"Ean Briden, did you make this calligraphy?"
Kael Draven's voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. From beneath his dark cloak, he unrolled a delicate parchment — a piece of calligraphy stained with faint, dried splatters of red. The inked letters shimmered slightly under the lamplight, intricate and unmistakably familiar.
Ean's breath caught. His family turned toward the parchment, recognition flashing in their eyes. It was his work — one of the many pieces he had written and sold to earn a bit of his own income.
Though their household was never poor, Ean — now twenty — wanted to stand on his own feet. Selling his calligraphy had always been his quiet source of pride.
"Yes," Ean said after a brief pause, his tone steady. "I made that."
Kael's sharp gaze didn't waver. "Then you'll come with us. You're under arrest on charges of inciting a heretical cult."
"What?" The word escaped him like a gasp. His eyes widened in disbelief, while his mother's hand flew to her mouth, and his younger sister clutched her sleeve, trembling.
"That's impossible," Sean, his father, barked, stepping forward. "My son would never—!"
But before he could finish, two of the Guardians of Dawn moved swiftly, gripping Ean's arms. The young man flinched, confusion and panic flooding his mind.
"I–I didn't do anything!" Ean stammered, struggling against their hold. "I only sold my calligraphy — nothing more!"
"Ean!" his mother cried, her voice shaking. She held Lira close, trying to shield the terrified girl from the sight.
"Please," Ean's voice cracked, his eyes darting from his father to Kael. "You have to believe me!"
"We believe you, son," Melian whispered desperately. "We know you didn't do this."
Lira broke from her mother's arms, tears streaking down her face. "My brother isn't like that! He's not—he's not what you say he is!"
But the three Guardians didn't react. Their faces remained impassive, trained in discipline and duty.
Kael exhaled slowly. "You can explain everything once we arrive at headquarters." His tone was calm. With a faint nod, his men began to pull Ean toward the door.
"Ean!" Sean tried to reach his son, but Kael stepped between them, firm yet not cruel.
"Don't worry," Kael said quietly, his dark eyes glinting beneath the dim light. "If your son is truly innocent, he'll be released soon enough."
Ean's mother and sister stood frozen by the doorway, eyes wide with fear and disbelief.
They clung to each other helplessly, watching as Ean was led away by the three cloaked men. The sound of their boots faded into the night, leaving only the whisper of the wind and the quiet sobs of a broken family.
***
Inside the waiting carriage, Ean sat in silence between two guards. Across from him sat Kael Draven, the man who seemed to command the others with effortless authority.
Kael's gloved hand held the stained calligraphy, the very one that had doomed Ean. He studied it in silence while a faint glow from the carriage lamp flickered across his face. Then, slowly, he drew in a long breath from an expensive cigar, exhaling smoke that curled and drifted toward Ean like ghostly tendrils.
"I didn't do what you're accusing me of," Ean said quietly, breaking the silence.
Kael's gaze lifted. His eyes — sharp and dark — cut through the haze of smoke.
"It's useless to say that now," he replied coolly. "Selene Veyra will question you herself."
"Selene Veyra?" Ean echoed, confused. "Who is she?"
"The best witch in Grenhant," one of the Acolytes beside him answered with a faint smirk. "You'll find out soon enough."
Ean said nothing, but his thoughts churned. A witch. He'd heard rumors of people gifted with supernatural abilities — remnants of an age when light and darkness still battled openly. But meeting one was almost unheard of. And now, somehow, he was being taken directly to one.
Outside, the carriage rumbled through the misty streets of Grenhant — a sprawling city of sharp rooftops and dim gaslights. The emblem of the Guardians of Dawn, a rising sun encircled by chains, gleamed faintly on the carriage door.
They were an organization whispered about in every corner of the continent — hunters of forbidden entities, sealers of corrupted souls.
Their hierarchy was known only to a few:
At the top stood Aurora, the unseen leader said to wield the power of light itself — a force that could banish shadows.
Below her were the Sentinels, regional commanders, giving orders through sealed letters and magical sigils.
Then came the Inquisitors, elite agents like Kael Draven — enforcers who hunted darkness wherever it hid.
Beneath them worked the Archivists, keepers of knowledge and forbidden texts.
And at the bottom, the Acolytes — assistants, novices, or those without innate power, serving under the watchful eyes of their superiors.
Ean's heart pounded as the carriage came to a stop. The guards opened the door, guiding him into a stone building bathed in the faint glow of runic lamps.
The interrogation room was small, with walls of gray stone that seemed to swallow sound. A single table sat in the center, flanked by two chairs. One wall held a large glass panel, its surface so polished it reflected Ean's anxious face like a second self.
He swallowed hard. There was nowhere to run.
Moments later, the door opened with a soft click.
A woman entered — her presence calm yet commanding. Short black hair framed her face, a pair of thin spectacles resting lightly on her nose. In her hands, she carried an old leather-bound tome and a quill pen, its tip faintly glowing.
"Ean Briden," she said gently, her voice smooth but firm. "I apologize for keeping you waiting."
She smiled — polite, almost kind — as she took the seat across from him and set the ancient book upon the table.
She was Selene Veyra, twenty-fifth Archivist of the Dawn Library — Keeper of Knowledge, wielder of forbidden arts.
Those who crossed her path whispered of the Codex Memoria, a relic said to peel back the veils of the mind and tear through even the deepest illusions.
"It's not me…" Ean's voice cracked, raw with disbelief. "I swear, I don't know what any of this is. I'm just a calligraphy seller—nothing more."
His words trembled in the stale air of the chamber, swallowed by the cold stone walls that seemed to listen in silence.
Selene regarded him with unsettling calm, her eyes glinting like glass under candlelight.
"That's fine," she murmured, her tone smooth as a blade. "Truth or lie… it makes no difference. I'll see for myself."
"See for yourself?" Ean echoed, frowning. His pulse quickened. Something about the way she said it — the quiet certainty — sent a crawl down his spine.
Selene said nothing more. She turned the tome toward him, the Codex Memoria yawning open as if it breathed. The pages shimmered faintly, ink shifting of its own accord, forming symbols that pulsed with hidden power.
Then—
Srrriiinnng…
A sharp, metallic chime cut through the silence. The runes flared to life, glowing with a pale, spectral light.
Ean barely had time to gasp before the glow surged outward — cold and endless — swallowing him whole.
The world folded in on itself.
His body went limp, crashing against the table with a dull thud.
Selene watched, unblinking, as the last trace of color drained from his face.
"Now," she whispered, placing a gloved hand upon the tome's spine, "let's see what you're hiding."