The vellum fragment in Felix's hand was now not a message, but a gravestone. I remember so that they do not have to. The words echoed in the complete silence of his cell, a testament to a courage so vast it scorned the null-stone surrounding him. The ancient historian was not just a prisoner; he was a lone, flickering candle in a cellar of absolute darkness, attempting to keep the memory of the extinguished lights alive.
But a candle could be snuffed out. And the Scribe Lord with his slate was the wind.
Felix's own plight—the null-irons, the isolation—paled in comparison with the Unwritten's existential horror. They existed in a limbo of unbeing, their lives excised from reality itself. To fight for them, to even see them, he needed his talent. The little seep of ley energy was a lifelin
