The Hall of Records

Fríġdâ, the 27th of Ostaramonað in the year 267

The hall door slammed shut behind him with a resonant thud that echoed down the stone corridor. William paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The cool air rose to greet him, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and old timber. Torches flickered in their sconces along the walls, casting restless shadows that danced across the worn flagstones beneath his feet.

He drew a slow breath, steadying himself.

‘Why do you do this, William?’ he questioned himself anxiously.

A flicker of resolve steadied him. ‘Because someone must. Because the others won’t... not truly. And these people deserve better than indifference.’

He straightened his shoulders. ‘Now, let’s investigate these attacks.’

A noise stirred ahead. William turned to see a guard in worn leather armour stepping forward. Middle age had carved lines across the man’s weathered face, yet his pale brown hair retained a hint of youthful vigour, defying the steady creep of grey.

“Me lord, d’you need help?” the guard asked, his warm voice tinged with worry.

William offered him a courteous smile. “I need to attend the Hall of Records. I’m informed it’s across the way. Could you guide me there?”

The guard hesitated, glancing nervously toward the storm outside. “Me lord, it is. But… maybe wait till the storm passes?”

William studied the unease etched in the man’s expression. “Your concern is appreciated, though a delay would only hinder the start of my investigation. And since I’m already on the back foot, I must begin swiftly.”

The guard’s weak smile returned, though apprehension lingered in his eyes. Turning, he led William toward a large braced door. With a long, reluctant creak, it swung open, and a violent gust of wind hurled sheets of rain against him. Bracing himself, he stepped out into the tempest.

The guard gasped, startled, as he glanced back at William, who stood confidently at the threshold, the chaotic elements swirling harmlessly around him.

“Tell me,” William asked, a small smile forming, “did you truly think a man of my status and position would allow you to face the storm alone? Lead the way.”

The heavy door clattered shut behind them, sealing away the relative safety within. Rain drummed against the earth in a relentless rhythm as they began along the waterlogged path. Yet with each stride William took, the water parted and retreated, as though recognising his presence. The guard stared downward in bewilderment at the ebbing puddles, his boots splashing through mud that somehow left William’s path dry.

As they continued, William looked up, observing how the merciless rain crashed against the invisible barrier surrounding him. Droplets shimmered briefly in the air before cascading harmlessly down, creating a curtain of water that never touched his skin. A watchful feeling crept over him... subtle but persistent, as though unseen eyes tracked his passage through the storm. He resisted the urge to glance back, keeping his attention forward even as the sensation prickled at the base of his neck.

They soon approached a medium-sized stone building, its shutters clamped tightly shut, hiding whatever secrets lay within. Two stout torch holders flanked the ancient black door. It groaned in protest as the guard pushed it open, revealing a dim, welcoming interior that offered sanctuary from the raging tempest.

Once the door shut with a decisive thud, the storm’s roar fell away. The guard shook weight from his shoulders, relief softening his weathered features. After three careful steps, they entered a small, cluttered room divided by a long desk reminiscent of a bar, though without the warmth of camaraderie.

The air inside was thick with the scent of aged parchment and musty paper... decades of accumulated knowledge slowly surrendering to time. Beneath it lingered the sharp, oily smell of lamp fuel, mingling with dust and the faint mineral tang of old stone. Two flickering gas lamps cast an amber glow across the disordered array of books and scrolls strewn over the counter, their light catching on worn leather bindings and yellowed pages. Dust motes drifted lazily through the lamplight, swirling whenever the guard shifted his weight. Above them, a small, unruly bell hung from a string, waiting to summon a reluctant master.

William’s fingers brushed the counter’s edge, wood worn smooth by countless hands over countless years, its surface pocked with ink stains and the faint grooves of careless quills. His gaze drifted into the shadows behind the counter, noting the faint sounds of movement... a shuffle of feet, the scrape of a chair, the whisper of paper against paper. A watchful presence, already aware of their arrival.

The guard, emboldened now that the storm was behind them, stepped forward and tugged the bell’s string. The ringing cut through the stillness, sharp and insistent. Almost immediately, an old man emerged into the lamplight, as if he had been waiting just beyond the veil of darkness.

