Archivist's Note | File 7.1 | Recovered Fragment]
The Hall of Candles was never a sanctuary. It was a wound dressed as ritual. Every heir, every claimant, is dragged before the vowfire once.
One flame per life. One vow spoken aloud.
Truth strengthens the light. Lies sear skin, scar marrow, and leave the throat marked for all to see. Fail, and the burn is forever. Pass, and the flame recedes—but it never forgets.
Rarely, a vow awakens something older. The Collegium calls it chance. The Crown Office calls it risk. Archivists know it by another word: Vessel.
Some say the vowfire was born when the Crown was broken. Seven spokes shattered, one spoke missing still. The flames remember what was lost. They test not only oaths, but bloodlines.
Common folk call it curse. Nobles call it tradition. Scholars argue it is neither.
We only agree on this: no crown sits clean without fire.
[Record ends. Last lines warped, ink blistered where page was burned.]