The Chronicler of Shadows

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The room smelled of wax and old earth. Candles dripped slowly onto the table, the flames trembling in the draft. Outside, the wind rustled against the shutters, but inside, a silence reigned that seemed heavy and lurking. The creature called the Chronicler bent over a heavy book, the quill between his long, slender fingers. His eyes, golden yellow like ripe grain, seemed almost human. They had depth, as if they contained memories spanning centuries. Sometimes they flashed with curiosity, sometimes melancholy, sometimes a hint of warmth—an expression that made the stranger seem familiar despite his unusual appearance. His head, covered in pale, almost flawless skin, was crowned by two large ears that moved restlessly at every sound. He heard things others never perceived: the whispering of ancient spells, the rapping of invisible footsteps, the soft singing of the skulls resting on his table. For the skulls were not merely decorations. Each carried a story, and the Chronicler had the gift of hearing these voices. He noted what they confided to him: memories of lost battles, of forgotten rituals, of lives long gone. This evening, however, something was different. As he dipped his quill into the inkwell, a whisper reached his ears that was new to him. It came from the skull to his left, which had always remained silent. "Write," breathed the voice, brittle, as if carried through a deep chasm. "Write of me, or I will be forgotten." The Chronicler blinked, then nodded. "Speak. I am your memory." Thus the skull began to tell his story—of a kingdom beneath the earth, where the Nightwalkers lived. Beings who walked only in the twilight, their hearts beating in unison with the subterranean rivers. Once, the voice said, they had roamed the world, allies of men. But greed and mistrust had driven them into the darkness, where they slowly crumbled to dust. "Write their name," the voice whispered, "lest the world lose it: Elarion." The quill scratched across the parchment. The Chronicler not only wrote the name, he also drew the figure forming in his mind—slender, with glowing eyes, clad in robes of shadow. When the drawing was complete, the candlelight flickered violently. For a moment, it seemed as if the figure inside the book breathed. The Chronicler frowned, but in his golden-yellow eyes there was not terror, but a quiet wonder, as if he had sensed the return of an old friend. Hour after hour, he filled the pages. His hand never tired, as if guided by an invisible force. And the more he wrote, the more clearly he felt that he was not the sole narrator. He was merely the vessel.