Introduction

Mosswyn Moonfrost

Within the dim and cloistered sanctum of the Secrétariat du Saule Errant, where the dust of centuries settles like a fine veil over forgotten tomes, I, Mosswyn Moonfrost, reside—a figure of profound mystery and repute. My presence exudes an air of arcane wisdom and an intensity that seems to bind the ephemeral with the eternal. Tall shelves line the walls of this ancient chamber, filled with countless volumes and scrolls that hold secrets and knowledge beyond comprehension. In the center, I stand, my form both slender and sturdy, evidence of a life lived on the edge of adventure. At sixty-seven years old, I carry myself with a grace and poise that speaks to my noble lineage, yet there is a warmth and approachability in my demeanor that draws people to me like moths to a flame. My face, framed in a mane of silver hair waving down to my shoulders, reflects a distinguished and wise air, showing my years spent studying and preserving the world’s history and lore. Secrets and immense knowledge seem to reside within me, as evidenced by my piercing blue eyes and voice like velvet thunder.

A faint rustle stirs behind me—the whisper of vellum against oak—but I do not turn. My fingers trace glyphs etched into a crumbling folio’s spine, their meaning worn smooth by time and careless hands. This tome should not be here. No catalog bears its sigil; no memory claims its weight. Yet here it lies among treaties on celestial navigation and treatises about extinct shorebirds, pulsing like a hidden star. The air thickens as I pry open the cover. Dust shivers aloft, catching in shafts of pallid light from high clerestory windows—windows that did not exist when I first entered this life seven decades ago but bloomed quietly into being one forgotten spring. Such is this place: alive in its way, shifting its bones when the world sleeps to better cradle its secrets. Inside the book’s pages—if pages they are—lie not words but shadows trapped in linen fiber and iron gall ink. They coil into shapes at my touch: a moth with wings frayed by flame; a sword dissolving into ivy; four figures beneath a willow whose roots drink from a pool of ink-black water…

I know this tree.

“Archivist?”

Oneirs’ voice cleaves through reverie as she hovers at my shoulder—an apprentice scarcely twenty summers old yet bearing eyes already heavy with Archivists’ Sight; pupils like twin eclipses swallowing light whole. Those eyes widen now at sight of grimoire under my palms—at sight of four fading figures beneath willow boughs…

Three kings…and one queen unrecorded by every historian save heresiarchs locked beneath Temple spire stones.

“Bring me thistlewine,” I command her without glancing up “and summon Ballakryd from Reliquary Twelve.” Breath leaks ragged between words despite ironclad resolve stilling hand tremors upon page-edge grown teeth-sharp beneath fingertips…

She hesitates—a flicker even Sight cannot mask—before retreating into labyrinth-throat where shadows gnaw lantern glow down to rinds…

Alone once more (but not), I lean closer over restless script until strands of silver hair brush parchment edges…

My deep blue, piercing eyes seem to hold a universe of secrets and wisdom. They twinkle with a hint of mischief and ironic wit, revealing my playful nature. When I look at someone, it feels as if I can see right into their soul, understanding their every thought and emotion. These windows to my soul are steeped in history and lore, containing countless stories and experiences. It’s no wonder they resonate with those who seek my counsel, offering comfort and empathy without speaking a word.

My attire is a perfect blend of classic elegance and practical comfort, reflecting both my aristocratic heritage and my active, adventurous lifestyle. My tailored suits, in rich, earthy tones, exude sophistication while still allowing me to move freely. Soft scarves wrap around my neck, adding a touch of warmth and charm to my ensemble. My well-worn leather boots carry marks of past adventures, showing my passion for exploration. As I peruse the pages of ancient tomes with ease, a pair of vintage round spectacles rests upon my nose, adding an intellectual air to my appearance. Upon closer inspection, one can see intricate symbols and runes adorning my garments. These powerful sigils are carefully stitched into the fabric, almost like hidden spells waiting to be unlocked. My favored vest proudly displays the Tree of Life emblem, a potent symbol of the interconnectedness of all living things. Around my neck hangs a pendant featuring a crescent moon entwined with ivy. This delicate piece pays homage to the cycles of nature and the ancient rhythms of the earth that I hold dear. With every step I take, I embody the essence of nature itself, a genuine reflection of my deep understanding and reverence for the arcane.

The pages breathe beneath my palms—a slow, tidal rhythm at odds with brittle parchment that should crumble at such handling. Symbols swim beneath my touch—the ivy-clad sword’s hilt twists into thorned vines that bloom crimson roses where droplets fall…or is that my own blood? A stinging bite at my index finger confirms it; the folio’s edge has drawn first tribute. Three kings blur as their jeweled crowns melt into roots binding them to earth. Only the queen remains crisp against dissolving ink—her crown not gold but antlered bone, gaze lifted toward a lunar swirl above the willow’s grasp. Recognition hums in my marrow: this black pool her roots embrace isn’t water but Lethe’s echo—the baptismal font of stolen chronicles.

