Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0)
A pale dawn filters through the high windows, but I feel no comfort in the light. The sealed archives loom behind me—rows of vellum scrolls and bound tomes, each a fragment of lives I have shaped or shattered. I rise from my desk, quill in hand, and speak aloud to the silent shelves:
"Power without conscience is a shadow—deepening all it touches."
No echo answers. Only the wind outside, stirring the desert sands. I dip my quill and record the single line that propels me:
"Tonight, I revisit the seat of power to witness how kings mark their legacies."
I smooth the ink, tuck the scroll into my cloak, and head for the cloister's rear gate. The novice appears at the threshold, eyes concerned but silent. I nod; she understands the unspoken danger. I step outside into the chill pre-dawn air and close the gate behind me.
Retrospective Scene (Circa –90 Years, The Grand Council of Va'rakan)
The Council Chamber of Va'rakan spanned an entire wing of the Citadel of Glass. Its roof was a dome of multifaceted crystal that fractured sunlight into a hundred rainbows, each bending over rows of black marble seats. Here, the oligarchs of the Rada Dziesięciu deliberated on commerce and conquest, on alliances and assassinations. Each of the ten seats bore a carved sigil—an eagle, a scorpion, a serpent—symbolizing the family that held sway.
I entered as envoy of Mirast's Korona. My cloak of desert silk fell around me like a wave of dunes, contrasting the chamber's opulence. At the center stood the Speaker's dais, flanked by two towering statues of Memory Guardians—stone colossi whose empty eye sockets once housed crystals that recorded the Council's decrees.
Lady Kharmina, head of House Azra, presided. Her wavy hair of onyx fell to her waist; her gaze was as sharp as obsidian. At her side, Archmagister Varun of the Gildia Eteru consulted arcane diagrams drawn in floating eter-scribes. The chamber fell silent when I approached.
I bowed deeply. "Esteemed members of the Rada, I present a proposal of mutual benefit—an exchange of Memory Stones for military support against the encroaching threat beyond our borders."
A murmur rose. House Azra valued memory trade above all; House Scyll departed, leaving vacant a polished seat. Kharmina raised a slender hand.
"Poruczniku Arren," she said, voice measured. "Va'rakan's coffers overflow with promises. Speak plainly: what does Mirast offer that our caravans cannot carry, that our vaults cannot hold?"
I met her gaze. "My liege, Mirast's legions stand ready to secure your trade routes against raiders and desert storms. In return, we request exclusive rights to three Memory Stones—those forged in the Frostpath's Veil, in the Prism's Shrine, and in the Heart's Crucible."
A ripple of tension passed through the chamber. Eter-scribes flickered above, scattering glowing diagrams. Varun whispered to Kharmina—his finger tracing the projected glyphs. Finally, Kharmina nodded.
"A fair exchange," she intoned. "But the Council must vote."
Ten voices echoed: "For," "Against," "Abstain." The scales tipped. I held my breath as the final vote was cast. Nine for; one abstain. The Chamber erupted in whispered congratulations and guarded smiles.
Yet as I stepped down, the amber-eyed envoy of House Scyll followed. He blocked my path.
"You secured the vote," he hissed. "But remember: memory is a weapon that turns on its wielder. Will you recall your debts when the sands swallow your name?"
I inclined my head. "Debt is memory's twin. I will not forget mine."
He sneered and melted back into the crowd. I realized then that the Council's shadow was as perilous as any battlefield.
Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0) — Conclusion
I return to my desk, candle cold, and stare at Kharmina's sigil carved into the chamber's marble. The memory of that vote still hums beneath my skull. I dip my quill:
"Every alliance is a ledger of favors and betrayals. I write our debts in ink, but some debts are paid only in blood."
I seal the scroll and place it among its brethren. Outside, the desert sun rises. I wonder which memory I will unseal next—and who will bear its cost