After they entered the round room, Iskareth introduced himself and then called each one to sit before him. The others were to wait outside. While Urdan—the first to be called—spoke with the archivist, Zyren wandered through the corridors and chambers adjacent to the main room.

  Without Thaln to guide him, he would have been lost within minutes. The cave system was a labyrinth carved deep into the living rock, passages branching and merging in patterns that seemed deliberately confusing. But what truly captured Zyren's attention was not the maze itself, but what filled it.

  Books. Everywhere.

  Every corridor that didn't lead to the entrance was lined with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, each one packed with volumes of varying sizes, ages, and conditions. Some looked ancient, their bindings cracked and faded; others appeared newly made, their leather covers still glossy in the phosphorescent light. There was not an empty space to be seen—even the narrow gaps between shelves had been filled with scrolls and loose papers, carefully preserved in protective cases.

  Pelagos moved through the stacks with quiet efficiency, carrying and storing books, their webbed hands handling the delicate materials with surprising gentleness. They paid no attention to Zyren's presence, focused entirely on their sacred task of preservation. Their movements had the practiced rhythm of a ritual performed countless times—retrieve, record, replace.

  One particularly ancient Pelagor, his skin so pale it was nearly translucent, carefully restored a damaged manuscript, applying a solution to its pages with a brush so fine it might have been made from a single hair. Another, younger one transcribed text from a crumbling scroll onto fresh parchment, lips moving silently as they worked, committing the words to memory even as they copied them.

  Zyren tried to read some of the titles as he passed, but many were in languages he didn't recognize—angular scripts, flowing symbols, pictographs that seemed to shift when viewed from different angles. Those he could read spoke of histories, treaties, genealogies, and accounts of events he had never heard mentioned in any tavern tale.

  One by one, his companions emerged from their interviews with Iskareth. First Urdan, his massive frame somehow diminished, his usual commanding presence subdued. The orc captain paused briefly as he passed Zyren, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  "Be honest in there," he rumbled, his voice lower than usual. "He already knows more than you think." Without further explanation, Urdan continued toward the exit, his footsteps echoing in the stone corridor.

  Next came Bruln, uncharacteristically quiet, his amber eyes distant as if seeing something far beyond the cave walls. The Cragling didn't stop, didn't speak—just gave Zyren a long, searching look before moving past. There was something new in that gaze—not just the usual wariness, but a profound sadness that seemed out of place on his battle-scarred face.

  Finally Thaln emerged, his webbed fingers clutching a small book to his chest. He nodded to Zyren with a knowing look that offered both sympathy and warning.

  "He's ready for you now," Thaln said softly. "Remember, Zyren—truth is rarely comfortable, but it's the only foundation worth building upon." With that cryptic statement, he too departed, leaving Zyren alone in the corridor.

  Hours had passed since they'd entered the cave when Zyren was finally called to take his seat. The circular chamber felt different now—more intimate, more imposing. The phosphorescent light had dimmed slightly, as if responding to the passage of time, casting longer shadows across the carved floor.

  "You must be tired," Iskareth began, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he had just spent hours interviewing the others and taking meticulous notes. His voice was melodic yet precise, each word carefully chosen and delivered. "I'm sure you already realized what this is, and I know Thaln already introduced me. Still, I like to give before I ask. So let me share a bit first."

  His eyes locked with Zyren's, their almost white color disconcerting in the dim light—not blank like a blind man's, but filled with a clarity that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone to the truth beneath.

  Zyren shifted in his chair, adjusting his position instinctively to escape that penetrating gaze. The seat was carved from the same stone as the rest of the chamber, worn smooth by countless others who had sat there before him.

  "This archive is both one of the most important defenses and battles we have against the human empire," Iskareth continued, his webbed fingers lightly touching the surface of his desk. "We are here to record the truth. Something the humans have been bending and overwriting to their will."

  Zyren frowned. "What do you mean? What are they doing to the truth?"

  Iskareth leaned back slightly. "The progress of the human empire gives them more than physical power. With time, they began to rewrite the story to their benefit."

  As Zyren's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he began to see more details of Iskareth's face. Despite his Pelagor features, there was something familiar in them—almost elvish. The slight point to his ears, the angular cheekbones, the almond shape of his eyes.

  "Our interviews and records will ensure that the truth isn't forgotten."

  Zyren's brows pulled together. "How do you know you have the truth?" he asked, the question that had been building since he first saw the endless shelves of books.

  Iskareth gave a slow, knowing smile. "Many have lied to us. Fed us malicious lies or intentions."

  He gestured broadly. "We have been doing this for centuries. We know when someone is lying. And even if we don't, we cross-reference the records we have, and the truth comes to the surface."

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  Zyren followed his gesture, noting the eight open doorways leading from the central chamber. On top of the table lay several books, some open to specific pages, others marked with slips of parchment.

  "We both share history with the elves," Iskareth said, his tone softening. "Although mine is more brief, I was handed to the Pelagos at the same age you were taken in by Faelar and Sylvaen."

  Zyren froze. The names of his parents echoed in the chamber. His body tensed as if to rise, though he remained seated. Iskareth gave him a moment to breathe, to process.

  Urdan knew some of Zyren's story—perhaps that's how the archivist knew. Or maybe it was in the records long before. The Verdant Shadow had been frequented by spies, as he had discovered aboard the Kelpie. Urdan's words from their conversation in the captain's quarters echoed in his mind: "You're a thread the Empire missed. And if you keep pulling... you might unravel more than you want." Was this what he had meant? That somewhere in these endless shelves of books lay the truth about him?

