It was midnight, and my teacher and I were sharing the same bed; this after I had apparently, and accidentally, resolved an issue related to The Absolute Mother.
We were lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling, when I asked:
"Am I an adult now, Teacher?"
"If we're referring to…" my teacher replied, her gaze shifting down to my chest before moving back up to my face, ".... But in your choice of underwear, you're far more mature than I am," she said.
"You're just teasing me."
This time, I wouldn't stay quiet. I shot up and pulled her hair, making her scream for mercy.
"This won't be easy."
I wouldn't be as kind as the Iron Maiden in granting forgiveness or leniency. I pulled her hair like a charioteer holding the reins of a horse.
"Hahaha, please, stop."
She leaped from the bed, freeing herself from my grasp, and stood by the door.
"This place is mine now."
I declared, claiming the entire bed beneath me. I stood upon it, facing my teacher, who now stood below me by the doorway.
"Hoooh… So you've made your declaration. I will reclaim that spot—."
"bukk!!!."
My teacher was saying something about reclaiming it, but before she could finish, I threw a pillow at her face.
"You've done it now…" her face was shocked after the pillow hit her squarely. "Take this!" she retorted, throwing the same pillow back at me.
"Hahaha, you missed! You're a terrible shot."
I dodged it easily and not only that, I retaliated with another pillow, which hit her right in the face again.
A pillow war began, with me in a dominant position. My throws almost always hit their mark, while my teacher's always missed. The atmosphere turned chaotic; the inn room was a mess, with feathers flying everywhere.
A few minutes passed until one pillow flew out the window. My teacher and I peeked outside and saw it had struck a man directly in the face.
"Shh, don't laugh."
My teacher said, covering my mouth with her hand.
"That man is drunk."
"So, what should we do?"
"We'll have the inn staff take care of him."
My teacher then got dressed and went out of the room to the inn's veranda. A few minutes later, I saw two men approach the collapsed drunk man.
"They'll handle it for us," my teacher said upon returning. Behind her stood a woman carrying two new pillows.
I was sure she had to pay a handsome sum to compensate for the damages to the inn, and of course, for the man who was the victim of our pillow-throwing as well.
"Time for bed."
"Alright…"
Truthfully, I was quite tired. Although my energy was high at the moment, my body seemed to be asking for rest.
So much had happened today, from exploring the city in the morning to getting lost in the pleasure district and meeting the king afterward. It was still dark, with a few hours left until sunrise. That's enough time to sleep and rest, I thought.
———
The next morning, a messenger arrived. A nobleman whose name I didn't know came with several knightly guards.
"My lady, I bring a message from the palace."
The messenger, it turned out, was an envoy sent to summon my teacher to the palace. I didn't know what was happening, or why they were inviting her again, especially since she had refused before and demanded the king come himself.
"Of course, let us depart now."
Now, this surprised me. She agreed to go after previously refusing. I didn't think we would be receiving an award or a gift, as I had already made a request of my own.
"Pack your things. We will continue our journey after this."
I packed my belongings, though I didn't have much—just a few clothes and a bag of books.
Upon arriving at the palace, I was stunned by its magnificence. The mansions and residences of nobles might be large and grand, but compared to this, they were nothing.
My teacher and I were greeted by hundreds of servants at the entrance, while in the courtyard, thousands of knights in full armor were lined up in formation.
Isn't this a bit excessive? I thought, or perhaps this kind of atmosphere was just routine at the palace.
"Welcome, my lady."
Said a servant who appeared to be the head butler of the palace. He was about the same age as our coachman, perhaps in his fifties. Not young, but not so old that he walked with a stoop; his body was lean and he stood tall. He had the unmistakable air of a veteran servant.
"Open the doors."
The head butler commanded, and the massive doors before me slowly swung open. This was probably the largest door I had ever seen in my life, taller even than the main gate of a large city.
Beyond it, I saw an incredibly long hall with a red carpet covering its entire surface. On both sides, hundreds of female servants stood.
I thought there were only male servants here, having been greeted by hundreds of men outside, but it seemed I was wrong.
They bowed in unison. I was a little nervous. Thousands of knights lined up outside, hundreds of servants at the entrance, and beyond the doors, hundreds more bowing in respect.
The head butler asked us to follow him inside.
"Teacher?"
I looked at my teacher, as if to say, "Am I allowed to enter?"
"Of course," my teacher replied. She smiled and took my left hand.
I felt that my teacher was very accustomed to this sort of thing. She was incredibly calm and relaxed, perhaps even dignified.
We walked on the red carpet, passing one room after another until we finally arrived before a set of doors.
Four knights stood guard in front. They were different; their armor seemed more magnificent, full of adornments, I thought.
"Please."
