The council chamber was carved into the bones of the earth itself — a vaulted cavern of obsidian and relicstone, veined with pale threads of memoryglass. Words once etched into the walls by those long dead still shimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the breath of the archive. To speak here was to disturb centuries.
She stood near the edge of the circle, robes drawn close, scrolls tucked under one arm. Eyes of those older than her — some by decades, some by centuries — turned as she entered. Not cold, not cruel. Just curious. Measured.
"The wanderer returns," murmured Archivist Malren, his voice papery and precise.
"I brought only what was asked," she replied, bowing with the quiet grace her mother had taught her. "And nothing more."
A ripple of motion — not of bodies, but of intent. Elder Niva, seated at the heartstone, lifted a hand. At once, silence fell, and the chamber dimmed, light coalescing into a soft dome above them.
"We are troubled," Niva said. "The star has stirred again. Its pulse was felt not only in the firmament, but in the weave."
Another elder leaned forward, silver runes glowing briefly across her fingertips. "A false prophecy awakens, one many among the outer sects are whispering again. We must prepare."
The Chronicler's daughter held her tongue, though her heartbeat quickened. She had read the verses. She had seen the drawings in forgotten corners of the ruined archives. The burning dark star. The angel with wings of ash. The melody of awakening.
Niva's gaze found her.
"You were near the musician," the elder said, not asking. "Did he show signs of... communion?"
She met the question with calm. "He played. The ruins listened. Nothing more."
A few eyes narrowed. A pause hung thick in the air.
Then Malren exhaled softly. From a satchel beside him, he pulled a strand of whisperglass and laid it across the council table. It pulsed once — and a momentary image shimmered into being: a shadow of wings over stone. Faint. Almost missed. But real.
"Careful," Niva warned. "This is how threads unravel."
The daughter of the Chronicler bowed again — but inside, her thoughts churned. They knew more than they let on. And some of them feared it.
Outside the chamber, far beyond the halls of whispering stone, music lingered in the wind.