**SCENE.** You charge forward, blade high, and drive the point toward those hollow sockets where words writhe like maggots. The Archivist recoils—his parchment skull tears like wet paper, ink spurting black across the stone. **BEAT.** He shrieks—a sound like a thousand quills scratching at once—and his robes unfurl into razor-edged pages that slice the air toward your throat. You feel the sting of paper cuts across your forearm as his counterattack lands.