📜 Entry: “Accepting the Lantern’s Edge”

Location: Onadbyr, Morkenkain's Tower
Recorded: Nightfall, following the King's assassination

What a strange thing it is to be overwhelmed—not by emotion, but by the absence of it. I should have wept. Or screamed. Or fled. Instead, I stood still beneath a sky still echoing with cheers, as the king’s blood boiled away into steam.

This morning began with caution. The echoes of the Grinder still haunted my steps, and I watched the city awaken with a scholar’s suspicion. But the crowd’s joy was infectious. Our party—tired, but spirited—threw itself into the competitions. We sang. We climbed. We dove. Slick’s arrows flew true. Purrciful climbed a pole with the poise of a showman. Clyde became an impromptu champion of breath and brawn. Even I took part in trivia and tumbling, fumbling through both with a smile. And for a time... I forgot.

I forgot the ritual symbols. I forgot the blood beneath the millstone. I even forgot, briefly, to be afraid.

And perhaps more troubling: I forgot I was not invincible. That I was not vital. The parade we led with Byra through the city—trumpets blaring, guards flanking, citizens cheering—was meant to be her moment. But I suspect now it planted something poisonous in me. A notion that we might stand at the center of history. That we could bend tragedy away through sheer presence. I did not realize how deeply that delusion had taken root—until the Raven Knight burned it out of me.

The Tournament of Champions crowned the day. I stationed myself with the healers—too depleted from the day's festivities to compete, but eager to assist. The battles were grand, and our own companions fared admirably. I noted, with some amusement, how much we’ve all grown—not just in strength, but in theatrical flair. There was camaraderie, pride, even joy.

Then came the Raven Knight.

Her battle with the King was one for the scrolls. Grace and power, blow for blow, until he faltered. He surrendered. And that should have been the end. But the knight removed her helm—black wings unfurling like oil-slick banners—and proclaimed herself the dead Queen Elyssa. Her voice thundered: “Kinslayer. Disgrace.”

I heard no spell cast. I saw no arcane gesture. She simply drove her blade through him, as one might post a letter. It burned a hole in his chest—and then she vanished into smoke and silence.

The crowd’s joy turned to ash. Panic surged. The Red Cloaks swarmed the dais, but the damage was done. The king is dead. No spell, no prayer, no sacred oil or celestial plea could bring him back.

I was frozen. Not with fear, exactly. More... a profound stillness. Like a birdwatcher seeing the rarest of beasts only to realize it is bearing down on him, talons wide. I did not act. What could I have done? All my knowledge, my symbols, my invocations—meaningless. A child's candle held up to the void.

It was Slick who stirred me. A word, a touch on the arm. Practical, grounded. He reminded me that while I could not stop the Queen, I might still help the living. But even that proved futile. The healers were helpless. The body would not respond. Resurrection magic failed. The world had changed, and we were given no say in the turning.

We returned to Lord Monder’s estate. He is shaken, but resolute. He insists that what we saw was not the Queen—not truly. He saw her body, he says. I believe him. But that thing—whatever wore her face—came from the Grinder. Of this I am certain. I remember the boy’s words: the flapping of wings, the chanting in darkness. This was not vengeance. This was a second act.

And what of me? I find myself strangely adrift. There is no rage in me. No grief, either. Only an aching curiosity wrapped in guilt. I once thought knowledge would grant power. But power without clarity is just noise. Worse, it is delay. I am tired of witnessing tragedy and recording it like an archivist of doom.

The Wise One teaches humility, yes. But not paralysis.

So I will begin again. I will find the place where my efforts are not swallowed by the tide. I am not a guardian of kings. But perhaps I am something else. A finder of patterns. A servant of clarity. A light in the margin others have yet to read.

May clarity walk with me.

— A.J.