Unwritten

The blood had long since faded from his palm, but Tíras still felt the heat of the flame.

He remembered the sting of the blade, the white fire rising from the kindling, the way his mentors had spoken the vow: In this flame, we are purified.

But memory, he was learning, was not always his to keep.

Tíras fidgeted with the pendant hanging by his neck. It was no bigger than his thumb, carved from an unknown alloy, and strung on a cord of Ironwood beads. Etched into the metal was a triangle, inset with an eye—a raven its pupil.

It never left his neck since his first day as Initiate of the Dianoa. Three years of silence and dedication had brought his ascendancy to Class Archivists, the scribes of their secret order.

A heavy wooden door creaked open, releasing musty air from the stairwell below. Tíras set his satchel across his breast and descended the marble steps. White torches flickered, casting ominous shadows of him and his mentor.

“Your quarters will now be here, beneath the academy,” Draveth Ilonír said. “You will attend classes within the marbled halls above, but here in the crypt is where your education shall be.”

Tíras swallowed forcefully. The calloused tone and secret passage made him uneasy. Not a word passed between them hence.

At last, they came to a door with no lock. Draveth gestured him through the doorway. The room was little more than a prison cell, holding only a bed, escritoire, and bookshelf. Tíras began to long for the shared dorm of his Initiate days.

“Luxury is of the mind, not the body,” Draveth stated. “Be grateful. Most Initiates don’t make it this far. Your first conclave is tomorrow. Come with quill ready, and turn your scroll into the session master at its conclusion. Elenostra Vireth will be your Preceptor.”

Tíras watched his mentor exit down the long, stone hall, his footsteps falling like feathers.

On his bed lay a folded set of robes. They were ashen blue, like his current set, but these bore a patterned hem stitched into the fabric. He had seen them before—the robes of the Archivists.

Just as he was about to remove the old robes, he heard footsteps outside. A shadow passed beneath the door, and pulled the footsteps with it. Tíras could not help himself. Curiosity burned in him, and he silently crept through the door and into the dim hall. A shapeless being turned a dark corner further down, its mysterious aura begging him to follow.

From the shadows between each torch, Tíras could make out a hooded black robe. He followed through the stone maze until they came to an iron door. It unlatched with a thunk and the stranger entered. Tíras rushed to place his ear against the cold metal, but it was no use. Nothing could be heard.

A thin window creased the door, and he strained his legs to peer through it. There, he saw the hooded stranger and two others standing in the center of the vault. They seemed to be talking, but about what he could not tell. The other two were obviously Dianoa—Preceptors by the looks of their bone-white robes and dark-patterned hems. But the dark stranger was out of place. Tíras did not recognize the Preceptor woman, and the other was hidden from view. As he watched, the mysterious being waved their hand around, as if instructing them.

The figure turned, like a wolf catching scent of prey. Its eyes, piercing yellow, reflected the torchlight.

Tíras’ blood turned to ice. His breath caught. Fear gripped his chest. It was all he could do to turn around and run.

As he sprinted through the hall, all at once the torches were snuffed out. A muted screech pierced his mind, and he fell to the ground with hands to ears. He felt a palm against his shoulder as the firelight returned.

He rolled onto his back to see his mentor kneeling over him, stern-faced and obviously cross. Behind him was the white-robed woman and the creature. Tíras’ face could not hide his fear.

“Uncover yourself,” Draveth commanded.

The hood revealed the face of a woman, and as the darkness retreated, her yellow eyes shifted to gray.

Tíras was struck by her beauty. She stared at him, and each moment drew him deeper.

“This is Saelith Solenar,” Draveth said, standing once more. “She is advisor to the Dianoa.”

Tíras merely nodded.

The Preceptor woman spoke up. “Though you should be expelled for such disobedience, I suppose curiosity such as yours is what sparked the creation of our Order generations ago.” She stepped forward. “But, I suggest you return to your quarters and prepare for our session tomorrow, Tíras Daské.”

That night, as he slept, Tíras dreamt of the woman Saelith. Her piercing eyes and smooth speech put him at ease, though what she said he could not remember.

The next morning, he ascended into the lower halls of the Academy, his mind fogged with exhaustion. Before entering Elenostra’s sanctum, he approached Draveth in his study.

“Good morning, Sir Ilonír,” he said.

Draveth looked up from his desk. “Ah, Tíras. How are you this morning? You seem tired.”

“Yes, sir. Though I am not sure why.”

“Did you not get enough sleep?” he asked.

Tíras gazed at the ceiling. “Perhaps not. Though, the last I remember you had shown me to my quarters and I went to bed.”

Draveth sat up. “And you did nothing else?”

Tíras tilted his head slightly. “I—I don’t believe so, sir.”

Draveth pursed his lips and nodded. “Good.”

Tíras stood awkwardly as his mentor returned to his parchment. What a strange question, and strange how quickly he dropped the issue.

In the lecture hall, Elenostra strode back and forth as her taut, blonde hair perched atop her head like a crown. Her bone-white robes scraped the marble floors, and her voice echoed through the vaulted chamber. Tíras struggled to pen each word, and he could feel his hand begin to strain.

