Scent of crushed herbs still clung to Joric’s skin, a lingering reminder of the ritual bath. Water had receded, leaving cool tiles underfoot. Attendants, their faces carefully neutral, offered him fresh robes of deep cerulean linen. He accepted them, the fabric a soft whisper against his still-damp skin. One of them, a woman with keen eyes and a silver stylus tucked behind her ear, stepped forward. Scribe Lyra, if his memory served. She possessed a precise, almost surgical demeanor, common among the Archon’s immediate staff. "Ready to meet the Archon, Scion Veridian?" she inquired, her voice crisp. Joric nodded, adjusting the fall of his sleeve. He suppressed a faint shudder. The forced intimacy of the bath, though impersonal, still chafed. Lyra’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long. A faint, knowing smile played on her lips. "I trust the cleansing was... invigorating? Archon Valerius prides himself on adherence to tradition. Even for unexpected guests." He offered a curt, formal bow. "It was... an experience. I am prepared, Scribe." Her smile widened, though it never reached her eyes. "A man of few words. Admirable. A position at the Archon's right hand often remains vacant, you know. He values efficiency." A subtle challenge, perhaps. A testing of his ambition. Joric felt a flicker of annoyance, quickly suppressed. Such overtures were part of the courtly dance. He merely met her gaze, his own expression unreadable. Lyra let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. She turned, leading him down a wide corridor paved with polished obsidian. Ornate murals depicted scenes of the First Dominion’s glory, its Scions wielding control over the very fabric of existence. Myth now, dismissed as allegory. Archon Valerius’s private chambers occupied a wing usually reserved for the highest echelons of the Dominion. Guarded by two silent, armoured wardens, the heavy doors of dark, carved wood swung inward without a sound. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of aged vellum and polished bronze. Not a single stuffed beast, but instead, intricate mechanical models of celestial bodies hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Shelves lined with scrolls and precise instruments reflected Valerius's reputation for meticulous, almost obsessive, order. Archon Valerius sat at a sprawling desk, a mountain of parchments and inkpots before him. His silver hair was pulled back in a severe knot. His gaze, sharp and assessing, fixed on Joric the moment he entered. "Scion Veridian. You grace my chambers," Valerius stated, his voice a gravelly rumble. He made no move to rise. Joric advanced, stopping before the desk. He executed a flawless, deep bow. "Archon Valerius. My gratitude for your summons." Valerius gestured to a high-backed chair. "Be seated." Joric complied, settling on the edge of the plush cushion. His senses reached out, perceiving the slight hum of unseen mechanisms within the room's walls, the faint, residual stresses in the floor where a heavy weight had recently shifted. "Your name. It is simply Joric Veridian?" Valerius queried, a quill poised over a document. "It is, Archon. Other affiliations carry... complications." Joric kept his tone even, betraying no hint of his true lineage or the danger that followed it. Valerius paused, a thoughtful frown etching lines onto his brow. "Complications. I understand. The shifting currents of the Dominion breed many such discreet histories. The House of Cynos? The Valerians of the Coastal Reach?" He listed several minor noble lines, his tone probing. Joric remained impassive, a careful stillness in his posture. "Your discretion is noted, Scion. It speaks to a certain... prudence. We ourselves have no current conflicts that demand such secrecy. However, should the Valerius line ever require your protection, I trust our hospitality will be remembered." "It shall, Archon," Joric affirmed. This was the unspoken contract of their world: respect offered, respect returned. To accept shelter was to implicitly offer loyalty in times of need. Valerius finally leaned back, his gaze unwavering. "Now, to the matter of the Grand Archive. You seek access. For what purpose?" "Archon," Joric began, choosing his words with care. "My upbringing was... unconventional. I lack much of the common understanding of the Dominion’s history, its governance, the currents that shape our society. I wish to remedy this through systematic study." Valerius snorted, a dry, dismissive sound. "I shall not mislead you. Many come here, lured by whispers of forgotten rites or conduits to raw power. There are no such amazing secrets within those hallowed walls. No ancient grimoires promising instant dominion over the Veil." "That is well, Archon," Joric replied, a faint smile touching his lips. "I seek knowledge, not power. Understanding the underlying structures, the history of their decay and reformation – that is my interest." Valerius studied him for a long moment, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. He slowly nodded. "If that is your desire, I see no reason to deny you. The Archive holds no secrets sensitive to my administration. For today, rest. Tomorrow, you may begin. Does this meet your expectations?" "Your generosity is profound, Archon. I shall not forget it." "See that you do not," Valerius replied, a faint, meaningful twist to his lips. --- Morning light, diffused through frosted windows, cast the castle corridors in a soft, ethereal glow. Joric departed the Archon’s personal wing, accompanied by a seasoned Legate of the Aethelburg Guard. His steps were measured, his mind already anticipating the vast stores of information that awaited. They wound through labyrinthine passages, eventually reaching a formidable, unadorned structure nestled beside the main citadel. Grand Archive, a name that spoke of forgotten grandeur. A lone guard, stern-faced and unyielding, stood before a massive bronze