The Kingdom of Ravaryn stretched between two rivers and a spine of low, wind-scoured hills. Its heart was Ovrun, a city built atop older bones — layer upon layer of brick, stone, and memory. From its walls, trade roads branched like veins across the countryside, carrying grain, salt, and whispers from lands beyond.
Ravaryn prided itself not only on its armies and trade, but on its pursuit of knowledge. Centuries ago, one of its kings decreed that no relic of the past should be lost to decay or superstition. From that decree rose the Arcanum of Antiquities, a sprawling institution charged with gathering, copying, and preserving what earlier ages had left behind.
The Bureau had long since grown into something greater than its founding. Part library, part court, and part monastery, it stood as the quiet heart of the kingdom's memory. Within its walls, Grand Scribes ruled from high chambers, their authority second only to the Crown. Beneath them worked Archivists, Masters, and a small army of Copyists who filled the lower halls with the steady rhythm of quills on parchment.
It was among those copyists that Ryneth spent his days — one of dozens, young men and women bent over faded pages, piecing together fragments of the world long gone. It wasn't glamorous work, nor well paid, but it was steady, and for someone with little else to call his own, it was enough.
Ryneth's pay was of 7 Cairyns a month . The economy of the Ravaryn kingdom was quite stable. The base currency was called Lent , copper coins stamped with royal crest, above that were Cairyns ,silver coins equalling 100 Lents and the most valuable coins in the kingdom , Veyra , gold coins equalling 100 Cairyns used mostly by nobles, royals, wealthy businessmen rarely seen or carried by common people. It is used mostly as an accounting item rather than a normal currency.
Ryneth's boots echoed softly against the stone floor as he stepped into the Arcanum of Antiquities. The familiar scent of dust and ink hit him like an old friend, but the hall ahead felt… off.
Near the far end, three figures moved among the scholars. Their dark uniforms bore the insignia of the Crown's Investigative Directorate, the kingdom's department for serious crimes — theft, forgery, and matters deemed dangerous to the state. Even from a distance, their presence carried authority and an unspoken threat.
"Bloody hell", Ryneth thought, instinctively hugging his satchel closer. I wasn't supposed to be here yet.
One of them, a broad-shouldered man, leaned over a table, quietly interrogating a copyist whose hands trembled on a stack of parchment. Another, smaller but no less sharp, flipped through a set of scrolls with practiced efficiency, as though every fold and crease might reveal a secret. The third stood back, observing, silent and unreadable.
Ryneth froze for a moment at the edge of the hall. He wasn't supposed to be here yet, not close to anything involving them. He adjusted his satchel and hugged it closer, moving slowly along the side corridor, trying not to draw attention.
The investigators spoke in low, clipped tones, words sharp and deliberate. He couldn't make out much, but the tension was unmistakable. Something serious was afoot, and it had reached the Bureau.
Ryneth's heart beat a little faster. He didn't approach; he didn't linger. Quietly, he took a step back, his eyes fixed on the scene just long enough to understand that the ordinary routine of the Bureau had just fractured.
Ryneth lingered in the corridor a few moments, gathering his courage. The hall was quieter now; the investigators were finishing their questioning of a few copyists and preparing to move on. He stepped forward, clearing his throat softly.
"Excuse me," he said, keeping his voice steady. "May I ask… what business you have here in the Bureau?"
The broad-shouldered man, who appeared to be the lead, turned toward him. His hawk-like eyes assessed Ryneth carefully, measuring his tone, his posture, the weight of his satchel. Finally, he inclined his head slightly.
"Yesterday," the man said, his voice low but firm, "one of the Masters here, Leslie, was afflicted with… Glassmind Syndrome."
Ryneth blinked. "Glassmind Syndrome?" The words felt heavy, like they carried more than their syllables suggested. "I'm sorry, I don't—"
The smaller investigator stepped closer, hands folded neatly behind her back. "It's… serious," she said. "We need to understand who might have come into contact with Leslie, what they were working on. It may have spread, and the Crown takes such matters very seriously."
Ryneth felt a chill run down his spine. The Bureau had always been quiet, predictable, orderly. A sickness, especially one that warranted investigators, was something entirely different.
"I… I see," he said carefully. "I haven't had any contact with Leslie yesterday, though I may have seen some of their work." He tried to keep his voice calm, but his fingers tightened slightly on the strap of his satchel.
The lead investigator's gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than comfortable, then he nodded. "Good. Keep to your work, but report anything unusual. And do not attempt to touch or handle anything from Leslie's desk or manuscripts. We will be thorough, and caution is mandatory."
"Yes, sir," Ryneth replied, bowing his head slightly.
The investigators moved on, their black-gray tunics slicing past the desks, leaving behind a quiet that felt too heavy for the Bureau. Ryneth exhaled slowly.
Glassmind Syndrome… he muttered under his breath, trying to shake off the name, though its weight pressed against the back of his mind. Something told him that today, the Bureau would feel very different from yesterday.
Ryneth adjusted the strap of his satchel as he stepped into the hall, letting his eyes follow the rows of desks and the scattered scholars. Even on a normal day, the Bureau felt alive in its own quiet way — a subtle rhythm in the turning of pages, the scratching of quills, the shuffle of footsteps.
He thought briefly of the "Reach", the study of the world's ever-present pulse that everyone in Ravaryn talked about. Not the stories of miraculous feats, not the legends of those few who supposedly bent reality to their will to a small extent — just the basics.
The Reach is there for anyone who notices it, he reminded himself. A swordmaster feels it in the air, a craftsman in his hands, a scribe in the flow of ink. Pay attention, and the world responds, little by little.
Most people never thought about it beyond that, and most acts of it were small, almost invisible. A door would swing open just as one reached it, a quill would not slip from a steady hand, a cart would follow the right path without fuss. Subtle, quiet, a part of life.
Ryneth smiled faintly to himself. Nothing dangerous, just… there.
It was enough knowledge to respect it, to be aware of it — and to know that anyone claiming more than that was either lucky, gifted, or courting trouble.
With that thought, he moved further into the hall.
There were many doubts in his head that he needed to clear ," The dream, the Glassmind, which is not even commonly known among the Reach users , let alone common people. Perhaps they are all connected ? Or maybe I am just thinking too much ."