SECRET 415 Chapter 8 — The Visitor in the Slate-Grey Coat

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Chapter 8 — The Fire That Burns Stories

The silence of the charred library still hung heavy, but the town hall clock beating backwards reminded everyone that they had no time left. Abel had closed the suitcase containing the case where the original page still struggled, invisible yet palpable: a weight of syllables, a beating heart of ink that vibrated against the leather.

“The Book won’t be able to hold it for long,” he said in a low voice. “We need the fire.”

Louvel, curled up against a shelf, looked up, ashen.
“What fire? The flames of a furnace, of a fireplace? Words don’t fear human heat.”

Abel gave a faint smile.
“Not a physical fire. The fire of origins. The one that precedes and erases. Where stories are born and where they die.”

Naïma gripped the handle of her weapon as if she could bite through the enigmas.
“And where do we find that, your invisible fire?”

It was a mouse who answered. The smallest, but the liveliest, its whiskers still covered in paper dust.
“At the Knot of Tales.”

The other mice nodded gravely.

They left the library. Outside, the town was no longer the same. Passersby sang as they walked, without realizing it. Syllables had slipped into conversations: a “good evening” ended with a “-kal,” a child’s nursery rhyme repeated “ra-sha” as if it had always been there. Even the distant barking of dogs seemed contaminated by the rhythm.

Junon grew restless, ears flat, snout twitching. She perceived the creeping contamination better than anyone.

“If this continues,” Naïma whispered, “in two days half the country will be speaking that language.”

Abel, unflappable, raised his compass with its unknown graduations. The needle spun for a moment, then froze, pointing towards the hills.
“The Knot is that way.”

The walk was long. They left Val-d’Enbas by a frozen path, skirting black forests where the trees seemed to lean in to listen. The snow grew heavier, the flakes thicker. Every time Naïma blinked, she thought she saw fleeting words in the white swirls.

Louvel staggered but pressed on.
“I feel… stories everywhere. As if the world were a page being constantly scribbled out.”

Abel replied calmly,
“That’s exactly it.”

The mice scouted ahead, leaving small, regular footprints in the snow. From time to time, they consulted each other, nodding like experienced cartographers.

Junon stayed near Naïma, sometimes growling into the darkness, where nothing seemed to move… but where everything was watching.

After several hours, they reached a clearing. At its center, a gaping excavation opened in the ground, like a well surrounded by standing stones. On each stone, blurred silhouettes were engraved—a dragon, a king, a young girl in a red cloak, a spaceship. Icons of stories, eroded by time.

Abel knelt.
“Here is the threshold. The Knot of Tales.”

Louvel stepped forward, trembling.
“This is where everything we tell eventually converges… and sometimes gets lost.”

Naïma approached the well. A heat rose from it, but it wasn't the heat of a fire. More like a breath… as if a thousand voices were speaking at once from the depths.

The mice regrouped. The oldest one raised its pocket watch. The hands stopped, both pointing toward the center.
“We must go down.”

They tied a rope around a stone and ventured into the opening. The air grew warmer, saturated with a strange smell—not of smoke, nor of earth, but of ancient paper and melted wax.

The descent lasted a long time. The walls were covered in graffiti, unfinished sentences, fragments of tales:
“Once upon a time…”
“And then the hero…”
“No one remembered his name anymore…”

Naïma clenched her teeth. Every inscription seemed to want to enter her head, as if it could force her to complete the story.

Junon barked, the sound echoing, pushing back the whispers.

Finally, they reached the bottom.

The cavern of the Knot stretched out before them. An immense vault, illuminated by flames suspended in the air like fireflies of fire. At the center, a colossal brazier rotated on itself, without wood or fuel. It was a living flame, ever-changing, shifting from blue to red, from gold to black.

Louvel fell to his knees, mouth agape.
“The Fire that burns stories…”

Abel set the suitcase down before him. The Book inside vibrated like a drum.
“This is it. If we throw the original page in, it will be destroyed for good.”

Naïma, cautious, raised her hand.
“Wait. What does it do… to the other stories?”

Abel looked away.
“It doesn’t always choose. The Fire can accidentally swallow other tales. Certain memories, certain legends. Maybe even lives.”

Louvel paled.
“You mean burning one page can erase something else with it?”

Abel nodded.
“That’s the price. All destruction leaves ashes.”

As the debate began, the suitcase opened by itself. The metal case vibrated, and the original page escaped from it on a breath. It hovered above the brazier, illuminated by white glows. The syllables began to resonate, more powerful than ever.

“RA — SHA — NO — KAL!”

The cavern shook. The flames twisted. The inscriptions on the walls began to animate, to emerge from the stones like silhouettes: heroes, monsters, miniature gods, all surging forth, all drawn to the page.

Naïma drew her weapon, uselessly, but ready. Junon leaped, barking furiously.

Louvel cried out, his voice breaking:
“If it falls into the fire without guidance, it will take everything with it!”

Abel stepped forward, eyes fixed on the page, hand outstretched as if to calm a wild beast.
“Then we must tell its destiny ourselves. Give it an ending. Otherwise, it will invent one.”

The page vibrated again, hesitating between the flame and the air.

The flames rose like giant hands, ready to seize.

The whole group stood on a razor’s edge.
“Captain,” said Abel without taking his eyes off it, “it’s up to you. You are the only one here who has never written a story. The page can’t influence you. Tell it what becomes of it.”

Naïma felt her throat tighten. She was just a cop, not a storyteller. But the brazier roared, the cavern vibrated, and if she stayed silent, all of Val-d’Enbas risked disappearing into a mispronounced syllable.

Junon pressed her head against Naïma’s thigh, a silent support.

So Naïma spoke.
“This page is not a weapon. It is not a curse. It is nothing but a useless memory. And useless memories… burn on their own.”

The page shuddered, as if wounded. It glowed brightly, then threw itself into the fire.

The brazier roared, projecting a shockwave of heat that made the whole group stagger. Thousands of voices screamed at once, then fell silent.

Silence.

When the light calmed, only ashes remained, suspended in the air, falling gently like black snow.

Abel picked up the suitcase, now light. Louvel was crying, unsure if it was from relief or loss. The mice held each other’s paws, the pocket watch stopped.

Naïma looked at the flames, still flickering.
“So… it’s over?”

Abel shook his head.
“The Fire burned the page. But I fear it took something else with it.”

“What?” asked Naïma.

He looked at her, grave.
“A part of our stories. Of your stories. You won’t be long in noticing it.”

And in the gloom, Junon whimpered softly, as if she already knew that something essential had just been lost.