The head butler opened the door and gestured for us to enter. As the door opened, I felt something different from within.
My teacher and I stepped inside. There, I saw the king lying in bed. On the right side of the bed, two women were leaning over, looking at the king with swollen, teary eyes.
Not far from the bed, a man stood facing a window. I didn't know what he was doing, but he didn't seem to be okay. Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, another man already looked very unwell; his face was pale, his eyes were vacant, and he sat silently in a chair.
What is happening here? I wondered. Then my teacher pulled my hand, leading me further into the room, closer to the bed.
From this position, I could see the king very clearly; he lay limp, his eyes closed, his skin pale, his breath so faint it seemed almost gone. But just last night he was fine, I thought. We even spoke, and I made a request of him.
I glanced around. The atmosphere was utterly silent. Those who were here before us made no sound. Although sorrow was plain to see, no sound reached my ears.
Not only that, but the room seemed to be under a different sun; outside, the sunlight was bright, while inside, the light seemed to soften.
"It's time."
My teacher said softly. I looked at her, my expression asking, "What do you mean?" She then wiped my face with her right hand.
I was shocked by what happened next. After my teacher touched my face, I saw a third woman, besides the two leaning by the bed.
Her form was like a young girl, though I couldn't see her clearly; only her shape and her body, which glowed with a soft white light that didn't hurt the eyes.
The girl stood by the king's bedside, pulling at his hand as if asking him to rise. Then I saw something astonishing; I saw the king get up from the bed.
What was happening? The king rose and took the hand of the luminous girl. But then who was this? Who was lying in the bed?
I saw two kings: one lying stiffly, and the other standing, following the luminous girl. The two of them seemed to be speaking, but I couldn't hear them. And then, a girl with a pitch-black aura appeared, carrying something like a black scythe on her back.
Who was she, and why did no one else seem to notice them? The dark girl then reached for the scythe on her back. She was about to do something with it.
I was curious what she intended to do, but before I could witness her draw the scythe, my teacher's hand swept across my face again.
Instantly, my surroundings changed. The light grew sharper, sounds became acute, as if the previous silence was the world taking a brief breath.
The sound of crying began to fill the room. Outside, the hurried footsteps of people could be heard. From the window, the sound of trumpets roared, and from a distance, the bells in the city center tolled.
Even though no one told me what had happened, I could conclude: the King had breathed his last. For the first time in my life, I had witnessed the death of a ruler firsthand.
My teacher then pulled me out of the room. I didn't understand what this all meant. Why were we invited only to witness a ruler's final moments?
It wasn't that I was emotionless. To be honest, I felt sad, because just a short while ago, we had spoken, and he had even told me to make a wish.
Outside, my teacher spoke with someone who seemed to be of high status. Afterward, she and I were escorted to our carriage.
Before getting in, my teacher had a brief chat with a knight—one of the four with the heavily adorned armor.
From inside the carriage, I saw my teacher use magic. Something like a paper scroll appeared in her hand. She then tied the scroll to the back of a bird and let it fly away.
"Let's go."
My teacher said to the coachman. Our carriage finally departed, leaving the palace behind. She sat leisurely in her seat, pulled a cigarette from her pocket, lit it, and took a drag.
Honestly, I had no idea where those cigarettes came from. She never bought or made them; they were just there whenever she reached for one.
The atmosphere in the carriage was silent. I thought it was unusual for my teacher to just smoke and be lost in her own world.
The silence continued until we had left the city. Only then did my teacher look at me.
"Come here."
She asked me to sit next to her, then pulled me close and stroked my head.
"Well? You've finally witnessed a Chronicler recording history firsthand," she said. She was asking for my reaction to seeing history being recorded for the very first time.
"So, that's why we were invited?"
My teacher nodded in response.
"You know, Teacher, I think you're incredibly heartless. You didn't even feel anything watching someone you just sat with breathe their last," I commented on her attitude.
"A Chronicler's duty is to record. We do not come to weep or to grieve," she replied.
"Well, then, Teacher, I saw something in there."
I told her about the two girls, the light one and the dark one. My teacher then told me to open the book, but this time not just to one page, but two simultaneously: pages 010 and 018. I started with page 010 first.
APPELLATION: The Dusk Maiden
TITLE / EPITHET: The Gentle End, The Violet Girl, Keeper of Night's Gate
CLASSIFICATION:
Primary: Folkloric
Status: Active
Scale: Global
Level: Bound
ORIGIN: She is not a creature born of power or will. She is a natural process given form. She is the universe's first sigh of relief when the first star finally faded after millions of years of shining. She is the embodiment of a graceful conclusion, a peaceful closing, and the beauty of a farewell. She is the counterbalance to the chaos of dawn and the absolute silence of night.