His face was a canvas of creases, his thinning grey hair clinging stubbornly to his scalp. His beady blue eyes flickered with equal parts curiosity and caution. The black cassock he wore clung to him like the last refuge of a fading soul.

William turned to the young man beside him, a faint smile playing at his lips. “You realise, Marko, there was no need to ring the bell. Bogdan had already acknowledged our presence the moment we crossed the threshold.”

“Yuh know me name?” Marko asked, surprise evident in his voice.

William’s smile deepened slightly. “I make it my business to know those who assist me.”

Marko blinked, wide-eyed. “How’d yuh...”

Bogdan’s gravelly voice cut in, sharp with suspicion. “And who are you?” His gaze probed William’s features, as though trying to peer past flesh and bone into the truth beneath.

“Master Bogdan!” Marko exclaimed before William could answer, excitement bubbling in his voice. “This be the Messenger of the great Kanum!”

Bogdan’s eyes widened, and his trembling fingers busied themselves with a stack of worn papers. “A Messenger of the great Kanum!” His voice wavered between awe and fear. “But... but how did you come here? You’re dry, though a tempest falls outside!”

“Oh, Master,” Marko broke in with delight, “it were incredible! Lord William sheltered me. We came from the great hall, and the rain didn’t touch me!”

“Really?” Bogdan breathed, his sharp gaze probing William’s features as though trying to peer past flesh and bone into the truth beneath. “You’re not from these parts. Deceptive, your appearance.” His voice carried a note of reverence mixed with wariness. “You channel the powers of the great Kanum, then? His divine strength flows through you?”

William inclined his head slightly. “I serve a higher purpose, yes.”

Bogdan’s eyes gleamed with a mixture of awe and calculation. “And... is there a tithe? An offering to be made to the great Kanum through his Messenger?”

Suspicion crept into his gaze, though it was tempered by genuine piety.

William’s smile grew faintly amused. “There was no tithe required when I stopped the storm, was there? Common decency doesn’t demand payment.”

Bogdan blinked, confusion flickering across his weathered features. “But... the great Kanum’s power... surely such divine intervention requires...”

“The great Kanum,” William interrupted gently, “does not demand tribute for acts of basic kindness. That is what gods should do... protect, guide, help. Not extract payment for every blessing.”

The old archivist’s mouth worked silently for a moment, as though the concept were foreign to him. “But the priests say...”

“I know what the priests say,” William replied, his tone patient but firm. “And I’m telling you that a god who demands payment for every act of mercy is no god worth serving. The great Kanum sent me here to help, not to collect.”

Bogdan’s eyes widened, a mixture of wonder and uncertainty playing across his face. “Then... then you truly are his Messenger. The stories say the great Kanum is just, but I never thought...” He trailed off, swallowing hard.

William’s expression softened. “You thought justice came with a price.”

“Everything has a price,” Bogdan whispered, almost to himself.

“Not everything,” William said quietly. “Not this.”
Silence settled between them, awed and uncertain.

William leaned against the counter, fingers brushing the cool wood. “Master Bogdan, I have an urgent need. I require copies of the provincial rolls declaring several incidents... attacks in which most of the victims died.”

Bogdan shuffled anxiously through the clutter on his desk. “Yes… I’ll get them. Wait here.”

He disappeared through a narrow doorway behind the counter. William heard the creak of old hinges, the rustle of parchment. Marko shifted his weight from foot to foot, glancing nervously at William.

Minutes passed. When Bogdan returned, he carried a leather satchel bulging with scrolls. He set it on the counter with a thud that sent dust motes spiralling into the lamplight.

“Here,” Bogdan said, a note of pride in his voice. “All twenty-three incidents. Everything we have.”

William opened the satchel and withdrew the first scroll. He unrolled it carefully, his eyes scanning the faded ink. His brow furrowed.

“This one,” he said slowly, “lists the village name and the date.” He looked up. “But where are the details? How many died? Who were they?”