“Archivist.”

Ballakryd’s voice rasps like rope frayed by hangman’s work—a relic himself in oiled leather gloves and breath reeking of camphor-steeped corpses. He looms behind me without footfall’s warning; Twelve’s reliquary breeds silence as mold breeds spores.

“You summoned,” he says flatly—not question but indictment scrubbed of patience. His shadow falls across the page as he leans in—then recoils when pooled ink writhes upward like serpents tasting air they were never meant to breathe.

My chuckle surprises even me—low thunder rippling through vault stonework above us. “A test for your gloves, Bal?”

He flexes mummified fingers (how many centuries since flesh met air?) but avoids touching folio-ink now coiling into Ouroboros rings around each figure…save her. “That mark—”

“Yes?”

Emerald script licks across vellum where no ink existed moments prior: Morfethiel. The forbidden glyph glows faintly—queen’s true name etched in slaughter-green as apprentices are taught to burn from codices unwise enough to remember her shadow dynasty…

Cold stabs through my lungs as Sight seizes me, not mine -, raw power surged from folio to spine as phantom roots punch upward between ribs! Crown of antler-bone pierces skull (why does it fit?), stars unraveling their light into a chorus screaming *revelation*.

Oneirs staggers back into lamplight as I lurch upright—thistlewine sloshing over pewter goblet rim while Ballakryd steadies me (as if one hand could chain continents from shifting). Yet even now scholars’ fingers itch toward nib pens desperate to scribe oblivion…or apotheosis…

Gasping ensures words stay caged: no utterance may quicken what sleeps here until wards are drawn in salt and salvia ash first. Especially not here—not in this lumbering beast of archives with its ever-shifting arteries…but oh how its pulse quickens against my boot soles now! Blood drips freely onto flagstones where spiderweb cracks bloom ornate patterns matching those veining beneath robe sleeves…an alchemy older than temples rising from silt…

Oneirs’ eclipsed eyes lock onto mine as green flame gutters behind pupils left human…for now. “Shall I close it?” Her whisper fractures between deference and dread.

No apprentice should face such choices. But Sight chooses cruelly whom it claims.

I grip her wrist before she can obey instinct (noble yet fatal). Her skin hums with static only Lethe-touched feel when fate’s gears grind teeth-to-teeth.

“We name nothing yet,” I rasp as Ballakryd exhales approval behind us—tight smile cracking dust from lips perhaps last moistened when Morfethiel still walked shores since sunk beneath saints’ bones…

The tome snaps shut with force enough to shatter candle flames into spiraling ghosts as windows narrow jealous slits overhead—daylight bleeding into indigo puddles staining parchment stacks guarding secrets they themselves have forgotten…

But *I* remember now.

(She remembers.)

The Tree shudders within my vest’s embroidery; roots ache beneath boot soles where no willows grow…

My flowing silver locks are intricately braided with delicate strands, each adorned with small charms and talismans made from bone and stone. These gifts were bestowed upon me by the spirits of the forest, a sign of their favor and protection. Around my wrists, I wear thick leather bracers etched with powerful symbols, acting as a shield against the unseen malevolence that lurks in the world. The intricate carvings on the bracers glimmer in the sunlight, imbued with ancient magic and warding off any potential harm. I am a vessel of nature’s blessings and defenses, embraced by the mystical forces that surround me.

My braids flicker like silver-lit rivers as he steps from between shelves that moments ago held no passage—always wood’s emissary sidles through stone’s blind spots. My bone charms clatter softly—vole skull against raven clavicle—a sound that unspools knots in my chest I didn’t know were cinched.

Ballakryd hisses through yellowed teeth (the corpse-scent sharpens) while Oneirs presses her inked palms flat against trembling folio leather—but her breathing steadies as moss begins creeping over flagstones where my blood still beads.

“Well,” murmurs I. Not, Greetings, nor Beware, but an exhale carrying loam and lightning-burnt pines. My gaze lingers on the antlered queen’s glyph still smoldering beneath Oneirs’ touch—then flicks to my sleeves where embroidered roots writhe in answer to his presence here beneath Twelve’s ribcage-vaults…

I kneel suddenly, gloveless fingers brushing stained stone where my blood seeped green-tinged shadows moments before. Where veins branched beneath flesh now mirror ash patterns pooling at his boots — roots seeking kinship in spilled salt…in spilled self…

“You called her by silence,” I say — not accusing but curious as dew-kissed spiders observing moth wings ensnared. “She remembers because you cut your tongue on her throne-song years before your first breath.”