FORM / ESSENCE: Her essence is the Conceptual Transition Toward an End. She is the principle of peaceful release and dignified closure. She does not represent death itself, but the quiet moment just before the end.
APPEARANCE & PERCEPTION: Her presence is always felt as soft and subtle. The world around you seems to grow quieter, with sharp sounds softening. The ambient light will shift to a warm golden or violet hue, even indoors. You will feel a strange wave of nostalgia and a melancholy peace—a sincere acceptance of all that has passed. Her manifestation is the ephemeral form of a girl or woman, woven from twilight and long shadows. She is always seen from a distance, walking slowly toward the horizon, never showing her face and never speaking.
DOMAIN & INFLUENCE: Her domain is "closure" and "letting go." Her influence is passive and calming.
Positive Influence: She brings a peaceful end to those who have suffered for too long. She might appear before a terminally ill person, helping them release their pain and pass away quietly in their sleep. Her presence can help one let go of old grudges or sorrows, providing long-sought emotional closure.
Anomalous Influence: She is an agent of gentle entropy. She can "persuade" things that unnaturally refuse to end. A tyrannical empire that has survived for thousands of years through dark magic might begin to peacefully crumble after her shadow crosses its capital. A ghost bound to a place by rage may be soothed by her presence and finally find its way to move on.
VULNERABILITIES & COUNTERMEASURES: Her passive nature and focus on endings give her clear limitations.
Powerless Before Beginnings: She has absolutely no influence over anything that is new, growing, or at its peak. Dawn, a newborn baby, a brilliant idea—all of these are conceptually blinding and "invisible" to her.
Repelled by Violent Ends: She is the embodiment of a peaceful end. She will stay away from places with sudden, violent, and unresolved endings, such as the site of a brutal murder or a battlefield where combat still rages. She cannot provide closure if there is no foundation of peace to begin with.
Cannot Be Rushed: Her influence works as gently as the setting sun. She cannot be forced, commanded, or used as a weapon to hasten something's end. Any attempt to harness her power will cause her to vanish instantly.
ECHOES IN HISTORY & MYTH: Many cultures have stories of a "Horizon Girl" or a "Violet Spirit" who visits old kings or heroes on their final night. She comes not as a reaper of life, but as a final traveling companion, ensuring that their story ends with a period, not a ragged tear.
WHISPERS & FRAGMENTS OF KNOWLEDGE:
"Do not fear the dusk. It only reminds you that every day, no matter how beautiful, deserves a rest."
"She does not take a life. She only holds your hand when you agree to let it go."
"Some say if you manage to follow her to the horizon, you will not find the night, but the dawn of another world."
A Scribe's Note: Writing this entry provides a strange peace. Unlike other entities that evoke fear or awe, the Dusk Maiden inspires empathy. She feels like a natural part of life itself. She is a reminder that not all endings are tragedies. Some are a form of beauty, a necessity. I hope that when the time comes for this book to end, her shadow will cross its final page.
"There's a record here about a figure named the Dusk Maiden. Is this related to what I saw in the king's room?"
My teacher nodded slowly. "Try focusing on the origin section."
I read it again. "It says here that she is a natural process given form. So she's not a ghost or a physical being?"
My teacher then said, "Imagine a bright day suddenly turning into night. Then, imagine feeling pain without falling."
"That would be very sudden and strange," I said. It would be shocking if the day suddenly became dark night, and strange to feel pain for no reason.
"Sudden and strange, right?" my teacher said.
I nodded. "So what does this 'sudden and strange' have to do with the Dusk Maiden?"
"Now imagine the day turning into evening, and slowly, gently becoming dark night," she replied, asking me to picture something that was perfectly natural.
First, she asked me to imagine day suddenly becoming night, but now there was an evening, a slow transition into darkness.
"Now focus on her form and essence."
I reread the requested section. "Her essence is the conceptual transition toward an end," I said, my face still focused on the description.
Process and transition. I combined what I got from the two descriptions and concluded:
"So, like dusk, which is the process of transitioning to night, the Dusk Maiden is something like that. So what is she for, what is her function? If she is a process, she must have a function."
"What you saw earlier was her function," she replied, playfully tweaking my nose with her fingers. At that moment, I remembered how the white, luminous figure had pulled at the king's hand, and then another figure of the king arose, leaving the one lying in bed behind.
"Her function is to… persuade?" I concluded, and then my teacher pulled my nose harder.
"Ow… that hurts." I might have let her do it before when she was just touching it gently, but then she pulled hard enough to make it red.
"Touching and causing pain are different, aren't they?"
I wanted to get angry, but after she said that, it made me think, to distinguish between a touch without pain and one that brings it.
Just a touch might make me comfortable because there was no pain, but when touched hard enough, it hurts.
