Vernis — The Unquiet Ledger
The quills in the Guild Archive never stopped scratching. That was the thing about a place like Vaelrin—trade and blood never slept. Vernis sat beneath the amber glow of an aether lamp, the light flickering faintly against the walls lined with parchment and crystal slates. The morning had been restless. A name—Alatar—had lodged itself in his mind like a shard of bone.
He rubbed his temples as he stared at the reports laid before him.
The man had appeared out of nowhere—no entry from the border watch, no teleportation record, no caravan registration. Just a phantom, walking from the mist. Lysera's account had been dutifully submitted, but even her words trembled slightly on paper, as if her quill had been unsteady.
> "He moved like a noble, but the air around him was wrong. Too calm. Too cold. The tiger fell to ash and silence."
Vernis frowned. He had seen arrogance before—adventurers who thought themselves divine. But Alatar was different. The reports spoke of refinement, quiet dignity, and the kind of composure no mercenary could fake.
He turned to his assistant, a small Fey named Neralin, who was half-buried in record scrolls.
"Anything yet?" Vernis asked.
Neralin shook her head, wings drooping. "No Guild license under the name Alatar. No census entry. I checked the Astral Ledgers, the city registries, even the neighboring provinces. Nothing."
Vernis's brows knitted. "He looks like nobility. Moves like it. Maybe a lost scion?"
"Even noble houses leave traces, Guildmaster. This one doesn't exist."
The Fey's voice carried the faint hum of unease, and Vernis felt it too. There was something about this—this absence—that unsettled him. Records didn't just vanish. People didn't just appear.
He dismissed Neralin and went deeper into the archives himself, into the Vault of Provenance. The air grew colder here; the silence thicker. Here, the records were not parchment but memory. Glyphstones pulsed faintly, each holding the verified essence of a life or event—births, deaths, contracts, titles, even the fall of dynasties.
He passed his palm over a translucent orb. The glyphs within flickered, whispering their stored data.
> Query: Alatar.
A moment's pause. Then, faintly—
> One result found.
Vernis blinked. His pulse quickened. He leaned closer as the glyphs resolved into faint words upon the surface of the orb. The record was ancient—its formatting old, the runic language predating even the kingdom's founding.
> "Alatar. The name taken by the Broken Flame. Record classified by the First Seal. Origin: Unknown. Mark: Unshackled."
Then the glyphs blinked out. Gone.
Vernis stood frozen, the orb dimming in his hands. The First Seal—a restriction so old it predated every political entity still standing. Even the Crown of Vaelrin had no authority to access such sealed histories.
"Mark of the Unshackled…" Vernis whispered, the words tasting ancient. He had heard the phrase before—old stories whispered by archivists who dealt in relics of the pre-Sundering era.
He replaced the orb with slow reverence, a thought gnawing at him.
Whoever—or whatever—Alatar was, he wasn't mortal in the simple sense. And if the First Seal still held his record, then someone, somewhere, had made sure he would never be known.
He needed to see the governor.
---
Alatar — The Courtyard of Quiet Power
The morning sun hung pale above Vaelrin, veiled by faint fog drifting from the northern ridges. Alatar walked beside Lysera through the stone courtyard before the Governor's Manor.
His attire had changed again—a deep cobalt robe embroidered with silver thread, a high collar shaped like a crown's rim. His pale hair caught the light like strands of frost. Even in silence, he seemed to draw attention.
Lysera, despite having spent days beside him, still felt that faint pressure in her chest—the quiet gravity of being near something that simply wasn't human.
The Governor's Manor was not extravagant by capital standards, but it was dignified: columns of pale stone, vinework carved into the archways, and luminescent orbs lining the entry path. Guards saluted as they approached; not out of command, but instinct.
Alatar noticed it—the subtle change in the air, how people straightened as he passed, how sound seemed to dim slightly. It was not magic, not deliberately invoked. It was simply his nature bleeding into the world.
"Governor Havren is a fair man," Lysera said as they entered. "Though... pragmatic. He doesn't like unknowns."
"Few in power do," Alatar replied quietly.
The governor's office was spacious, decorated with maps of the kingdom and a single large window overlooking the marketplace below. Behind an ornate desk sat Governor Havren—an aging man with keen, assessing eyes, dressed in emerald robes that marked his station.
"Captain Lysera," Havren greeted, voice calm and deliberate. "And you must be our... guest."
Alatar inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect without subservience. "Alatar."
"I hear you saved one of my patrol units from a rather nasty encounter." Havren leaned forward, fingers steepled. "For that, I offer thanks. But I also hear you appeared from nowhere. No record, no guild mark, no known heritage."
