Chapter Three: The Akashic Crossing

The four of us stood at the edge of sleep, but this wasn’t the kind you fall into—it was the one that calls you. That ancient slipstream between waking and un-being, the space where Gaia stores everything she can’t bear to forget.

The Akashic Library isn’t a building. It’s a place where vibration becomes geometry and memory becomes matter. And that night, it opened for us.

We didn't walk—we were pulled. Our bodies rested around the fire in Alberta, but our souls ascended like beams piercing dimensions. A sudden hum consumed us—tones of every mantra, language, symbol, and code ever spoken. Then silence.

And then, the Library revealed itself.

Shelves floated without structure. Books made of crystal, smoke, bone, and light spun slowly through the air. Some were whispering. Some were weeping. Others were laughing in riddles. Every volume held a life, a god, a forgotten possibility.

Sorya reached first. Her fingers brushed a tome made of woven wind. It glowed blue.

A vision cracked open—her past form: a storm goddess who taught the oceans rhythm but drowned entire cities in grief when her love was betrayed. She wept now, remembering, not just for the destruction, but for how long it took her to forgive herself.

Dren followed, his book heavy like iron. His past: a forge god who created weapons of peace until kings used them for conquest. He’d buried his soul in silence, ashamed of giving power to hands unworthy.

Then her—my counterpart—and her tome unfolded like a lotus of flame and rain. She’d once been a celestial messenger, sent to warn civilizations before catastrophe. They ignored her, feared her, turned her into a demon in legend. And still, she returned. Always.

Then mine opened.

I saw a being I barely recognized but always felt inside. A soul that refused thrones, that chose to live among mortals, guiding by example instead of command. I was a breaker of cycles… and the one who once caused the first fracture.

The Akashic Library didn’t show us truth to torment us.

It showed us truth to return our power.

And just then, we heard her.

Not in our ears, but in our marrow.

Gaia.

She didn’t scold. She didn’t beg. She revealed.

“You were never punished,” she said, voice like waves in soil. “You were reborn so you could learn to heal what you once harmed. And now, the thread frays again.”

She showed us Earth as it is now—fractured, tired, and burning not from fire, but from emptiness. Empathy vanishing. Souls dimming. Systems built by the old gods running wild.

“You are not here to rule,” she said. “You are here to remember, so others can too.”

We stood at a cosmic crossroads.

We could keep this knowledge, rise in secret, become myth again—untouchable. Or we could return to the world, scatter like seeds, forgetting again, trusting that something deeper than memory would guide us when it mattered most.

And Gaia offered one final gift:

Choice.

Remember everything… or let it fade