Chapter 1: What It Means to Be the Keeper of the Book

  Two days after Moore’s departure from the Fallen, I found myself at my modest estate overlooking the vast, verdant kingdom of Lian Yu. My home, inherited from generations of the Marquette household, stood at the kingdom’s edge near the ancient gates that separated us from the rest of the continent. The estate was small but dignified, filled with relics and memories passed down from the time our family became one of the founding families of the Fallen.

  Lost in thought, I stepped out onto the porch, letting my gaze drift over the land. My thoughts lingered on Moore—on the weight of his choice and the consequences that followed. The morning was still, but as I reflected, a soft throat-clearing broke the silence, startling me.

  “My lord, you have visitors waiting to see you,” came the cold, familiar voice of Morbius.

  I turned, still caught off guard, and tried to shake the formality from his words. “Morbius, you know you don’t have to call me ‘my lord.’ We’re both members of the Fallen.”

  Morbius’s gaze was as steady and unyielding as ever, his red eyes almost harsh. “You know as well as I do that simply won’t do, my lord. The only time I may dispense with titles is within the chambers of the Fallen. I have served the Marquette household since its inception, long before we joined the Fallen.”

  I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I know. It’s just… it feels strange for you to call me ‘my lord,’ especially when you’re more of a father to me than my own ever was.”

  Morbius’s expression softened for the briefest moment before he gave an exasperated sigh. “How many times must I remind you to respect your father’s memory? He was a great man who did much for this kingdom.”

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  I smirked, bitterness coloring my words. “Greatness is a matter of perspective, Morbius. He left a legacy, yes, but he also left me with an overwhelming burden. Hardly the mark of a perfect ruler.”

  Morbius’s tone grew colder. “My lord, this is not the time for one of our debates—especially with an important visitor waiting.”

  I eased into a chair near the edge of the porch, waving dismissively. “Very well, Morbius. I’ll let it go for now. Send the guest in.”

  Morbius nodded, disappearing briefly before returning with two men clad in dark robes and black masks, their solemn presence adding an air of foreboding. They moved quietly, and then one knelt before me, his voice low and measured as he spoke.

  “Sir Bookkeeper, is it true that Moore has been exiled from the Fallen?”

  I straightened, feeling the weight of my title settle over me. “Yes, it is true. News travels fast, it seems.”

  The man’s voice betrayed a hint of concern. “Then you understand what this means for him.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling a familiar sting in my chest. “Does it truly have to be this way?”

  Deep down, I knew the answer. As Keeper of the Book, I understood the full gravity of forsaking the Fallen. The rules were carved in stone, sealed by blood and sacrifice. Section 10, Article 14—those who leave the Fallen must forfeit their lives or offer something of equal worth. If no replacement is appointed, the responsibility falls to their firstborn, ensuring the legacy endures.

  Lost in the gravity of these words, I barely noticed the man’s steady gaze fixed on me, waiting for my response.

  “My lord,” he repeated, more insistent this time. “When shall we carry out the execution?”

  I took a deep, steadying breath, fighting the pang of remorse. “We must not act rashly. Moore has seven days before he is fully renounced.”

  The two men exchanged a look before rising and moving toward the door. Just as they reached it, the second man, who had been silent until now, paused and glanced back at me. “My lord, remember: sentimentality is a dangerous thing. I trust it won’t cloud your judgment.”

  His words struck a strange chord within me, piercing through the veneer of detachment I had carefully cultivated over the years. I felt an unfamiliar ache, a nagging sense of resistance. Despite the cold logic of the Fallen’s laws, part of me recoiled at the thought of Moore’s execution. Yet, I knew the rules. Moore knew them too. We had all sworn oaths, binding us as much to duty as to each other.

  As the door closed behind the men, I took the book from my robes and opened it, running my hand over the blank page that would soon hold Moore’s fate. This was the price of tradition, the weight of responsibility—to be the Keeper of the Book meant not only to record history but to bear the cost of every soul who defied it.

  I bowed my head, letting the silence fill the room once more. The words waited to be written, but my heart struggled with the cost.