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ArtistBeautiful warm fantasy library with towering ancient bookshelves and soft golden light. Mara, a young woman with long brown hair wearing practical explorer clothing, stands beside Linora, a young woman with long dark-blonde hair wearing an elegant green medieval fantasy dress. Linora holds an enchanted smartphone that projects a floating silver magical image into the air. The projection shows an old wooden writing desk with a black feather quill, a small crystal ink bottle and the glowing image of an elderly wizard wearing a long dark blue robe decorated with tiny golden stars. The wizard's face is visible, kind and wise, with a long white beard. Nearby stands Elia, a quiet young girl with long dark hair and blue eyes, wearing a simple grey dress embroidered with tiny glowing golden letters, standing in the doorway of a very small wooden door built into the base of a giant bookshelf. A friendly squirrel carrying a rolled parchment stands near the doorway. Sir Fegelot stands beside Mara exactly like the supplied reference image: a slender enchanted broom with a friendly carved wooden face, normal expressive eyes above the face, a black top hat, thin wooden arms with small hands and natural broom bristles. A small living golden paperclip floats beside him as an independent magical companion. Ancient books with open pages, floating glowing letters, warm magical atmosphere, whimsical fantasy illustration, highly detailed painterly art, inspired by Jean-Baptiste Monge and Iris Compiet, cinematic lighting, 4:3 composition. Small white unicorn logo with the text "AI by Unicorngraphics" in the bottom right corner. No other text.
For several quiet moments, nobody spoke. The little girl simply stood in the warm golden light spilling from the tiny doorway beneath the bookshelf, watching each of them with calm, thoughtful eyes. The squirrel gently nudged the rolled parchment toward her feet before climbing onto a nearby stack of books, where it sat proudly flicking its bushy tail. Mara was the first to find her voice. "Who are you?" The girl smiled, though there was something strangely ancient behind her gentle expression. "My name has been forgotten many times," she answered. "The library now calls me Elia." Ticko's tiny bells rang softly. "Do you live here?" "I have always lived where the first unfinished words come to rest." She looked toward the endless shelves surrounding them. "Someone must welcome them before they disappear forever." Biblior slowly lowered his head in respectful greeting. "The First Listener." The girl nodded. "It has been a long time since anyone remembered that name." Klemmi frowned. "First Listener?" Memoris stepped forward. "Before a story can be written, someone must hear its very first word. Most vanish before anyone notices them. Elia protects those that remain." Mara looked at the tiny doorway behind the girl. Countless soft whispers drifted from within, overlapping like distant voices carried on the wind. None of the words could be understood, yet each seemed filled with hope, fear, laughter, sorrow, or wonder. Every unfinished tale waited patiently for the day someone would finally continue it. Linora's enchanted phone vibrated once again. The glowing map disappeared, replaced by a single line of silver text. First Listener confirmed. Archive synchronized. "I don't even want to ask how my phone knows that," Linora murmured. Biblior, however, watched the screen with growing concern. "Residual magic is learning." "Learning what?" Mara asked. Before he could answer, the phone projected another shimmering image into the air. It was no longer a map. It showed the outline of an old wooden writing desk. Upon it rested a familiar black feather quill beside a small crystal ink bottle. Then another figure slowly appeared beside the desk. A tall man wearing a long cloak covered with embroidered stars. His face remained hidden beneath the hood, yet no one doubted who they were seeing. "Arvandus," whispered the Keeper. The image flickered violently before dissolving into countless silver fragments. Only a single spoken sentence remained, echoing faintly through the library. "The story must choose its storyteller." Silence followed. Even the whispering books seemed to pause.
