In an age of constant surveillance, I feel that the records don't add up. As an archivist for the Athelburg Empire, my job is to catalogue the imperial records—a tedious and routine task. Before these documents reach my hands, they pass through the supreme body of temporal control. It is as if history is rewritten and moulded to forever glorify the oligarchs' vision.
There are days when I am forced to draft documents that glorify the Imperial Era, painting it as the best choice for our nation. But deep down, I question what existed before. Imperial propaganda claims we were barbarians, savages with no self-control, until Prince Ethelred unified the tribes through a pact of peace and prosperity. That was how he created the Kingdom of Athelburg. Yet, no matter how much I try to convince myself, the story I am told does not fit the reality I feel. It is as if there is a crack in time, a fissure that allows me to glimpse a different truth, something the minds behind temporal control strive so hard to erase.
In the vast archive, my window becomes a portal to a world in constant flux. The king, in an arbitrary act, decreed the demolition of the ruins from the past decade to build an artificial future upon the foundations of the old. My childhood memories are vague, but the image of the library in the heart of the imperial capital remains vivid. My parents used to take me there, and on their faces, as they read to me, there was a genuine happiness. My mother's green eyes, a mirror of hope, and her smile, which shone brighter than the full moon, are forever etched in my mind.
The Temporal Vigilance, however, decided that the past was an obstacle to the monarch's ambitions. The library was demolished to make way for a new one, one that would reflect the architectural grandeur of our king. The new structure, cold and imposing, could never replace the image of the balconies and decorative columns that remind me of my parents' eternal embrace, a beacon of love in the darkness of memory.
I don't remember the exact date, but the scene is seared into my mind with the clarity of a recurring nightmare. I was just a child, too small to understand, when the guards of the Temporal Vigilance stormed our house. They assaulted my parents, accusing them of being traitors to the fatherland, and the echo of their voices still haunts me.
The terror of that moment suffocates me to this day. I saw my mother, her face bruised and her eyes welling with tears, maintain a forced smile as she hugged me, whispering that everything would be all right, that I shouldn't worry. But nothing was ever all right again. On that day, I felt that the Empire not only stole the light from my life but also pilfered a piece of history, a fragment of happiness that would never return. They didn't just steal my parents; they stole the innocence of every citizen in Athelburg, condemned to live in a continuous tunnel of darkness.
In my childhood, books were my greatest friends. Today, in the archive, my job is to catalogue what is left of them, but I know they are merely fragments of a truth that has been lost to time. I vaguely remember my parents, both historians, who had assembled a small library in our home. The stories they told me were like seeds planted in fertile soil, each with a unique flavour, different from anything the Empire of Athelburg has ever presented to me. The Temporal Vigilance extinguished that light. When they invaded our home, they not only took my parents but also burned every single book, turning them to ash.
The ghosts of the past haunted me as I left the Municipal Archive, a constant ache that gnawed at me from within. I wondered why I couldn't break free from them. Suddenly, a voice cut through the air: "Little Lian" My entire body froze. Only one person in all my vast memories ever used that name. A sudden, painful hope struck me, and I turned at once, my face contorting into a mixture of a smile and agony. Could it be her? Had she come back? But it wasn't. A little girl with fair hair was running towards me, a radiant smile on her face. And, walking just behind her, I recognised my cousin, Wulfric.
"Good afternoon, Lian. How are you?" he said with a placid smile, extending his hand to greet me.
"Hello, Wulfric," my voice came out weak. "Who is this?"
"She's my daughter," he replied, the pride evident in his voice. "It's been a long time, hasn't it? Since I moved to Gododdin, communication has been difficult; so many letters get lost. I married and had this little one here, who is already hugging your legs. Her name is Isla."
"Isla?" I repeated, the name sounding strange on my tongue.
"Yes. Your father always told me about an island to the north of the kingdom, Islay, a place where one could find peace. I named her Isla, in honour of that tranquillity." He looked at his daughter with affection. "It was for her that I left my post in External Reconnaissance for a desk job. Today, my life is dedicated to my family."
"That's good," was all I could manage to reply.
"By the way, I have something for you."
Wulfric held out his hand and gave me a small wooden box. He offered me one last smile, a mixture of cordiality and perhaps… pity. "Take care." He took his daughter's hand, and the two walked away, the girl's laughter growing ever more distant, a sound of pure happiness that seemed to mock my silence.