  "Countless individuals, of every race, have sat in that chair," Iskareth continued. "Most of what you consider a secret... isn't."

  His tone was gentle, almost clinical. "For years, I was curious about what your parents did. Can you tell me about them?"

  Zyren paused, considering what to say while processing the cascade of revelations. If the stories were already recorded, this was his chance to correct the narrative.

  He spoke for more than an hour, focusing on his childhood and how good his parents had been to him—especially compared to other elves. He shared stories about their training sessions, tavern routines, and how they navigated elf society while living on its fringes.

  "They taught me everything," Zyren said, his voice growing softer as he recalled moments long past. "My father showed me how to hold a dagger before I could properly hold a spoon. My mother knew remedies for ailments I didn't even know existed. They were... different from the others. They saw me as a child first, not as a dark elf."

  Iskareth never interrupted. He waited for Zyren to finish each thought before taking careful notes, the scratch of his quill against parchment offering a rhythmic counterpoint to Zyren's voice.

  "The other elves, though," Zyren continued, his expression darkening, "they never let me forget what I was. What they thought I was. There was this elder—Sylindra was her name—who would come to the tavern just to stare at me, as if waiting for me to reveal some inherent evil. She once told my father that keeping me was like raising a viper in his home."

  Iskareth's quill paused briefly, then continued its steady movement across the page.

  "But my parents never wavered," Zyren finished. "Not once."

  Once Zyren stopped, Iskareth finished his writing in silence. "They sound wonderful," he said finally, looking up. "Few elves are like them."

  There was genuine warmth in his expression. "Can you tell me about your journey until here?"

  The acknowledgment stirred something in Zyren. He felt a warmth in his chest, the tension in his shoulders easing. He recounted all the troubles he had encountered—the Burned Forest, Regismere, the pirate attack, Thornhold, the Surnai, and finally, his arrival at Thalpharos.

  "It's strange," Zyren said, reflecting on his path. "When I left home, I thought I was escaping something—the whispers, the stares, the feeling of never belonging. But each step has only led me deeper into questions I never knew to ask."

  Iskareth continued to write, following each word, waiting for pauses to note without interrupting.

  Then, at what felt like the right moment, he asked, "Why did Faelar take you home?"

  Zyren gave the question some thought. "When he found me, the war was over—or at least their goals had been accomplished. I was alone. He couldn't do anything else besides take me in."

  Iskareth smiled again, this time setting the quill aside. "Did they tell you about the war?"

  Zyren's voice was heavier now. "My father spent years trying to get over it. We didn't talk much. I know that there was information about the dark elves planning to attack the forest elves. There were several raids on the forest. Finally, the elves reacted."

  Iskareth didn't move. A small smirk crept onto his face.

  "Take this one," he said, handing Zyren a worn, dark-leather-bound book. Its pages were yellowed, the edges curled from age. Then Iskareth rose fluidly from his seat.

  "I'll give you a moment to read what you can," he said, disappearing down one of the hallways.

  Zyren stared at the book. Its weight felt greater than its mass. With trembling fingers, he opened to the marked page.

  The scent hit him first—ancient paper, ink made from ingredients long forgotten, the faint musk of preserved leather. The book smelled of time itself, of secrets kept in darkness for centuries. As he turned the first page, the parchment crackled beneath his fingers, dry and delicate as autumn leaves. The texture was rough against his skin, the surface uneven where the scribe's quill had pressed more firmly, leaving indentations that told their own story of passion and purpose.

  The words blurred, then sharpened. Each line landed like a blow. The account—meticulously documented and cross-referenced—told a story vastly different from the one he had always believed.

  Zyren hands shook so violently that the book nearly fell from his grasp. The binding creaked in protest as his fingers dug into the cover, leaving impressions in the soft leather. The phosphorescent light seemed to pulse in rhythm with his racing heart. Everything he had believed, everything he had been told—lies. All lies.

  He forced himself to continue reading, each page revealing more horrors, more deceptions. The systematic erasure of dark elf culture. The rewriting of history to cast the forest elves as victims.

  The book contained detailed accounts from multiple sources—forest elf dissenters, human traders who had witnessed the aftermath, even fragments of dark elf records salvaged from the destruction.

  All told the same story: an elaborate plan to eliminate an entire people, followed by an equally deliberate campaign to erase the truth of what had happened.

  Zyren read until his eyes burned, until the words swam before him. The pages stuck to his fingertips, damp with sweat as he turned them.

  When he finally emerged from the cave, the sun was dipping toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the rocks. Kaelith waited near the entrance, sitting with her back to the stone.

  She stood quickly when she saw him.

  Looking at the dark elf stepping outside, Kaelith felt the darkness of the cave clinging to him. The sunlight failed to reflect from his obsidian skin. His face was set with determination, focus, and rage—an expression she had never seen on him before.

  "Are you okay?" she asked hesitantly, taking a step closer.

  "It was all lies," Zyren said as he passed her, his voice raw. The glitter of tears on his face caught the light like diamonds against night.

  Kaelith approached slowly as he stopped to look at the horizon. His breath came in sharp gasps.

  "Breathe," she murmured, wrapping her arms around him.

  "One civilization and thousands of others..." he sobbed, his body trembling with the force of it. "Killed by lies."

  She held him, the pain in his voice resonating with her own memories. She too had sat in that chair, had read the truths that had been hidden from her. She too had felt the ground shift beneath her feet as everything she thought she knew crumbled away.

  "They'll pay for it," Zyren said, his voice hardening before he buried his head against her shoulder.

  Kaelith held him tighter, eyes closing against her own pain. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. She just held him.

  The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of fire and blood.

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