"The gentle touch is what the Dusk Maiden does?" I asked.
"Yup. She touches you gently, until your guard is lowered," my teacher answered.
I wouldn't stay idle. I retaliated by pulling her nose. "Then who was the dark girl?" I asked.
Her nose turned red after I pulled it hard enough in revenge. "Well, the dark girl is what you just did to my nose," she replied.
My teacher then asked me to turn to page 018.
APPELLATION: Azra
TITLE / EPITHET: Angel of Death, The Final Reaper, Librarian of Souls
CLASSIFICATION:
Primary: Mythological
Status: Active
Scale: Cosmic
Level: Abstract
ORIGIN: She is the inevitable consequence of life. When the first being with a finite destiny appeared in the universe—bound to a thread of Scarlet (Folio 014)—a mechanism for the "end" of that thread was required. Azra manifested as the embodiment of that finality itself. She is not the opponent of life, but its silent dance partner; the period at the end of every sentence.
FORM / ESSENCE: Her essence is Conceptual Separation and Archiving. Her form is that of a majestic and serene woman, with vast wings woven from the silence of a starlit night. She carries a scythe not made of metal, but of crystallized silence itself, which hums with a low note of finality. Her presence feels neither cold nor warm, but neutral and absolute.
APPEARANCE & PERCEPTION: Only those on the precise threshold of death can perceive her. For them, time and the sounds of the outside world will cease. All that remains is a peaceful silence and her presence. She does not speak, but communicates directly into consciousness with a single, simple, and irrefutable concept: "It is time." There is no anger or pity in her, only the calm authority of a task that must be completed.
DOMAIN & INFLUENCE: Her domain is death and finality.
Primary Function: With a single, conceptual swing of her scythe, she does not cut the body, but severs the final bond tying a consciousness to its physical vessel—the end of the thread of fate.
Anomalous Influence: What happens next is her greatest secret. The reaped soul does not go to a heaven or a hell. It is absorbed into Azra's own being, perfectly archived within an infinite library of consciousness. She is the afterlife itself; a silent archive of every life that has ever been.
VULNERABILITIES & COUNTERMEASURES: She is a fundamental process, not a being that can be fought.
Bound by Fate: She is a servant, not a queen. She has absolutely no free will and can only act when a person's thread of fate has reached its natural end. She cannot be persuaded, threatened, or tricked into taking a soul that is "not yet due."
Powerless Over Immortality: Truly immortal entities or those outside the cycle of life and death have no "end of the thread" for her to cut. She has no jurisdiction or power over them.
The Effect, Not the Cause: Trying to attack her is a futile act. She is the momentary manifestation of a process. Attacking her is like trying to punch the concept of "the end." Once her task is done, she vanishes. The only "countermeasure" is to not die.
ECHOES IN HISTORY & MYTH: All personifications of death in human mythology—the Grim Reaper, Thanatos, Anubis, Izanami—are mortal attempts to give a face to the process that Azra represents. The scythe, the wings, and her role as a guide are recurring symbols because they are the closest humanity can come to describing her incomprehensible function.
WHISPERS & FRAGMENTS OF KNOWLEDGE:
"At the end, there is no tunnel of light or life flashing before your eyes. There is only silence, a pair of wings, and the understanding that the journey is over."
"She does not take you to the afterlife. She is the afterlife."
"Do not be afraid. She is not cold. She is just... final."
A Scribe's Note: Writing about Azra feels solemn. There is none of the fear that usually accompanies our subjects, only a deep sense of reverence. She is the most misunderstood entity of all. Not a bringer of doom, but a grand librarian who ensures that no story, no matter how small, is ever truly lost when it ends. She is the greatest preserver. The question that remains is not where we go when we die, but how quiet the vast library where we will all gather must be.
As I read that page, a shiver ran down my entire body. I knew instantly, just from reading her title: Angel of Death.
"Are they partners?" I asked, because I thought if the Dusk Maiden was a touch without pain and this Azra was the pain, then the two must be inseparable.
"No, they are partners in a single purpose, but not always," my teacher replied. "Like the touch without pain that made you let your guard down earlier, and then came the touch with pain," she continued.
"They both touch, but the effects are different?"
I concluded, because if both were about touching and could work together, then surely their functions and what they produced were different.
"You can force a touch to hurt someone, or you can touch them to lull them into complacency and then hurt them," my teacher answered, then continued, "Both can be done separately, but to bring both comfort and pain, they must work together."
"So, it's peace before the pain, or just being hit with the pain directly," I concluded. "But Teacher, in the king's case, what did the two of them do?" I asked.
"They do this." She pulled my face to her chest, embracing me gently. Then, the hug slowly tightened, making it hard for me to breathe.