Leon Vael pressed his hand to the aged parchment, as if feeling for the pulse of truth within its ink. His heart pounded, not with fear, but with clarity. Outside, the bells of mourning had yet to ring—a silence more ominous than any cry.
He copied the decree swiftly, sealing the replica with a plain wax stamp. The original, he tucked into the hollow of an ancient ledger's spine—a place no one but a true archivist would dare touch.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Leon blew out his lantern.
Two figures entered the archive. Crimson-robed, their faces veiled in spell-bound cloth. Red Crown mages.
"The Grand Keeper requires all records from the Hall of Flames," one of them said, voice low and metallic.
Leon bowed slightly, masking his tension. "Some volumes are being restored," he lied.
The mages scanned the shelves with glowing eyes. Leon remained still, his breath measured. After a moment, they turned without another word.
As their steps faded, Leon allowed himself to breathe.
He was no longer just a keeper of records.
He was now a keeper of a lie.
A witness.
And witnesses, he knew, were never meant to live long.