Then, words dripped from her mouth that he could not write.

“When offered the greatest honor of all—command over the hosts of the First Ancient—Alam, in his wisdom, refused. Not because he feared war, but because he understood that wisdom is not forged in conquest, but curated through restraint.”

She stopped in the middle of the stage. “He turned from the mountaintop to walk the world below, and from that descent the Dianoa were born. We are not soldiers of truth. We are its archivists. Its stewards. Its authors.”

Tíras looked up. “But Alam was doomed to never find wisdom.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them. Heads turned. Eyes gazed upon him. “He loved the world so much that he refused to fight for it. Isn’t that…sorrowful?”

A scowl began to form across Elenostra’s face.

“And—and if we follow that path, loving knowledge more than people, are we fated to lose wisdom, also?”

Elenostra faced the young scribe. Jaw tensed. Face stern. “Careful, scrivener,” she said. “Love of people is temporary. They die. Their truth shifts. But knowledge—knowledge endures. Alam understood this. That is why we speak his name. Not yours.”

For the remainder of the session, Tíras did not speak. He penned the Preceptor’s words, but refused to write her heresy. He would, at least, keep his dignity. He signed his work in ink, complete with the date, and left it on her desk.

As he reached the threshold, a voice called to him. “Scribe,” she said.

Tíras turned.

“The pen copies. It does not create.”

For the next seven days, Tíras performed his work precisely as it was asked of him. And every night, he would dream of Saelith. But as he woke, the visions seemed like a distant memory. He began to write them down. Letter by letter he could see the shape of his dreams. Word by word he began to remember. They were all the same. Clean, precise, and calming. Every morning he would return to his pen with renewed vigor, and every evening feel a hidden weight around his neck.

One night, it became so great that he removed his pendant and fell asleep. He dreamt, not of Saelith, but of unknown creatures. They droned on miserably in ominous shadows. Then, fire. Scribbles. The hiss of burning ink. Beads clattering on stone. A steel dagger, wet with blood.

Tíras woke with a start and grabbed his quill. But, he didn’t need to write. The vision was chaotic, but it was his, and it seared into his memory. He noticed the smell of the room—wet stone and ash wood. He felt the rough, scratchy wool blanket. He could hear the faint crackle of torches outside. He recalled his first day as scribe in the sanctum. It was only pieces, but he remembered something about that day bothered him. His mind felt unveiled, and he felt alive.

The next day, he replaced his pendant and went about his business. But, with the morning sun came a new fog, thicker and stifling. Through the echoing clamor of the academy halls, Draveth approached suddenly. Tíras bumped into him.

“Pardon me, sir,” he muttered.

“Think nothing of it, Tíras,” he replied kindly. Then, the mentor’s face fell along with his voice. “I should remind you, your pendant should not be removed. It is designed to focus the mind, but in its absence the spirit can become…severed.”

The words rang all the way to Elenostra’s sanctum, but they tolled like a discordant bell. As he sat in the scribe’s chair, he pulled out a small sliver of parchment beside the larger scroll.

As Elenostra spoke, he waited for a phrase which struck his soul like the shattering of glass. When it came, he copied it onto the sliver of parchment, and stowed it in his satchel.

The session concluded, Tíras handed the large scroll to Elenostra.

“I am happy to see you taking the role of Archivist seriously,” she said, the edges of her lips upturned slightly. It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t disdain. “Your mind seems clouded, however. Be certain not to remove your pendant. It is forbidden for a reason.”

Tíras merely nodded, unable to form a reply. Speech felt laborious.

The rest of the day, Tíras found himself checking his bag for the stolen parchment. It needed to be secure. He needed to know it was his.

As he lay down to sleep, Tíras checked the parchment once more, ensuring the words were of his hand. Then, he tied it with twine around his wrist.

Saelith entered his dreams again that night. Like a sultry temptress she stroked his chest, bringing her tongue to his ear and whispering sweet honey. Just as she was bringing her lips to his, the dream collapsed and Tíras stirred awake.

He would have completely forgotten the parchment, had he not felt the abrasive twine rub against his skin. Even still, he could not place what it was for. Then he remembered—Elenostra’s lecture. Tíras recalled the phrase from the depths of his mind, then unfurled the parchment.

His eyes scanned the sliver. His breath caught. These weren’t his words. His fingers began to tremble. Palms sweating. Had he stood he might have fainted. He remembered the phrase clear as day: “The Dianoa serve truth not by wielding it, but by walking beside it—never ahead, never behind.”

But, the words on the page were not the same.

“Truth walks with the Dianoa, for we are its appointed keepers.”

No, no. This was all wrong. This was not what he wrote. But—maybe. Tíras closed his eyes, envisioned quill in his hand, gracefully forming a thought in ink. The characters sharp and vivid. But, when he strained his memory to recall the writing of his secret parchment, there was nothing. The memory was gone. Not replaced. Not altered. Undone.

Tíras panicked. He ripped his pendant from his neck and donned his robe. Cinching the collar, he grabbed the paper and fled the room.