I stood frozen on the pavement, the box weighing in my hand like an anchor. My lips, which I had been biting with an unconscious force, protested. I tasted a warm, metallic tang in my mouth. The pained smile transfigured into a plaster mask, and blood began to trickle, a red tear on a face too pale. He had found his peace in the name of a legend my father used to tell me. And I… I remained the ghost haunting the ruins of that same legend.
I watch my childhood friends: they love, build families, move on, and prosper within the empire. I feel a profound envy, an envy that consumes me. Why can't I move on as they do? Why do I persist in these thoughts about the empire? Life feels grey, like a rainy day, and I yearn for a ray of sunshine. I wish, more than anything, to see life in colour, joyful, instead of this grey.
Not a single night passes when the ghosts of that day do not haunt me. The nightmare is a constant companion, and the cold, grey streets of the capital seem to echo the deep melancholy of the Empire. Every day, I walk through the woods and see the guards of the Temporal Vigilance on patrol, their watchful eyes oppressing the populace. I always sit by the edge of Alfred's Lake, where the statue of King Alfred III stands, an imposing figure. Suddenly, the tranquillity is shattered. The vigilantes act with brutality, beating a young man who was sitting near the statue, reading a book. They tear the book apart in front of him, repeatedly calling him a "traitor to the fatherland." Those words hit me like a punch. I bite my lips so hard that I taste blood. My eyes, once apathetic, ignite with a contained fury.
After a few seconds, the young man falls to the ground, his face deformed. His blood runs over the statue of Alfred III. The violence makes me question: if Ethelred founded this kingdom in search of peace and prosperity, where did violence and oppression become its cornerstones? That blood, on the face of the stone king, represents everything the empire has become—a distorted reflection of the history I was told.
The chirping of the birds and the gentle movement of the fish in the water were abruptly interrupted by a shadow that fell over me. A guard from the Temporal Vigilance stood before me, his presence chilling the air. The white ceramic mask concealed his face, but his long blond hair and the crest of a white wolf on his chest were unmistakable.
His unseen eyes fixed on the box I was holding. Without a word, he extended a gloved hand. The Vigilance had long made words unnecessary; fear was the universal language. As I handed him the box, in a subtle, disguised movement, I let a small amulet slide from my hand into my coat pocket.
The guard opened the box, gave it a quick inspection and, confirming that the contents followed the Empire's directives, returned it with a slight nod. A sign of gratitude, or simply the end of the procedure. The instant he turned his face away, however, the formality was over. A swift, brutal punch struck my stomach, driving all the air from my lungs and knocking me from the bench where I sat. Before I could react, he grabbed me by the neck, his masked face inches from mine.
His voice was a low whisper, laced with venom, in my ear: "Don't you look at us with those eyes, you piece of shit." With a violent shove, he threw me back onto the bench. Then, he simply turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps breaking the silence of the gardens, leaving me behind, hunched over and struggling to catch my breath amidst the sharp pain.
I stood up, my body trembling. The first drops of a fine drizzle began to fall, mixing with the warm wetness running down my face. I could no longer distinguish the rain from my own tears. The image of that crest—the white wolf—burned in my mind. The same insignia. The same symbol worn by the men who took my parents. The memory was not a distant recollection; it was a wound tearing open anew, sharp and searing. A wave of impotent hatred coursed through me, but my feet seemed nailed to the floor. "I can't take it anymore…" I murmured to the empty air. Everything brought me back to that day, everything paralysed me.
The words escaped my lips in a broken whisper: "Father… Mother… I'm sorry for being so useless."
I clutch the amulet my father gave me, the small piece of wood carved with the faces of a wolf and a boy. The memory of that day, during our journey into the kingdom's interior, floods my mind. He showed me ancient ruins and told me the legend of the White Wolf. It was a story about a boy who always feared the wolf, running from it at every encounter. One day, his younger sister disappeared into the forest. The boy, desperate, ran to find her. He found her face to face with the White Wolf, paralysed by fear. Despite the terror he felt, the boy searched his heart for the courage to save his sister's life and, without hesitation, he faced the Wolf. After finishing the tale, my father gave me the amulet and looked me in the eyes. "Never be afraid," he said, "if it is to protect those you love."
When the tremor of memory finally subsided, my attention returned to the object in my hands. The wooden box Wulfric had given me. Its weight was real, a solid contrast to the ghosts that haunted me. Amidst the chaos of my mind, a single, clear question formed, a thread of curiosity in the midst of the pain: What could be inside it?