The Guardian Behind the Curtain

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It was said that something haunted the abandoned halls of Orvanthis, those half-ruined halls filled with crumbling plaster and faded coats of arms. Wanderers who mustered the courage to enter the forbidden east wing reported a shimmer behind the heavy curtains and a sound that was neither a hiss nor a whisper—a sound that seemed to come from another time. No one knew what watched there. Some spoke of a demon, others of a long-forgotten guardian spirit. But the truth was stranger than any legend. That night, as the moon cast a pale pattern on the broken tiles, Liora's shadow stepped through the threshold. She was an archivist, a collector of forgotten stories, and her errand had brought her here. Between gilded doorframes and red velvet curtains, he suddenly stood before her: a slender, emerald-skinned being with a figure as sharply defined as if cut from glass. His skin shimmered as if it bore the echo of long-dried rivers, his red eyes blazing silently, without anger, yet full of watchfulness. Liora held her breath. The guardian didn't move, only his long fingers tensed as if to hold the shadows themselves. "I don't come to steal," she spoke softly, her voice breaking the dust of the hall. "I only seek the Chronicle of the Lost—it is said to be hidden here." A twitch flitted across the creature's face. Not a smile, not a threat, but rather an unintelligible echo that ran through his features. Then he took a step out of the darkness. With each movement, his limbs seemed at once unearthly and yet familiar, as if he had once carried a form closer to human. "Chronicles are fragments of time," came a voice that came not from lips but echoed from the walls. "And time does not belong to mortals." Liora didn't dare move. "And you?" she asked. His eyes flickered. "I am their Keeper. I was once called Nerath, before names fell to dust. My existence is bound to these halls. I stand between the curtains of the world." The words made the curtain behind him tremble as if it were breathing. A breath flowed through it, cool and ancient, like the breath of a library no one ever entered. "If you leave," Nerath continued, "then your heart remains free. If you stay, you must bear the weight of the Chronicle, and that means preserving the stories of all who have ever been forgotten. Are you ready?" Liora saw the red eyes, not evil, but infinitely tired. She understood that this being did not threaten—it tested. It was not a jailer, but a guardian of a burden no one could easily bear. Slowly, she knelt and touched the cold tiles. "I am Archivist. To preserve the forgotten is my oath. But I beg you, let me learn before I bear." Nerath paused. The halls listened. Then he bowed his head, and the fine spines on his neck slid back as if laying down his weapons. "So be it," he said. "You will stay.