A group of individuals stood around a table deep in a library. It was unnervingly quiet. A figure dressed in a robe decorated with images of trees and animals spoke first.
"He is here. We must begin the ritual." He spoke with urgency.
"But what shall we bind with?" Another asked, dressed in a simple yet gorgeous robe of orange and yellow.
"A stone. Small enough to swallow, but big enough to be noticed." As the first spoke, he reached into a pocket in their robe. He pulled out a small serpentine rock, about as small as a dog's paw. He placed it on the altar, then began to place book after book on top of the small stone.
"How shall we hide it though?" A new figure asked, their hair dyed with a single streak of silver.
"We need a creature that is fast and small."
"We can use my owl." It was another figure. She whistled into the candlelit darkness and a small owl flew out.
"Thank you." The first took the owl. She perched on his shoulder. He took the hands of those next to him. "Now. We are losing time."
Everyone in the hidden chamber began to chant:
"Servare."
"Custodire."
"Meminisse."
The books began to crumble under an unseen weight. Small cracks in the stone began to glow orange-yellow.
"Servare."
"Custodire."
"Meminisse."
The books erupted into bright yellow flames, the pages slowly burning away. The stone continued to glow.
"Servare."
"Custodire."
"Meminisse."
Finally, the books were burnt to ash, the stone glowing in the center. The first reached into the ash and picked up the stone. The other figures let go of each other's hands and clenched fists instead. They were ready for battle. The first took the stone, and pressed it into the small owl's chest. She looked up at him, curiously. He began to mutter words under his breath, until the stone was no more and only the owl remained.
"Good." He stared at the small owl. "Now, fly high Owl King. And do not forget your purpose."
As if on cue, the doors to the chamber burst open, bright-hot flames silhouetting a man. He had no scars, ash, or burn marks on him. But he did hold a torch.
The Curators jump to action, summoning swords, spears, and many other weapons. The first Curator sees the man and tosses the owl into the darkness, where she flies off, not to be seen again. The man sees this and pushes the Curators by, trying to chase the small owl. But she is gone, and he realizes this. He grabs a dagger wielded by a Curator by the blade. Blood streams down, but he can't feel it. He switches to the handle and stabs a Curator in the eye. He takes the other dagger. Another Curator with a spear rushes him, but he blocks it with his arms. He pauses for a moment, then stabs the Curator in the side with his dagger. They stumble back, accidentally dropping the spear. The man grabs it and brings it down in the Curator's head. He spins the spear, looking for targets, in a bloodlust.
The remaining three Curators ready for battle. The man stands on the dead body as the fire rages behind him. He swings the spear, knocking the remaining three Curators off their feet. He jumps off the body, trying to reach the final Curator, but is grabbed by another Curator. He falls on his face, then is pulled backward by a Curator. They wield a sword and bring it down on the man. He blocks it with the spear. They are locked. They stare at each other. The man slightly loosens his arm, then pushed upwards. The sword bounces off and hits the Curator. They look up, a bloody gash dripping down their face. The man stabs the spear into the Curator's heart. He looks down at the two unconscious Curators and stabs both of them in their hearts.
He walked over to the final Curator, who held nothing.
"I have returned." The man spoke first.
"You are a monster. You have destroyed countless lives and an endless amount of knowledge. And so, everyone shall see your skin and know who you are, Ashbringer." The Ashbringer looked on and laughed.
"You think that'll stop me?! I have nothing left to lose." His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. The fire raged on behind the doorway. "I will find that owl. I will kill you all. I will make sure all of this is forgotten." He continued to get closer, edging to the last Curator.
"You cannot hurt me. I have accepted my impact in the realms. You will never be loved. You will only die when your name is forgotten. And it will be, with only malice and-" The Ashbringer reached into the final Curator's chest, and pulled out his heart. The body fell to the ground with a wet slap.
He tossed the heart into the nearby fire that was filling the room. He walked out the doorway into the blazing fire, making history.
Far, far, far away from the smoldering remains of The Collection, The Ashbringer sleeps. He sleeps in a bed of hay, in a stable.
