a small, lead-lined disc onto the locket through my dress.
The vibration stopped. The "Void" inside me felt like it was behind a thick, iron door.
"A Silence-Seal," the Hunter whispered in my ear as his red net wrapped around my arms and legs, pinning me to the floor. "Custom-made for ghosts."
I struggled, the red light burning my skin like acid, but it was no use. I was paralyzed. I looked over at Jaxon, who was unconscious, his broken Mark flickering one last time before going dark.
The Prime Minister walked over and knelt beside me. He touched my cheek with a cold, white-gloved hand.
"Don't be sad, Elara," he whispered. "You wanted a dream, didn't you? Tonight, you get to be everyone's dream at once."
He signaled to the remaining Hollows—ten of them—who emerged from the shadows to lift me toward the throne.
As I was carried toward the black dome, my mind raced. The locket was sealed. My ally was down. I was a girl without a dream, about to be turned into a battery for a city of monsters.
But as the first wire of the throne touched my neck, I heard a new sound. It wasn't the locket. It wasn't the Scholar.
It was the Archive.
Millions of stolen souls, trapped in their crystal bottles, began to hum. They weren't singing for the Prime Minister. They were screaming for me.
"The Void..." they whispered in a chorus of a million voices. "...the Void is the only place we can go."
I looked at the Prime Minister, a drop of blood trickling down my neck.
"You made a mistake," I whispered, even as the machines began to drain my soul.
"And what was that?" he asked.
"You gave a Void... a reason to be hungry."