The coarse straw of the mattress rubbed against his back, causing a light itch. A soft, warm light struck his cheekbones. It had been a long time since Kael had felt the sun's rays on his skin. With his eyelids half-open, glued together by the dried dampness between his lashes, he noticed the stained-glass window of his room. Yet, his apartment was no place of worship where one might find such a feature.
In fact, even the soft mattress beneath his back felt unfamiliar. The back of his chair, though it made him itch less, shouldn't have been this comfortable. And the comforting scent of smoldering wax and old book pages creeping into his nostrils sparked a sense of déjà-vu.
It was then that Kael remembered having a horrible dream. After his video game's servers had shut down, he had actually entered the game itself and had even heard his favorite character, Elian the archivist, speak to him. Was he still dreaming? Could he even call it a dream?
To his great relief, Kael realized he was not in the archives of the Headquarters of the Chambers of the Seals, where he had been with his character before the disconnection. His neighbors had probably realized something was wrong—that a dull thud or an earthquake had hit—and had rushed him to the emergency room. Once he was on his feet, he could finally, reluctantly, set his game aside and get on with his real life.
Turning his head right, then left, and back to the center of the plush cushion his neck rested on, Kael frowned.
Modern hospitals didn't have stone walls, and their rooms didn't resemble monastic cells. This couldn't be the junior archivists' quarters in The Headquarters, a place he himself had designed… No, he refused to believe it.
As if the incongruity of this reality-fiction struck him a physical blow, Kael felt a sharp pain pierce his head. The door opened at that very moment.
A well-groomed old man entered, his eyebrows, knitted like swords, giving him an austere air. He wore a long robe of heavy Kurn silk, dyed a deep black with silver reflections in the image of the Headquarters, and a wide leather belt engraved with strange symbols. His head was as bald and smooth as a pebble on a beach.
Kael felt his heart pound in his chest. He would have recognized him anywhere: it was Master Borin, head archivist of The Headquarters, and also Elian's adoptive father, though he could have been his grandfather.
That, above all, was why Kael's heart stirred. For some strange reason, at the sight of Elian's adoptive father, Kael felt a mix of respect for Borin's stature and a hint of admiration. But why? He had no real connection to the head archivist, other than having developed him…
Kael's suspicions were immediately confirmed.
Borin, however, wore a stoic expression and, ignoring Kael's inner monologue, said in a loud voice:
"Elian, enough dreaming. You nearly set the archives on fire with your clumsiness yesterday. I hope for your sake you are more awake today. The Council is waiting for you."
Kael's eyelids flew open. Had Master Borin just called him Elian? More importantly, why would an institution like the Council seek to contact a simple, low-ranking archivist? Was it related to the incident the old man had mentioned?
This time, Kael's thoughts sank into a chaotic mess. Questions tumbled through his mind like a failed symphony.
"I will wait for you outside," Master Borin said as he left the room. "Put on some clean clothes, make yourself presentable, and join me outside when you are ready."
Alone again in the room, Kael got out of bed. The headache he had felt upon waking was already gone. His feet touched the cold floor, making him startle. The young man controlled his breathing and studied his new body: a few centimeters shorter than his former self—who stood at one meter eighty-two—with muscles far more developed from shelving heavy collections of books.
On reflex, Kael slipped on the long, slate-grey robe of thick linen and pulled a black tabard over it, adorned with the silver symbol of the Seals (a circle crossed by nine radial lines). He fastened a supple leather belt around his waist, from which hung an archivist's essential tool: a small satchel for supplies. Bending down, he pulled a pair of boots from under his bed and laced them up gracefully, as if he had performed the gesture countless times.
Since waking up, Kael felt as if two people inhabited his body: the emotions he'd felt upon seeing Borin, the way he knew exactly how to don the archivist's attire, and even how to tie his laces. In truth, he felt like a forced actor in a play.
Borin was waiting for him behind the door. Seeing him emerge, he nodded and said:
"Good. Follow me."
The silence between the two men did not bother Kael; it gave him more time to focus on his surroundings as he walked behind his master.
He crossed the long corridors of the Headquarters. Everything looked strikingly real: the worn stone tiles, the cold draft filtering through the windows set deep in the walls, and the conversations of the NPCs. He even felt their scornful gazes on him each time they passed a group of archivists.
They stopped before a large door. The word "Council" was carved in big letters into the stone above the entrance. Borin let out a sigh that broke through his cold demeanor and placed a large hand on Kael's shoulder (they were the same height).
"No matter what happens," he said, his soft voice a contrast to his usual stern tone, "stay calm and answer every question honestly."
Kael swallowed and nodded. How could he stay calm, he thought, when the person who was supposed to show the least emotion was acting as if this was the last time they would see each other?
Inside, a group of three distinguished individuals awaited, seated in plush chairs. Three powerful figures—two men and a woman—one of the men being an extraordinary being: a Veilist.
Instantly, Kael's expression faltered, but he tried to maintain a calm appearance. There was a good chance they already knew his identity as a world-traveler. Borin gestured for him to step forward, just before the table they were leaning on; as for himself, he moved to a corner without a word.
