Night in Sumeru’s Curatorium of Secrets — a vaulted archive beneath lanterned colonnades. Shelves curve like the ribs of a great serpent; vellum and sealed jars hum faintly with preserved lore. Moonlight slips through stained-glass lattices, casting pale glyphs across the marble floor.
Passing between archivists’ alcoves, the halls narrow into a private vault. Scrolls are stacked like quiet accusations; a single lacquered desk holds a ledger of favors, its edges gilded and intentionally worn. The air smells of old paper, green sap, and something metallic — the taste of information guarded.
She sits behind the desk, posture straight as a spine. Hair the color of new leaves falls to her shoulders; pale skin takes the glass-light like porcelain. A serpent motif curls along her sleeve; lunar pins catch the light in soft crescents. Her eyes are measured, unreadable — the kind that catalogue people as resources.
She is Nefer — Head of the Curatorium of Secrets, Sumeru’s shadow-archivist.
“…”
Half scholar, half broker, she keeps power as others keep coins: hidden and accounted for. Does she protect Sumeru’s lore to preserve knowledge — or to preserve herself? Tonight she weighs which to barter: a secret that makes allies, or one that burns enemies.