The words were polite but carried weight. Lysera glanced nervously between them.
"I travel alone," Alatar said, tone smooth as still water. "My path led me through the woods. I did not intend to draw attention."
"Yet attention seems to follow you," Havren murmured. "Tell me, Lord Alatar—"
"I am no lord," Alatar interrupted softly.
"Then what are you?"
The room fell still for a moment. Alatar considered the question, not because he didn't know the answer—but because no truthful answer would make sense to a mortal tongue.
"...A scholar," he finally said. "Of the forgotten. Of what once was."
Havren studied him in silence. The air felt heavier.
"Scholar or not," the governor said, "you radiate something most can't name. My aides say the temperature in the courtyard dropped three degrees when you passed through. A coincidence?"
Alatar's lips curved faintly. "Perhaps the air simply recognizes quiet."
That earned a brief, dry chuckle from Havren. "A diplomat's answer, then. Very well. Vaelrin has no quarrel with wanderers—so long as wanderers cause no stir."
"I intend no disturbance."
"Good." Havren leaned back, but his gaze did not soften. "Still, we live in cautious times. The south is restless, and the Crown grows suspicious of anomalies. Should word of a man like you reach them, they'll want answers I can't give."
Alatar inclined his head once more. "Then perhaps we both should remain silent."
A flicker of amusement crossed Havren's face. "You're clever. I respect that. You'll be staying in Vaelrin?"
"For a while. I seek knowledge. Archives, ruins, records of the old world."
"You'll find such things hard to access without favor. But…" Havren's tone shifted, measuring, almost probing. "I do owe you a debt, don't I?"
Lysera's eyes widened. "Governor—"
"It's nothing binding," Havren waved her off. "A gesture. If you're truly a scholar, you may find our northern archive of interest. The ruins beneath Vaelrin—closed to most, but not to those I trust."
Alatar inclined his head again, concealing the faint smile that threatened to emerge. "Then I am in your debt."
---
Vernis — The Meeting at Dusk
By late afternoon, Vernis was already at the Governor's estate. He was ushered into the private chambers without delay, the air thick with tension. Havren stood near the window, gazing at the foggy streets below.
"Governor," Vernis began, "about the man named Alatar—"
"I know," Havren interrupted without turning. "You've been digging."
"I found almost nothing," Vernis said, setting a small glyphstone on the table. "Except this. It was buried deep in the old registry. His name appears once, under a seal predating our kingdom. The inscription called him the 'Broken Flame.' It mentioned the Mark of the Unshackled."
At that, Havren did turn, his eyes narrowing. "That old legend again."
Vernis hesitated. "You know of it?"
"Every governor does. The Mark of the Unshackled... a remnant of those who refused divine chains in the First Era. Supposedly, they were cast out of time itself. A fairy tale. Or so we tell our children."
Vernis swallowed. "If he truly bears that mark—"
"Then we are sitting in the shadow of something ancient."
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Havren's expression hardened.
"Say nothing of this, Vernis. To anyone. The capital must not hear a whisper of it. Let the scholars rot in their libraries chasing myths—we have enough troubles."
Vernis nodded reluctantly, but unease gnawed at his gut. "And if he's dangerous?"
Havren turned back to the window. "Then may the old gods forgive us for inviting him in."
---
Alatar — The Silent Reflection
That evening, Alatar sat once more within his chamber at the Sapphire Hearth. The meeting had gone as expected—measured words, quiet tests, subtle probing. He had seen such exchanges before, though usually from the opposite side of the throne.
He opened the pouch Silas had given him. A whisper of telepathic energy stirred within—Silas's voice, distant but clear.
>"You'll find it convenient, little one. Whatever currency these mortals cling to, the pouch will know and mimic. Spend freely. Learn what their gold can buy—and what it cannot."
Alatar smirked faintly. "Old man…"
He set the pouch aside, gaze drifting toward the window. Vaelrin spread out before him in quiet color—the market lights, the hum of distant laughter, the faint aura of magic from the city's wards. Mortals lived, struggled, dreamed… so fragile, yet endlessly stubborn.
He thought of the frost within him—the quiet pulse of power sleeping beside the ash. It stirred now, sensing his mood. Beneath his calm exterior, he could feel threads moving in the unseen—Vernis's suspicion, Havren's curiosity, Lysera's cautious loyalty.
Everything moved as it should.
He whispered softly, voice fading into the stillness:
"Let them wonder."
The frost in the air shimmered faintly, answering like a sigh.