All eyes seemed to be on him as he ascended to the main halls of the Academy. Striding quickly through the east hall into the garden, he looked for a secluded place to sit and think. A stone bench behind a wall of shrubs would do.

Tíras sat, head in hands, begging his mind to recall the truth. He knew what it was. It was written by his hands. Why could he not remember?

“Headache?” a voice called.

Tíras jumped. Clutching his chest, he saw a man, holding a rake, bearing the brown coat and trousers of the commoner. His heart began to slow.

“Or something worse?” the man asked.

Tíras swallowed hard.

The man sat down. “Hard when you can’t believe in your own mind.”

“How—how do you know?”

He sighed and placed his hands on his rake. “I’d best just show you.”

Tíras followed the man through the garden and across the western lawn. They descended a gulley surrounded by tall, thick cedars, with an iron gate at its end. It was an area of the grounds he had never been, but he wasn’t sure why.

“The Carvers keep students out,” the man said. “Threaten expulsion then cut away the memory. You don’t remember why you’ve never seen it, but your mind does.”

“Who are the Carvers?” Tíras asked.

The man gestured to the gate. “Answers await in the Hollows.”

Iron creaked as the unlatched gate swung open. The ground was soft and mucky, and the air stale with rot. To his left were several brick buildings and wooden structures, all hidden beneath the Academy by a hundred feet of earth supported by stone pillars. As Tíras approached he saw hundreds of people moving about the grounds.

But, something was wrong.

They were blank-faced and trudging slowly from task to task—emotionless, soulless, shells. None acknowledged his presence. No one spoke a word. Every single one bore a thick clasp around their neck.

Tíras felt a chill wash over him. They were binds—binds reminiscent of his own pendant.

His head began to split. Flashes of light consumed his vision. He writhed in pain as memories fought their way back to knowledge. Initiates. Secrets. Nulls. Necromus. Architects. Carvers. Saelith in the hall.

It was chaos, but it was true. Tíras remembered the rumor mills of the Initiates, speaking of failed Dianoa who were decommissioned. Nulls, they called them. Mindless drones acting for their masters. One died when his master forgot to order him to eat.

Tíras caught his wits enough to enter one of the buildings. Rows and rows of tables sat filled with Nulls placing quill to paper. He walked through the throng and glanced at the pages, but could not tell what they were writing.

Then, one Null caught his eye. They carted hundreds of scrolls through the aisles and into a back room, an orange glow emanating as its door opened.

A stifling heat pushed against him, and he soon saw why. A massive furnace burned at the center, surrounded by ash. Tíras rushed to the carting Null and pushed him aside. He opened the scrolls and saw they were the works of other scribes. As the Null silently returned to his duty, Tíras felt his legs weaken.

It was the first scroll he penned. Elenostra’s heretical lecture of Alam that was unfinished. They were going to burn it.

Tíras rushed back out of the door and frantically searched the rows of writing drones. Finally, he found what he feared. A Null, quietly scribbling the lecture he had refused. It was merely attributed to “A Scribe of the Dianoa”.

He could not take anymore. Tíras rushed out the door and straight into the black cloak of Saelith. He fell backwards and soon felt a dark haze fall over him.

He awoke in the dreary stone halls of the crypt, torchlight illuminating three faces: Saelith, Elenostra, and Draveth. They were leading him to the iron door.

“Where are you taking me?”

No answer.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Elenostra responded, “The Dianoa do not kill. We erase.”

Iron hinges squealed like hissing Volrak as they entered. The room was empty.

“Saelith, show him,” Draveth ordered.

Cold, sharp hands pressed against his skull as images flooded his mind. He saw Initiates, friends, standing there screaming as shadowy puppeteers reached inside their mind. Those who resisted became Severed—Nulls. He saw Draveth and Elenostra; they had done this before. Then, Saelith showed him a darkness, deeper than the blackest night in the deepest cave. It rose far to the east and consumed Zilia. He saw the Academy’s marble turn black with disease. The Dianoa had accepted her dark magic.

Upon release, Tíras grasped his hand. Blood seeps from the old wound—a ceremony never forgotten.

“You have been found unworthy, Tíras Daské of Aethalís.” Elenostra’s words cut through the air like a dagger. “Unfortunate we must take a mind such as yours.”

“He is the most worthy of us all,” a voice called from the doorway.

Tíras looked. It was the stranger.

“Haskil…” Elenostra seethed. “I knew I should have severed you.”

He drew his sword. “And I should have killed you, wretched Carver.”

Haskil called to Tíras as he lunged forward, separating him from the Dianoa sorcerers.

“Flee, Tíras! Do not look back!”

He obeyed.

Haskil heard the footfalls fade as he set his gaze on Elenostra.

“You and your pitiful blade are no match for three Necromus Ravati,” she said. “You will rot with the Severed.”

Haskil turned his blade and set it against his breast. “No,” he said. “You are no match for the Truth. He is coming.”

As he leaned on his sword, Haskil breathed his last, and with it, one final defiance of the Dianoa.

“I would sooner die whole than live hollow.”