Chapter 31: The Lackless Door

THE OLD LACKLESS estate was a day’s ride from Severen.

Meluan led us there herself—a concession that surprised me almost as much as her willingness to speak. Whatever she’d seen behind that door had shaken her deeply, enough to set aside centuries of hatred between our bloodlines.

“The estate has been abandoned for generations,” she explained as we rode. “The family kept it sealed—passed down instructions that it should never be inhabited, never be explored. We always assumed it was superstition. Old fears with no basis in reality.”

“What changed?”

“I found letters. Old correspondence between Lackless ancestors and someone they called ‘the Keeper.’” Her voice tightened. “The letters spoke of a responsibility. A burden passed from generation to generation. The family’s true purpose—not land or title, but guardianship.”

“Guardianship of what?”

“The door.” She looked at me, and her eyes were haunted. “We’ve been guarding it for three thousand years, Kvothe. Since before the Empire. Since before the University. Since before anything anyone remembers.”

The estate emerged from morning mist like a ghost from another age. Crumbling walls, collapsed towers, courtyards choked with centuries of growth. The stones themselves seemed to radiate wrongness—a pressure in the air that made my teeth ache.

“The door is in the lowest level,” Meluan said, dismounting. “Beneath the foundations. In chambers that were old when the rest of this place was built.”

We descended through passages that hadn’t seen light in generations. Cobwebs thick as curtains. Dust that rose in clouds with each step. And everywhere, that sense of pressure—of something vast and patient, waiting in the darkness.

The door was exactly as Meluan had described.

Stone and shadow. Ancient beyond measure. And somehow, impossibly, alive.

It stood at the end of a long chamber, set into the living rock of the hillside. The surface was covered in carvings—symbols I recognized as Yllish, but older than any I’d studied. Patterns that seemed to move in the torchlight, shifting and reforming like restless dreams.

But it was the crack that drew my attention.

A line of darkness running down the center of the door, thin as a hair but unmistakably present. And from that crack, something leaked—not light, not sound, but presence. Something enormous pressing against the barrier. Testing its limits.

“It wasn’t there a month ago,” Meluan said quietly. “The crack. I came to inspect the door—part of my duty as Lackless heir—and found it had appeared sometime in the past year.”

“Since I left Severen.”

“Yes. Perhaps coincidence. Perhaps not.”

I stepped closer to the door, ignoring every instinct that screamed at me to run. The carvings seemed to pulse as I approached, responding to my presence.

“What is this writing?” I asked.

“Yllish, mostly. But older than any form I’ve seen documented.” Meluan moved to stand beside me, pointing at specific symbols. “Here—this is a binding. This is a seal. This is a warning, repeated over and over.”

“The words you quoted. ‘Here sleeps what must not wake.’”

“Yes. But there’s more.” She traced a pattern near the top of the door. “This section speaks of ‘the seven who hold’ and ‘the silence that waits.’ It mentions a song—‘the song that ends all songs.’”

I felt cold spread through my chest.

“Denna’s song.”

“I don’t know who Denna is. But whatever song this refers to, it’s connected to the door. Connected to what’s behind it.” Meluan’s voice dropped. “I think the song is a key, Kvothe. Or part of a key. And someone is trying to use it to open what we’ve kept closed.”

“The Chandrian.”

“Possibly. The writing mentions ‘the seven who hold’—that could be the Chandrian, bound to the door as guardians.” She shook her head. “But the text is fragmentary. Damaged by time. I can’t be certain of anything.”

I pressed my hand against the door’s surface.

The stone was warm—body temperature, as if it contained living flesh. And beneath my palm, I felt something stir. A recognition. A hunger.

Come, something whispered in my mind. Open. Release us.

I pulled my hand away.

“It knows I’m here,” I said.

“Yes.” Meluan’s voice was grim. “It knows everyone who approaches. It’s been calling to me since I first found it. Promising things. Offering knowledge.”

“What kind of knowledge?”

“The truth about the Chandrian. The truth about the Amyr. The truth about…” She hesitated. “About your family. Your mother.”

The words hit like a physical blow.

“What do you know about my mother?”

“Nothing.” Her eyes met mine. “But the thing behind the door… it claims to know everything. Every secret that’s ever been kept. Every lie that’s ever been told. It offers truth in exchange for freedom.”

“And you don’t believe it.”

“I believe it’s trying to manipulate me. Find the weakness that will make me open the door.” She turned away from the stone. “But the temptation is real. The desire to know… it’s almost overwhelming.”

I understood. I felt it too—the pull of the door, the promise of answers to every question that had haunted me since childhood.

But I also felt the wrongness. The hunger beneath the seductive whispers. Whatever was behind that door, it wasn’t offering truth out of kindness. It was offering bait.

“We need to seal it,” I said. “Reinforce whatever bindings are holding it closed.”

“How? The old knowledge is lost. The techniques our ancestors used—no one practices them anymore.”

“Someone does.” I thought of Devi. Of the Yllish knots in Denna’s hair. Of the patterns Cinder was carving into her flesh. “Someone is practicing exactly this kind of magic. And they’re using it to open doors, not close them.”

A thought struck me—unwelcome but persistent. “Meluan, has anyone else been to this chamber recently? Anyone who showed unusual interest in the door?”

“Several people have visited over the years. Scholars, mostly. The occasional noble with historical interests.” She paused. “Why?”

“Because if someone is trying to open the doors, they would need to study them first. Learn how the bindings work before trying to break them.”

“There was one man,” Meluan said slowly. “An older gentleman. Very cultured, very knowledgeable. He came perhaps two years ago, with letters of introduction from several respected houses. He spent three days here, studying the door and the old texts.”

My heart beat faster. “What did he look like?”

“White hair. Silver-topped walking stick. Moved with surprising grace for his age.” She frowned. “He called himself Lord Brendan, though I later learned no such title exists in Vintas.”

Bredon. It had to be.

But what did that mean? Was he trying to open the doors, or prevent their opening? Was he the enemy I was hunting, or an ally I couldn’t afford to trust?

“Did he find anything?”

“He took extensive notes. Asked many questions about the family history, about the symbols on the door.” Meluan’s voice hardened. “He also asked about the Lackless box. About who would inherit if our line failed.”

The implications were clear—and disturbing. If Bredon was working to open the doors, his interest in the box made perfect sense. But if he was Amyr, fighting to keep them closed, why would he care about Lackless inheritance?

Unless he was playing both sides. Or unless the Amyr weren’t as benevolent as the legends claimed.

“Then we need to find them,” I said, filing this information away.

“We need to stop them.” I turned back to the door. “But first, I need to understand what we’re dealing with. There has to be documentation somewhere. Records of how the binding was created.”

“The pruned Archives,” Meluan said quietly.

“What?”

“The letters I found—they mentioned a collection of texts. Dangerous knowledge, removed from public access. The writers were concerned it might fall into the wrong hands.” She met my eyes. “They called it ‘the pruned collection.’ And they said it was kept in a place of learning, guarded by those who understood its importance.”

The University. Lorren. The Amyr.

Everything was connected. Everything led back to the same hidden war, the same ancient conflict, the same doors that someone desperately wanted to open.

“I need to get back,” I said. “To the University. To the Archives.”

“The Maer—”

“I’ll find the poisoner first. But then I have to leave.” I looked at the door one last time—at the crack that was slowly, imperceptibly widening. “Before this opens completely. Before whatever’s behind it gets free.”

The door seemed to pulse in response. Not with light. With darkness.

And somewhere in my mind, the name of silence stirred, recognizing its opposite.

Its enemy.

Its prey.