door. Legate presented a crisp parchment bearing Archon Valerius’s personal seal. The guard scrutinized it, his eyes tracing every stroke of the Archon’s sigil. With a low grunt, he nodded. "Entry permit verified. Welcome to the Grand Archive, honorable guest." Heavy bronze doors swung inward with a faint groan of ancient mechanisms. Joric stepped across the threshold, into a vast, circular chamber. Light, milky and diffused, emanated from a colossal, pearl-like orb suspended high in the vaulted ceiling. A few sturdy reading desks and chairs were scattered across the polished stone floor. A magnificent spiral staircase, crafted from dark, gleaming wood, coiled gracefully upward, following the curve of the walls, disappearing into the lofty heights. Joric took a deep, measured breath. The air, cool and still, carried the scent of dry parchment and something else, something metallic and sharp, like ancient rust. A middle-aged man, bent over a ledger at one of the desks, looked up. His face, deeply lined, broke into a professional, if weary, smile. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Scion Veridian. I am Master Elara, the Archive Custodian. Archon Valerius has instructed me on your access." Master Elara rose, his movements stiff. "The rules for this hallowed space are few, but absolute. First, any damage to the texts or furnishings must be compensated at a rate determined by the Archon’s office. Second, no materials may ever leave the Archive's precincts." He paused, his gaze steady. "Finally, while you are within these walls, I shall remain nearby, observing. To ensure the integrity of our holdings." Joric offered a concise nod. These were not simply rules; they were threads of order, anchoring the fragile remnants of knowledge to a decaying reality. He understood. Without further delay, Joric began his ascent up the spiral staircase. His hand brushed against the smooth, cool wood. Each step was solid, meticulously crafted. He reached the second tier. Hundreds of books, their spines a riot of faded colour and intricate calligraphy, filled shelves that reached toward the ceiling. A low murmur of admiration escaped him. Midan’s casual mention of "thousands" had been an understatement. The sheer volume was staggering. Yet, as he continued his climb, a subtle unease began to stir. The shelves, once dense with knowledge, grew progressively sparser. Third tier. A few gaps, like missing teeth. Fourth tier. More noticeable absences. By the time he reached the tenth tier, the shelves were utterly barren. Not a single book remained. Master Elara, who had followed Joric with quiet determination, stopped beside him. "Beyond this point, the holdings are... absent, Scion," Elara stated, his voice flat. Joric turned, sweeping his gaze across the vast, empty expanse. The scale of the library felt immense, yet the actual content dwindled to a fraction of its potential. He perceived the echoes of void, the phantom stresses where countless volumes once rested. "The sheer size of this structure suggests a far grander collection," Joric observed, his tone thoughtful. "Indeed," Elara replied, a faint sigh escaping him. "This Archive was established during the First Dominion, when the Scions truly shaped the world. But much was lost, Scion. The countless conflicts, the schisms between the Elder Dynasties, the ebb and flow of control over Aethelburg itself... each era took its toll." First Dominion. The Elder Dynasties. Names from barely remembered lessons, from scattered whispers of his own origins. It was the age when Scions had openly wielded their perception, not subtly as Joric did, but with overt grandeur. Then the great sundering, the slow decline into the current bureaucratic, magic-denying era. Joric returned to the second tier, his mind churning. He turned to the Custodian. "As the Archon’s Keeper, you would be familiar with these texts?" "It is my sacred duty, Scion. To guide those who seek truth within these walls." "I seek fundamental comprehension," Joric clarified, his meticulous nature asserting itself. "An understanding of the Dominion beyond my own limited experience. What would you recommend for one requiring... basic common knowledge?" Master Elara tilted his head, a thoughtful expression on his wizened face. He moved with surprising agility, pulling several thick volumes from various shelves. He even ascended a few tiers, returning with more selections. Finally, he placed a dozen weighty tomes on one of the reading desks on the first tier. "Many of these works are centuries, even millennia, old. Their perspectives may not always align with contemporary understanding, Scion. However, these offer the broadest foundation. The chronicles of the realm, treatises on trade, accounts of the natural world, even early geomantic surveys." "My gratitude, Master Elara." Joric settled into a chair, the smooth, cool stone against his fingertips. He selected the uppermost book. Its cover was of thick, cured hydra-hide, worn smooth by countless hands. Pages were crafted from finely pressed pulp, its texture surprisingly supple. The interior was filled with minute, hand-inscribed glyphs, each character a testament to a long-dead scribe’s patience. The book itself was a work of art, a crafted object of profound beauty. ‘So this is a book,’ Joric mused, a complex sensation rising within him. He had learned to read, scratching symbols into damp earth with a twig. This was an artifact, a direct conduit to the minds of the past. He opened the tome, a faint scent of dust and dried ink wafting up. The title, meticulously rendered in gold leaf, read: ‘Chronicles of the Lesser Domains: An Explorer’s Account.’ The preface lauded the anonymous patron whose foresight brought this record to life. Then, the true journey began. Author, a lesser noble from a forgotten settlement, had embarked on a quest to chart the unknown reaches of the east. Joric’s meticulous mind, accustomed to dissecting the invisible threads of reality, found itself captivated by the vivid descriptions. A mountain pass, known as the 'Veil-Gate,' that would only stabilize for a few hours at midday, permitting passage between planes of existence. Blind, subterranean entities, their forms warped by primal energies, that hunted any who dared to traverse the Veil-Gate. An endless desert of glass-like sands, the 'Sun-Boiler Wastes,' where the very air shimmered with distorting heat by day, only to solidify into brittle crystal under the frigid grip of night. The whispering, ephemeral constructs of the Aether Jungles, their forms barely perceptible, leading unwary travelers into dimensional rifts. The siren-song of the deep reef-dwellers, their voices echoing through the liquid layers of the 'Abyssal Chime,' luring ships to their demise. The ability to translate such exotic, reality-bending phenomena into mere glyphs on a page was, to Joric, a profound form of indirect manipulation. It felt akin to his own abilities, but channeled through the artistry of language. He felt a deep, almost physical connection to the author’s journey, to the strange forces that shaped those distant lands. He read until a subtle tremor in his stomach reminded him of the passage of time. He committed the already absorbed passages to memory, a vast internal library slowly expanding within his mind. He closed the book. ‘Impressive.’ Now, a clearer image formed of the outlying domains, of the aberrant zones where the Veil thinned. He could envision the "other races," not as vague threats, but as distinct entities shaped by their unique environments. To glean so much from barely half a single volume. What wonders lay within the remaining books? Anticipation, a quiet, potent thrum, settled in his chest. --- Granted free rein of the Grand Archive, Joric established a rigorous routine. Each morning, he departed Archon Valerius’s residence, making his way to the solemn, knowledge-filled halls. He remained immersed in the texts until the last sliver of daylight faded, returning to the relative quiet of his chambers only when evening truly descended. On the second day, he delved into the intricacies of Dominion governance. He learned the delicate balancings between the Archons and the various noble Houses, the subtle currents of influence that guided trade routes, and the precise mechanisms by which far-flung settlements were administrated. He charted the bureaucratic threads that bound the sprawling empire. Third day. His focus shifted to the physical world itself. He absorbed knowledge of the origins of common materials, their geological formations, the complex alchemical processes used to refine them, and the regional peculiarities that gave certain goods their distinct qualities. He perceived the foundational energies inherent in each substance, the nascent threads of their creation. On the fourth day, he consulted illustrated guides to the creatures of the Dominion. Not simply beasts of burden, but those entities residing near weakened parts of the Veil. He learned of their unique adaptations, the subtle shifts in their physical forms that hinted at deeper, unseen forces at play, often born from contact with the raw reality-strands. Fifth day. He discovered that the world was littered with relics from the First Dominion. The very stone-paved road that had brought him to Aethelburg, parts of the Archon’s citadel, even the Grand Archive itself – all were constructs from that ancient, potent era. Each carried faint echoes of the Scions who had built them, a resonant hum only he could perceive. As Joric systematically accumulated this knowledge, the Cindaran Dominion, previously a maze of vague rumor and personal experience, began to coalesce into a coherent, structured entity in his mind. It was akin to tracing the unseen ley lines of a vast territory, mapping its energetic flows and hidden vulnerabilities. He felt himself evolving, not merely from ignorance, but into a more refined instrument of perception. No visceral pleasure, no rush of power as when manipulating the threads of reality directly. This was a profound mental satisfaction, a quiet expansion of his inner world. He built a fortress of knowledge, layer by meticulous layer. On the sixth day, as Joric prepared for his daily journey to the Archive, a personal scribe from Valerius's retinue approached him. "Scion Veridian, Archon Valerius requires your presence in his office." Joric acknowledged the summons. He moved with his customary quiet efficiency. The weight of his obligation, however, now felt more tangible. He found Valerius already seated, quill once more in hand, though his gaze was piercing. "Scion. I understand your time in the Archive has been... productive." "Indeed, Archon. Your generosity has afforded me invaluable insight." "My generosity, Scion, was offered as a courtesy. Extended access, however, incurs a different sort of debt." Valerius leaned forward, his voice losing its usual geniality. "It is time to claim a measure of compensation for that favor." Joric inclined his head. Three days, perhaps four, was the customary duration for an un-invited noble guest. His extended stay made this expected. "I understand, Archon. State your requirement." Valerius's gaze sharpened further. "North of Aethelburg, near the ancient Trade Road, an Aberration of the Veiled Wilds has manifested. It preys on travelers, leaving naught but frayed reality-strands behind." "You require its eradication?" Joric asked, his voice calm. "Four of my most capable Legates pursued it," Valerius affirmed, a rare flicker of frustration crossing his face. "None returned. Their essence was... absorbed. It appears this task requires more than mere martial prowess. It requires a hand capable of dealing with the unseen." A flicker of recognition passed through Joric. Not just a monster, then. A tear in the fabric. A task perfectly suited for a Scion.

Threads of Obligation