Luma stood frozen with the map in her hands, its edges soft from age, corners curled, and crimson ink bleeding like old blood across pale parchment. Her fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the quiet realization that the world she thought was asleep was actually stirring in the dark.
Sanctuaries. Hidden. Living. Real.
She looked up at Aziel, who stood across the room near the cabinet, his expression unreadable—part mentor, part ghost, part prophet.
"How many of these places are still standing?" she asked, her voice hushed like the room itself was sacred.
Aziel turned slowly, the weight of years dragging behind his movements. "We don't know. Some of them never replied. Others… vanished. But if even one remains, then the Flame still burns."
Luma walked the map over to the wide, wooden table in the center of the room. She cleared a space, brushing aside old journals and candle wax, and rolled it open. It unfurled like a secret reborn. Names were scratched next to symbols—some written in Aziel's hand, others added later, by different hands, different lives.
She spotted the word "Solmere." It was circled twice, with a tiny drawing of a tree beside it. "What's Solmere?"
Aziel approached, resting his hands on the edge of the table. His eyes drifted toward the name like it hurt to read. "It was the first. Before even this library became a sanctuary. A village in the highlands, built by people who refused to live under the Grid. They burned their devices. They planted roots in soil, not code."
Luma's eyes stayed on the tree. "And now?"
"I don't know," Aziel admitted. "I lost contact with them when the firewalls started expanding. The old mail routes were erased. Couriers stopped showing up."
"But you think it's still there."
"I hope it is."
Luma studied him—his rough hands, his tired posture, the way his voice trembled slightly when he spoke of the past. He wasn't just trying to teach her anymore. He was handing over a burden. Or maybe… a torch.
"I want to go," she said softly, surprising herself.
Aziel didn't respond at first. He just looked at her, really looked. As if seeing her not just as his granddaughter, but as a thread in a much larger tapestry. He stepped around the table, placed both hands on her shoulders, and lowered his forehead to hers.
"Once you leave these walls," he said, "you cannot come back unchanged. The world out there… it wants to kill the parts of you that still believe."
"I don't need to believe," Luma replied. "I need to know."
A small, proud smile touched his lips. "Then you'll go. But not alone."
He moved to a drawer under the table and pulled out a thin black envelope. He handed it to her. Inside were three items: a silver medallion marked with the Quiet Flame sigil, a folded piece of cloth with coordinates embroidered in red, and a handwritten letter.
Luma unfolded it carefully. The script wasn't Aziel's.
To the one who carries the Flame,
If you've found this, you are not the first and will not be the last. The world is waiting for you. Come to Solmere. Bring no screens. Bring no fear. Bring yourself.
—M
She stared at the signature. Just one letter. M.
"Who's 'M'?" she asked.
Aziel's eyes flicked to the window. Outside, the digital haze of the city pulsed against the horizon. "Someone I loved. Someone I failed."
The silence that followed was thick with memory.
Luma folded the letter and slipped it into her jacket. Her decision was already made.
"I'll leave at first light," she said.
Aziel nodded. "Then tonight, we prepare."
And as the candlelight danced across the map and dust swirled in golden beams, the library felt less like a tomb—and more like a launchpad.
Tomorrow, the Flame would move.