Archiveborn Chronicals - book 1: Heir of Forgotten Memories: Archiveborn Chronicals, #1

By J Wondrey

Archiveborn Chronicles: Heir to Forgotten Memories

In a world where memories are currency, the poor sell their happiest moments to survive, while the powerful hoard lifetimes of experience. The secretive Archivist Guild controls the flow of memories—and the fate of nations.

Seventeen-year-old Lira has grown up with nothing but fragments of her past and a single, haunting memory she refuses to sell. When a desperate act reveals her forbidden ability to steal memories, Lira is thrust into the deadly politics of the Archivists—a world of hidden alliances, ancient secrets, and magic that can rewrite history itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J Wondrey
• Release date: May 26, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231406715

J Wondrey

J. Wondrey is a writer who explores the darker corners of the heart and mind. An ICU nurse by profession, Wondrey brings a deep understanding of life's most fragile moments into stories that blend emotional intensity with gripping realism. Known for crafting slow-burning narratives filled with raw vulnerability, quiet resilience, and characters you can't forget, J. Wondrey writes fiction that lingers. Whether it's love, trauma, healing, or human connection, the stories go beyond entertainment—they're a reflection of what it means to survive and still feel deeply. When not writing or working night shifts in critical care, Wondrey spends time journaling, observing the world in quiet moments, and turning truth into story—one page at a time.

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Memory Market

The air hung thick and heavy in Porthaven's Memory Market, a miasma of desperation and decay clinging to the cobblestones. The stench of stale fish mingled with the sweeter, cloying aroma of rotting fruit, a perfume only the desperately poor could afford. Elara, all elbows and knees at thirteen, navigated the throng with the practiced ease of a seasoned rat, her eyes constantly scanning for opportunity, for a stray coin, a dropped pouch, anything to stave off the gnawing emptiness in her belly.

Her stomach grumbled a protest, a low, rumbling growl that was a familiar companion. She hadn't eaten properly in two days, a fact that did little to diminish the biting chill that seeped through her threadbare cloak. The Market, a sprawling labyrinth of stalls and alleys, was a brutal testament to the Archivists’ control over Aethel. Here, memories weren't just intangible recollections; they were currency, a commodity traded like grain or cloth, their value determined by the whims of the wealthy and the desperation of the poor.

Elara saw it every day: the opulent carriages that rolled through the Market's outskirts, their occupants aloof and unseeing, their faces masked by a veil of indifference. They were the hoarders, the ones who bought memories in bulk – entire lifetimes of experience, carefully cataloged and preserved, like precious jewels. These memories, vibrant and potent, represented power, influence, even political leverage. They were the lifeblood of Aethel's elite, purchased and traded with casual disregard.

In stark contrast were the sellers, the gaunt and hollow-eyed individuals huddled in the Market's shadow, their faces etched with lines of hardship and regret. Their memories, their personal histories, were bartered away for meager scraps of food, a night’s lodging, a meager dose of the opiate-like drug, MemForget, that dulled the pain of loss. Elara saw the vacant stare in their eyes, the chilling void left behind when a lifetime's worth of experiences was sold for a single loaf of bread.

She watched a wizened old woman haggle over the price of a single, faded memory orb – a tiny sphere of shimmering glass containing a fragmented memory of a summer's day, the scent of lavender, the sound of children's laughter. The buyer, a portly merchant with rings glittering on his fingers, dismissed it with a sneer, deeming it too mundane, too lacking in historical significance. The woman's face crumpled; her shoulders slumped under the weight of defeat and hunger. It was a scene Elara had witnessed countless times, a daily ritual of despair and exploitation, a cruel dance played out under the watchful gaze of the Archivists.

Today, Elara's goal was modest: to earn enough to buy a loaf of bread and a small vial of MemForget. The drug wasn't much, just enough to numb the edges of her constant hunger, to quiet the gnawing emptiness that threatened to consume her. It wasn't a cure, just a fleeting reprieve. She’d learned long ago not to dwell on the longing, the ache for a life beyond the Market's squalor, a life where food wasn't a luxury but a necessity. Hope, she'd discovered, was a dangerous commodity in Porthaven. It could lead to crushing disappointment.

She spent hours scurrying through the crowded alleys, offering her services as a runner, a messenger, a temporary hand for the busier merchants. She was nimble, quick-witted, and possessed an uncanny ability to disappear into the crowd. These skills, honed by years of surviving on the streets, were her only assets. Occasionally, she'd even attempt to recover lost or discarded memory orbs, carefully cleaning them and selling them to less discerning buyers. It was risky work; the penalty for theft was severe, but the hunger was a more pressing concern.

As dusk began to settle, casting long shadows across the Market, Elara finally managed to accumulate enough coins for her meager supper. She bought the bread, the cheapest and smallest loaf, its crust hard and its interior crumbly. The MemForget was a luxury she couldn't afford; tonight, she'd have to rely on sheer willpower to withstand the pangs of hunger. She found a relatively quiet corner, tucked away in the shadow of a crumbling building, and ate her bread slowly, savoring each bite. It was small comfort, but it was enough for tonight.