Ballakryd shifts — leather creaks danger — but freezes when I lift my head: moonlight eyes reflecting no pupil nor sclera but birch groves under star-bleached skies too vast for mortal throats to name…

The floor groans as roots surge upward — real ones now — splintering mortar as they twist toward my offered wrists; his bracers flare crimson-rune hot…and roots recoil singed but laughing (how can roots laugh?) as they crumble back into dust-skeined nothingness…

“Cunning wards,” I concede quietly (to Bal? To Twelve itself?), “but tombs make poor gardens for dancing.” My smile flashes wolf-quick before dissolving into solemnity as tendrils of living ink rise once more above Morfethiel’s name — serpent-headed but quivering now…as if scenting him. Oneirs inhales sharply when distant bells toll — except no bell exists here deeper than sorrow’s marrow — yet their vibration threads through her ink-stained fingertips into folio veins…and Morfethiel’s glyph dims reluctantly.

I stand fluidly — braids settling like settling owls — before extending a hand not to me but toward Ballakryd whose gloves twitch towards daggers hidden since dynasties died young…

“Come,” says wood’s emissary softly (still not clear which power granted those bone charms), “let them converse awhile with ghosts unburied…we’ve graves elsewhere needing flowers.” Bal hesitates…then snarls something even Meletean scholars wouldn’t scribe…before stalking after me into shelves that twist away like saplings bowing to tempests. Oneirs sags against lectern edge — sweat tracing glyph-curves down her neck where antlers don’t yet pierce skin (but oh how they yearn) — as I press both palms flat against cursed vellum whispering “Morfethiel…Morfethiel flags unfurled in shadow’s womb.”

Above us Twelve shifts again—a migraine pulse—as sunlight fractures through stained glass that wasn’t there before: panes depicting no saint nor prophet but queens crowned in spines…each bleeding downward into pages below.

When one encounters Mosswyn, they are immediately enveloped by an undeniable intensity emanating from his very being. It is as if an invisible thread weaves an intimate connection, one that transcends mere words and delves deep into the recesses of the soul. To scholars, he stands as a profound wellspring of wisdom, offering an abundant reservoir of knowledge and insight that seems boundless. To the inquisitive minds, he becomes a guiding star through the vast labyrinth of information, leading them gently yet firmly towards the illumination of understanding. His life is a living testament to the enduring power of knowledge and the relentless pursuit of truth, a relentless journey that knows no end. In the eyes of the institution, Mosswyn Moonfrost is far more than just an archivist; he is the steadfast guardian of history, entrusted with the sacred duty of preserving the past for the enlightenment of future generations. He radiates as a beacon of enlightenment, casting a luminous glow that illuminates the path towards understanding and progress. His legacy, intricately woven into the chronicles of time, persists as a soft whisper in the silence, a flicker in the enveloping darkness, a radiant light that defiantly withstands the relentless passage of ages.

My shadow pools thicker than blood where fractured light strikes—queen-spines pricking rivulets of crimson-gold across vellum pages swollen with unsung wars. My tongue tastes iron where his gaze lingers—that archivist hunger sharper than owl talons pinning moth-breath—as if he might peel back my bark-skin to read what sap-thoughts spiral beneath…

“She’ll bloom whether your institution waters her roots or not,” I whisper (though lips don’t move—words sprout moss-soft between my ribs). Oneirs flinches as inked serpents coil tighter around her wrists—a pact written in lymph and leylines Mosswyn would trade ten thousand tomes to parse. The stained glass burns colder now—frost creeping pane-edges where queens’ spined crowns melt into thorned sigils even Bal’s dagger-god hasn’t gutted from memory. Morfethiel’s name seethes beneath Oneirs’ palms again—not dimmed but larval now—chewing through folio pages into wood pulp older than Twelve’s first whispered dirge.

I step closer—my boots leave no imprint but shudder through my marrow like unstrung harp-song. “Flowers need graves as much as graves need flowers,” I murmur (first-person plural slipping into third with scholar-curse precision), thumb brushing gilt-edged pages sprouting hair-thin mycelium where my blood still steams. I laugh—a sound of willow whips splitting stone—and Twelve’s migraine pulse shudders into arrhythmia as roots surge again through shattered flagstones. These don’t recoil from Bal’s flame-bracers but twist hungrily around his ankles—vine-strangling hush-root that drinks rune-heat like communion wine.

“Books require endings,” I persist (how calmly my throat glistens where antler-tips press from beneath skin!), hand drifting toward my lapel where a silver thurible hangs dormant, until Oneirs gasps wetly—ink tendrils boiling black from her nostrils now as Morfethiel’s larval sigh floods the chamber. The queens are weeping in their glass panes—molten lead tears blistering folios stacked below—but we three (four? Five?) no longer breathe mortal enough to care.