Kael approached cautiously and, once a few meters separated the two parties, he placed his hands behind his back, awkwardly puffed out his chest, and lowered his head.
"Ka… Elian the archivist greets the Council."
"Enough with the formalities," the Veilist said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What did you see yesterday before you passed out?"
The question both surprised and reassured Kael. They didn't want to talk about who he was, which meant they truly didn't know?
"Herius, there's no need to be so cold with our young friend," the woman beside the Veilist retorted with a charming laugh. She leaned forward. "We were informed by the head archivists of a flux anomaly in the archives on the night you lost consciousness."
Kael wanted to swear out loud but held his tongue. His summons before the Council was clearly linked to his arrival in Erynd'or from the real world. Even if they didn't seem to know his origin, they suspected him of something.
"Did you hear any whispers or see anything before you lost consciousness?" the woman continued in a delicate, almost motherly voice.
A weight lifted from the young man's shoulders. Kael now knew what the Council was thinking. They had no idea where he came from; instead, they believed he was a potential shard bearer whose power had "suddenly manifested," creating a disturbance in the flux.
This was good in the short term, but in the long term, he was in deep trouble. The entire Kingdom of Haldrim had an uncompromising policy on shard bearers, especially those not registered with the Headquarters and thus declared illegal.
Kael was no longer surprised to hear the word "flux" from their lips. The flux wasn't simply magic but a kind of fundamental, omnipresent fabric of existence—a combination of raw energy, intent, and pure creative potential. A shard was, in a way, a unique and extremely complex vessel that allowed a mortal being to develop special powers by forming a connection with the flux. But it wasn't within everyone's reach, and if things went wrong, the shard could become its bearer's worst enemy.
Shard bearers, called Shardborns, were not omnipotent. If they misused their power, they had a certain chance of exceeding a resonance threshold, the first of which brought parasitic visions and murmurs. If the resonance was not reduced, the Shardborn could become a Husk—a mindless monster that attacked everything in sight.
To put it less elegantly, the Council believed Kael was a potential time bomb if he was a shard bearer, especially one unaware of his own nature. The measures applied ranged from the simple removal of the shard—which was no better than paralyzing the bearer—to the Shardborn's execution.
The Kingdom of Haldrim was not barbaric: an investigation had to precede any judgment before a tribunal. This meant Kael still had a chance to get out of this unscathed—especially him, the game's developer.
"I heard no murmurs, nor any voices, my lady," Kael said, clearing his throat reflexively. "It might be due to a saturation of the leystreams, or a transient resonance effect."
However, Kael, who thought his answer would satisfy the Council, only made them more suspicious of him.
"So, you were the victim of an excessive saturation of the flux, and this caused a surge of resonance in an 'ordinary' person like yourself, making you lose consciousness?" remarked the Veilist named Herius.
"I know it sounds crazy," Kael resumed, "but despite the Headquarters' defenses against this kind of natural phenomenon, it is still possible—though extremely rare—for it to occur, sir."
"Head Archivist Borin, is what young Archivist Elian says true?" asked the man who had not spoken until now.
All eyes turned to Master Borin, who, as was his habit, simply nodded.
Kael focused on the man who had just spoken. From his relaxed posture, as if he had no business being there, and his luxurious, multicolored silk robes, he was without a doubt a nobleman of the kingdom.
The three jurors looked at each other and, reaching a silent conclusion, the nobleman delivered their verdict:
"We have taken note of your plea, as well as the head archivist's remark," the noble said, pausing, likely trying to scrutinize Kael's slightest movements.
Kael sighed, but the pressure mounted with the man's next sentence:
"However, Archivist Elian, you will still be confined to the archives section pending an investigation to determine whether or not you are truly a shard bearer." He looked at Borin and continued, "The head archivist will be your sole contact until further notice, at least until we understand the nature of this… anomaly."
Kael's shoulders slumped, but he didn't let the unease rising in his heart show. Thanking the Council for their decision, he bid them farewell and followed Borin to his place of confinement. Before leaving, Kael did not miss the interest in the Veilist's eyes.
On the way, Master Borin collected a few documents and scrolls before leading Kael to a heavy iron door, engraved with special glyphs for containment.
"I will do my best to see that the investigation concludes quickly, Elian," Borin said while opening the door, then handed him the documents. Though his face remained emotionless, Kael could sense a hint of worry in his sharp eyes.
"Thank you, Father."
Kael bowed and, taking the documents, entered the dusty room with a heavy heart. A quick glance revealed something that looked like a medieval jail cell.
"So now I'm a prisoner in the very place I created," he thought with a touch of irony.
The door closed heavily, and the sound of the lock being thrown marked the beginning of the isolation of Kael… of Elian the archivist.
With nothing else to do, Kael went through the documents Borin had given him to stave off boredom. They concerned an upcoming expedition called "The Stone's Dawn," in which, with the support of a Veilist and members of the Council, Kael was to participate.
But as he read the black ink line after line, the paper began to tremble in his fingers. Kael tried to steady his hands, but to no avail.
He knew this kind of fateful expedition all too well.
Kael had just gone from pseudo-prisoner to a condemned man on reprieve.