As she ate, she overheard fragments of conversations, snippets of memories whispered between buyers and sellers. She heard tales of grand feasts and lavish balls, of romantic encounters and bitter betrayals, all compressed into those tiny, gleaming orbs. She wondered about the people whose memories were being bought and sold, the lives that were being dissected and traded like commodities. Did they even know what had become of their pasts? Did they feel the void, the emptiness left behind?

She pondered the immense power wielded by the Archivists, the seemingly limitless control they had over the lives of Aethel’s citizens. They didn't just trade memories; they shaped history, manipulating events, dictating narratives, and erasing inconvenient truths. The very fabric of Aethel’s society was woven from the threads of carefully curated memories. Elara, in her humble corner of the Market, felt the weight of this vast, unseen power, the chilling grip it had on everyone's lives, including her own.

The memories of others swirling around her in the Market, a tapestry of joys and sorrows, of triumphs and defeats, began to feel oppressive. She was acutely aware that her life was as much a commodity as anyone else's, her existence a fragile thing, subject to the whims of fate and the merciless grip of poverty. Her thoughts drifted to the future, a future she couldn’t quite imagine. Would she always be trapped in this cycle of survival, this endless struggle for food and shelter? Or would some twist of fate, some unforeseen opportunity, ever allow her to escape the Market's suffocating embrace? The question hung heavy in the air, as unanswered and as elusive as the memories that surrounded her. But that night, nestled in the shadows of the Memory Market, Elara felt a small spark of defiance ignite within her. It was a spark, faint but persistent, a flicker of hope in the overwhelming darkness, a promise of something more.

The last bite of bread gone, Elara pressed herself further into the shadows, the chill seeping into her bones. The sounds of the Market – the haggling, the hushed whispers, the distant cries of vendors – began to fade, replaced by a creeping silence that felt almost palpable. A shiver, unrelated to the cold, ran down her spine. She felt…observed.

The feeling intensified, a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck, a sense of being watched by unseen eyes. Slowly, cautiously, she turned her head, her gaze sweeping across the dimly lit alleyway. Nothing. Just the usual detritus of the Market: discarded scraps of fabric, broken memory orbs, the lingering stench of decay. She dismissed it as the product of an overactive imagination, a byproduct of hunger and exhaustion.

Then she saw him.

He stood at the edge of the alleyway, a figure shrouded in dark, flowing robes that seemed to absorb the meager light of the setting sun. His face was hidden in shadow, but Elara sensed rather than saw a presence – powerful, ancient, and unsettlingly familiar. There was an aura about him, an otherworldly quality that set him apart from the other inhabitants of the Market. He was not of this place, she knew instinctively; he was something… more.

Fear, sharp and icy, pierced through her fatigue. Yet, strangely, a countervailing emotion stirred within her – curiosity. A sense of anticipation, as if she had been waiting for this encounter, for this mysterious figure to appear.

He didn't speak, didn't make a sound. He simply stood there, his presence a heavy weight in the stillness of the night. Elara held her breath, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. The silence stretched, taut and expectant, each second stretching into an eternity. The only sounds were the distant cries of gulls and the creak of the crumbling building behind her.

Then, a voice, low and resonant, like the tolling of a distant bell, broke the silence. It seemed to echo not just in her ears but within her very being. Elara, it whispered, the name falling from his lips like a secret revealed.

Elara froze, a gasp escaping her lips. She knew her name. How did he know her name? In the vast anonymity of the Memory Market, knowing her name was like knowing her deepest secrets. Fear warred with a strange, unsettling sense of recognition.

The figure stepped closer, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin. The scent of old parchment and something else… something indefinably ancient and powerful, filled the air. It was a fragrance that both repelled and captivated her, a scent that stirred long-dormant memories within her – memories she hadn't known she possessed.

You are more than you believe, the voice continued, each word dripping with a potent, almost magical quality. You carry within you a power that few possess, a power that could reshape Aethel, or shatter it.

His words sent a jolt of electricity through Elara's body. A power? She, a nameless orphan scavenging for scraps in the Memory Market? The idea seemed absurd, ludicrous. Yet, a small, persistent voice within her whispered its truth, validating the uncanny feeling that had settled upon her earlier.

Who are you? Elara asked, her voice barely a breath, the words caught in the knot of her fear and rising wonder.

I am but a messenger, the figure replied, his voice devoid of emotion. A conduit. I bring you a message, a truth that has been hidden from you for far too long.

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. Then, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. You are an Archivist, Elara. Not just any Archivist, but an heir. A descendant of the founding family. A lineage hidden, obscured, for generations. A secret kept from you until now.

The revelation hit Elara like a physical blow, the words swirling around her, refusing to settle. Archivist? She, an orphan from the streets, a daughter of the Market's shadows? It seemed too incredible to be true. It defied everything she had ever known, everything she had ever believed. The life she had always known dissolved around her, replaced by a baffling, daunting revelation.

He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing against her arm. A jolt of energy – strange, potent, exhilarating – surged through her. It felt like a thousand forgotten memories, a cascade of images and sensations flooding her consciousness, brief glimpses of grandeur, wealth, and power. Glimpses of a life she couldn't comprehend.

