Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0)
The courtyard is empty, yet dust drifts along its obsidian paths as though borne on silent feet. I stand before the eastern gate—now securely sealed with four seals—and run a fingertip along the ironwork. My mind churns with names I barely grasp: Mirast, Drak'Ur, Orisylwia… once each name was a tether to reality, but now they twist in my memory like tendrils of smoke.
I unroll a fresh sheet and write:
"Power resides not in steel or stone, but in the hands that clutch them—and in the lies whispered in dark halls."
The Inner Echoes stir:
"You speak of politics now?" "Better to be king than beggar."
I close my eyes, inhaling the stale air, and descend the steps toward the library. Tonight I record another fragment—a page from my past life, long before Alzheimer's desecrated its edges.
Retrospective Scene (Circa –105 Years, The Glittering Courts of Mirast)
The city of Mirast sprawled across hills like a crown of ivory and blood, each palace a testament to centuries of intrigue. Airships drifted above marble plazas, their banners snapping in the wind. Beneath them, courtiers in silken finery whispered alliances and betrayals beneath domed colonnades. Here, the Korona Krwistego Orła held sway: a confederation of noble houses bound by marriage, murder, and mutual ambition.
I was Arren still—porucznik turned envoy for the Rada Dziesięciu. My mission: negotiate a decade-long trade treaty, securing the flow of Memory Stones across the desert and the forge. Failing would plunge Va'rakan into civil war; success would cement my reputation—and my debts—to the oligarchs.
My carriage rolled into the Grand Plaza at dusk, drawn by four coal-black stallions. Torches flared, casting shadows that danced against the alabaster facades. I stepped onto the marble steps of the Crimson Throne Hall, flanked by guards in gilded armor. Their spears gleamed like starlight against the obsidian sky.
Within, the air was perfumed with frankincense and powder of crushed petals. At the far end sat Lady Valerienne of House Velstrom—her gown the color of spilled wine, her eyes cold as frozen lakes. Beside her leaned Duke Haldon of House Krythar, his jaw set in an expression of bored contempt. Between them lay a low table of polished bloodstone, upon which stood crystal goblets and a scroll sealed with wax bearing the emblem of the Rada.
I bowed deeply. "My lords and ladies," I intoned. "I bring greetings from the council of Va'rakan and seek an accord that honors both our peoples."
Valerienne's lips curved in a faint smile. "Poruczniku Arren, your reputation precedes you—as does your council's appetite for profit." She lifted a goblet, inhaled its contents. "We value Memory Stones as much as steel and gold. Yet trust is forged in fire, not parchment." She turned to Haldon. "Shall we test our guest's mettle?"
Haldon's laughter echoed like a blade against shields. "A tradition of Mirast: every envoy must survive the Trial of Thorns." At his gesture, guards rolled aside fine tapestries to reveal an archway entwined with razor-sharp metal vines. "Walk through," he said, "and return with your dignity—and our pact—intact."
A murmur ran through the hall. I swallowed. The Trial of Thorns was an ancient custom: a gauntlet of living metal grafted with bloodsteel, intended to draw blood but not kill, to prove the envoy's resolve and sincerity. I steadied myself and nodded.
Silently, I approached. Each step was measured: the vines exhaled a metallic hiss, their edges sliding impossibly closer. Beneath my boots, the marble was slick with crushed petals and oil. Valerienne watched with unblinking gaze. Haldon's arms crossed, anticipating spectacle.
I lifted my chin and stepped in. The first vine scraped my shin—pain bloomed red, but I pressed forward. The next brushed my forearm, opening a shallow cut. I grit my teeth. Memories flashed: the Prism of Echoes; the Heart of Dawn; the crucible's roar. I was no longer a boy from Orisylwia's forests but a man forged by fire and betrayal.
At mid-arch, the vines closed like jaws. My cloak snagged; I tore free with a jerk that cost me a slice across the shoulder. Pain flared, but I pressed on. Between each planted foot, I recited the treaty terms under my breath, sealing them in my mind as incantations to steady my body.
With the final step, steel vines retracted. I emerged, breathing heavily, cloak tattered, skin weeping crimson. The hall was silent. Valerienne rose, approached, and pressed a silken cloth into my hand.
"A worthy display, poruczniku," she said softly. "Mirast honors courage—and honesty. Our accord stands."
Haldon nodded curtly. "May your people keep their word as fiercely as you kept your dignity."
I inclined my head. In that moment, I knew the treaty would hold—for a time. But I also knew that trust in Mirast was as fickle as the sands of Va'rakan. Deals were written in ink; revenge was written in blood.
Present Chronicle (Monastery, Year 0) — Conclusion
I lay down my quill. The crimson ink pools like spilled wine. The wounds I earned in that hall are gone, but the scars remain in my bones—and now, in these pages. I fold the parchment and tuck it into the archives.
The Inner Echoes murmur:
"You bargained with vipers." "And lived to tell the tale."
I press my palm against my chest, where the Trial's cold steel still echoes in my flesh. Outside, the desert wind thrums against the monastery walls, carrying ghostly laughter and distant horns.
I close the gate to the archive. Four seals hold back the labyrinth of memory and politics. I pause, then write one final line:
"An alliance born in blood demands a legacy of vigilance."
I rise and extinguish the candles. The chronicle sleeps until dawn—when I will awaken and choose which fragment of power to unseal next.