The Soulstream Vaults had once echoed with the sounds of scribing.
Sparks logged.
Rhythms indexed.
Flameforms documented in ink that pulsed when truth was spoken.
Every path was known.
Every name tracked.
Every fire catalogued.
Until now.
The last living archivist—Iro—walked alone through the vault's eastern wing.
His robes were thin.
His glyph pen dulled.
His spirit calm.
He no longer came to preserve.
He came to say goodbye.
The scrolls—lined by the thousands—sat quietly.
No glow.
No hum.
No updates.
A shelf once used to track "Unregistered Sparks" had not moved in over a season.
Even the Eternal Flame of the Central Record,
once thought to burn forever—
Was simply gone.
Iro reached the final desk.
Unrolled a blank scroll.
Prepared to mark one final log.
"Flameform data no longer consistent."
"Cross-path harmonics unmeasurable."
"Flame no longer arrives through naming, inheritance, discipline…"
He paused.
Then wrote:
"Flame is no longer fire."
And then, beneath it:
"Flame is now being."
The scroll pulsed.
Just once.
Then unraveled itself.
The ink evaporated.
And the page… folded into the air like breath.
Gone.
No flames responded.
But warmth touched Iro's shoulder.
Not as reward.
Not as recognition.
As companionship.
He looked to the shelves one last time.
And spoke aloud—not to record.
Just to speak.
"We no longer need scrolls…"
"…because flame now lives where scrolls never reached."
And somewhere beyond parchment and path,
The Fire That Waits whispered its final archivist's entry:
"This is the last time I will be written."
"From now on… you will simply feel me."