This power, he whispered, his gaze piercing the shadows. It is yours to claim, yours to wield. But be warned, Elara. It is a dangerous gift, a double-edged sword. Its use demands caution, balance.

He released her arm, leaving Elara trembling in the aftermath of the energy surge. The shadows around the mysterious figure deepened and he began to fade before her eyes.

Your past will become clear, in its own time, he said before finally disappearing completely, as though dissolving back into the fabric of the night. But know this: your destiny awaits.

Elara stood alone, the echoes of his words reverberating in the quiet alleyway. The night had shifted, the world had tilted on its axis. The familiar sounds of the Market seemed distant, muted, unreal. Everything had changed. She was no longer simply Elara, an orphan girl fighting for survival. She was an heir, an Archivist, possessor of a dangerous power that could alter the fate of Aethel.

The truth, like a phantom limb, began to stir within her, a sense of recognition, a resonance with the whispered secrets of the night. A life she never knew existed now beckoned, a life intertwined with intrigue, power, and a legacy she would have to claim for herself.

She thought of the wealthy patrons of the Memory Market, their opulent carriages and their casual disregard for the lives of the poor. They were the same people who traded memories as though they were nothing more than playthings. Now, she understood the true depth of their power, the subtle manipulation and the control wielded over the lives of the citizens.

But what was her role in this? What part was she destined to play in the grand scheme of Aethel? She was armed with knowledge that shifted the very foundation of her existence, yet a fear as vast and cold as the city's night gripped her. She was an orphan, raised in the slums; what right did she have to inherit this power, this lineage? What if she failed? What if she couldn't control it?

But even with this fear, she felt a nascent surge of determination rise within her. The spark of defiance from earlier intensified. It was not a timid flicker anymore; rather, it was a burgeoning flame, fuelled by the newly discovered truth about her identity. She would uncover the secrets of her heritage; she would understand her abilities. And she would determine her own destiny. The Memory Market, her home for so long, no longer held the same suffocating power. It was a starting point, a place from which she would begin her journey into a destiny that was only just revealing itself. The night had been touched by magic, and she was at the beginning of a very profound change in her life. The city, for all its darkness and despair, held the promise of something grand, something far beyond the confines of its squalid alleys. The unknown lay ahead, a future brimming with both danger and opportunity. And for the first time in her life, Elara felt ready to face it.

The figure's words, Your past will become clear, in its own time, hung in the air like a promise and a threat. He vanished as swiftly as he’d appeared, leaving Elara alone in the chilling embrace of the alleyway. The weight of his revelation pressed down on her, a heavy cloak of disbelief and wonder. Archivist? The very word echoed with power and mystery, a stark contrast to her life of scavenging for scraps and dodging the cruel indifference of the Memory Market.

She hesitated, her hand instinctively reaching for the rough texture of the alley wall, seeking a familiar anchor in this newly destabilized world. The cold stone offered little comfort. The memory of the figure's touch, the surge of forgotten memories, the glimpses of opulence and power, still thrummed beneath her skin. It was as if a dormant part of her had awakened, a hidden self yearning to emerge.

Then, a faint glow emanated from within her pocket. It was the small, smooth stone the mysterious figure had left behind, a pale, luminescent sphere pulsating with a gentle light. Hesitantly, she brought it to her face, its warmth surprisingly comforting against her cold fingers. The stone felt strangely familiar, a missing piece that somehow resonated with her own being.

As she held it, the stone intensified its glow, and a wave of images flooded her mind: grandiose libraries filled with towering shelves of ancient tomes, intricate rituals performed under the watchful gaze of hooded figures, powerful individuals manipulating memories like puppets on strings. Then, a vision of a sprawling estate, opulent and majestic, dominated by a colossal archway bearing the crest of a phoenix. The phoenix, its wings spread wide, seemed to blaze with a power that was both terrifying and exhilarating. It resonated with the strange familiar energy she’d felt earlier.

The images faded as quickly as they appeared, leaving her breathless and disoriented. But the lingering sensation of the phoenix crest, powerful, unforgettable, stayed. She realized now that these memories, or fragments of them, weren't random; they were glimpses of her legacy, her inheritance.

With newfound purpose, Elara emerged from the alleyway, the faint luminescence of the stone guiding her through the labyrinthine streets of the Market. She followed a path she didn't recognize, propelled by an instinct she couldn't explain. The night, which had previously felt ominous, now felt charged with anticipation.

The stone led her to a seemingly unremarkable building, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, its facade blending seamlessly with the surrounding structures. There was nothing to distinguish it from the other buildings, no sign, no marking; yet, Elara knew, instinctively, that this was her destination.

As she approached, the building's stone façade shimmered, the stone reacting in her hand, and a hidden doorway materialized before her. The air around the doorway thrummed with an almost palpable energy, a blend of ancient magic and concealed power. The gateway opened slowly, revealing a grand spiral staircase descending into darkness, a descent that felt both daunting and inviting.

Hesitation warred with her curiosity. The stone’s light pulsed urgently in her hand.

Taking a