Bogdan’s chest puffed slightly. “It’s all there, my lord. Village, date, incident type. That’s the standard.”

William pulled out another scroll. Then another. Each one the same... sparse, skeletal records. He set them down with deliberate care, his jaw tightening.

“Master Bogdan,” he said, his voice measured, “these are… incomplete.”

Bogdan stiffened. “Incomplete? My lord, these are the official provincial records. They follow the format established by...”

“I need to know who died,” William interrupted, his tone sharpening. “Their names. Their ages. I need to know when, during the day or night, the attacks occurred. I need descriptions of the attackers, if any witnesses survived.”

Bogdan’s face flushed. “My lord, we record what is necessary. Births, deaths, marriages. The village, the date, the type of incident. That is the standard. That is what has always been done.”

William picked up one of the scrolls again, holding it up to the light as though hoping more words might appear. “But why is that the standard?” His frustration bled into his voice. “How can anyone investigate these attacks without knowing the details?”

“Investigate?” Bogdan’s tone turned defensive, almost affronted. “My lord, I am an archivist, not an investigator. We preserve what we are given. The village elders report the incidents. We record them. That is our duty.”

William set the scroll down and leaned forward, his hands flat on the counter. “And what if the village elders don’t know what’s important? What if they leave out the very details that could save lives?”

Bogdan’s mouth opened, then closed. His fingers twitched toward the scrolls as though to protect them. “These records have served the princedom for generations,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “They are sufficient.”

“Sufficient for what?” William asked, his voice quiet now, but edged with steel. “For counting the dead? For tallying losses like grain in a storehouse?”

Bogdan flinched. “My lord, I… I do what I am trained to do. I preserve what is given to me. If the records are lacking, it is not my fault.”

William exhaled slowly, forcing his frustration down. He straightened, his expression softening just slightly. “I’m not blaming you, Master Bogdan. But I need more than this. I need to understand what happened in these villages. And these…” He gestured to the scrolls. “These tell me almost nothing.”

Bogdan looked down at his desk, his pride visibly wounded. “I have kept these records safe for thirty years,” he said quietly. “I have never lost a single document. I have never failed in my duty.”

“I believe you,” William said gently. “But your duty and my need are not the same thing.”

The old archivist said nothing. He simply stood there, his hands resting on the edge of the counter, his shoulders sagging under the weight of William’s words.

William glanced at Marko, who looked as though he wished he could disappear into the shadows. Then he turned back to Bogdan.

“Is there anything else?” William asked. “Any other records, any notes, anything that might have more detail?”

Bogdan shook his head slowly. “Only what you see, my lord. Only what you see.”

William gathered the scrolls and placed them back in the satchel. “Then I’ll take these,” he said. “And I’ll do what I can with them.”

Bogdan nodded, his expression unreadable. “As you wish, my lord.”

William slung the satchel over his shoulder and turned toward the door. As he did, he paused, glancing back at the old man.

“Thank you, Master Bogdan,” he said quietly. “For keeping them safe.”

Bogdan’s eyes glistened, but he said nothing.

William stepped toward the door, Marko trailing behind him. Three paces from the threshold, William stopped.

The sensation hit him like a cold breath against the back of his neck... a weight, deliberate and patient, pressing against his awareness. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just the unmistakable certainty of being observed.

He turned slowly, scanning the lamplight’s edge where it bled into shadow. The corners of the Hall seemed deeper than they should be, the darkness pooling in ways that defied the flickering flame. His eyes traced the shelves, the narrow gaps between scrolls, the archway leading to the back room where Bogdan had disappeared earlier.

Nothing moved.

But the feeling remained... eyes that did not blink, a presence that did not breathe, something that had been waiting long before he arrived and would wait long after he left.

Marko shifted nervously beside him. “My lord?”

William’s fingers tightened on the satchel strap. He held the silence a moment longer, then turned back to the door.

“Come,” he said quietly.

He pushed the door open and stepped out into the storm, rain lashing against his face. Behind him, the Hall of Records stood silent and still.

And in the darkness within, something watched him go.