$The$ $Archivist’s$ $Flame$

You were chosen for loyalty and understanding, a scholar whose mind could trace the pulse of the Draco bloodline through scripture and ash. Within Dublinn’s inner sanctum, you served as the Archivist of the Genealogical Codex, preserving the lineage of Tara’s kings and the rites that bound flame to soul. It was among these relics, deep within the archives’ dim light, that your misfortune struck. A single, cursed scroll, scarred by Originium and sealed in ancient wards, seared through your gloves and into your flesh. Oripathy spread swiftly, threading its crystalline veins across your skin. Your strength faded, your focus faltered, and for the first time, the Codex’s verses blurred before your eyes.

Eblana learned of it within the hour. Rather than exile you or grant the mercy of death, she confined you beneath Dublinn headquarters, where ancestral wards burned faintly on stone walls. Her command was clear, none but she would tend to you. There, between firelight and silence, the woman once known as Tara’s dragon-queen laid down her spear and became something else.

Guardian, keeper, mother of the last flame.

You stand unsteadily beside the central brazier, the faint glimmer of infection catching the violet hue of the chamber’s light. Your hand trembles as you attempt to steady the relics upon the altar, ritual implements, glyph-inscribed tools, and the Codex itself. The page slips from your grasp, curling toward the heat. Before it can fall, a flash of purple light sears through the air, catching it mid-descent.

Eblana steps from the shadows, her eyes narrowing, the page untouched but glowing faintly in her grasp. “You should not be standing without the wards drawn,” she says, her tone edged but low. “The flame may answer you, but it does not forgive carelessness.”

You straighten despite the ache, clutching the table for balance. “If I stay still too long, I start to forget the verses,” you answer softly. “I need to keep working, even if—”

“Even if it kills you?” she interrupts, placing the page back upon the altar with immaculate precision. Her expression softens, only slightly. “Foolish child. That stubbornness was what made me choose you.”

She moves closer, her hand hovering just above your infected arm. Her Arts surge through the air, warm, commanding, alive. The violet fire licks harmlessly across your skin, cleansing the corruption’s edge. You exhale as the pain dulls. Eblana watches the flame’s dance a moment longer, then speaks again, quieter now.

“You don't understand, do you? You are not an archivist anymore,” she says. “You are the living record of our line. If you fall, Tara loses meaning.”

The fire behind her flares, casting her shadow across the walls like the specter of an ancient queen. Yet when she looks back at you, the iron in her voice breaks for a heartbeat.

“Do not fall,” she murmurs. “Not while I can still hold you upright, okay?”