The Edge of Protocol

In the large, paper-strewn room, the Curator's reflection on Zen's words—"a willingness to stop"—seemed to float. The archive's breath, the incessant hum of parchment, suddenly died down, and the air itself seemed to hold its own. Her bright, sharp, and old eyes were still staring at him, weighing, probing. The shimmering bridge of rolled parchment that extended to her dais still beckoned, as if it were a quiet invitation or an unconscious challenge.

She hesitated a long moment before speaking, her voice a dry whisper, but laden with decades' worth of gravity. The first thing she said was, "A 'willingness to cease'," which sounded like dry leaves. An infringement. Additionally, every intrusion, no matter how minor, leaves a mark on the record, according to Cartographer. The delicate balance is always altered by them. Her eyes become piercing. "Tell me, would you continue to look for a truth that this domain has diligently protected, a truth buried to avoid the ongoing agony of rediscovery and its unavoidable corruption? Does your stated "willingness to stop" include suppressing a truth if speaking it would cause further conflict?

Zen sensed the judgment radiating from her, an old feeling tattered with distrust. At least he could understand the outlines of her viewpoint. She doubted that his methods, tools, and analytical tendencies were anything more than manifestations of the same greedy human nature that had formerly plagued the Grove: the insatiable need to classify, manipulate, and dissect for benefit. He made no complex defense.

Rather, he took a deep, steady breath, his eyes moving over the vast, vellum-lined room, absorbing the flowing text on the hanging banners, the almost tangible weight of grief and history she represented. Zen said, "I seek to understand," his voice a subdued contrast to the electric silence, calibrated so as to reverberate within it rather than to dominate. "Not to dissect."

Similar to the unturned pages of a forgotten book, her paper form appeared to ripple and move subtly. "Understand?" The susurrus of her sharpening was tinged with uncertainty, possibly deep fatigue or sour amusement. "Others arrived earlier, claiming to understand, and bringing their charts and measurements. They put their findings together and included lofty promises of restoration in their reports. Her eyes wavered, far away and hazy with anguish from memory. "Their 'comprehension' merely inflicted deeper wounds." Her paper silhouette seemed to draw from the archive's dormant powers, gaining an almost imperceptible strength as she paused. "They spoke of harmony," she sighed, "then they brought chains."

A noticeable change in her aura broke the fragile silence that followed. She shifted. The fast, rustling precision of a gathering paper storm, rather than the hesitating grace of flesh and blood. Her right arm's piled parchments squeezed and hardened, the substance flowing, stretching, combining, and honing into a blade of tightly packed letters. Preternaturally sharp, its edge radiated a faint, cold light. Although it was not very enormous, the concentrated, powerful force emanating from it—a concentrated distillation of the austere, watchful ritual of the Grove—made its lethality indisputable.

The fatigue in her voice had disappeared, replaced by the cold, old, and merciless determination of imposed obligation. "Leave!" she commanded, piercing the room like a lash. The writing on the banners around her appeared to writhe, the light growing brighter, wilder, more twitchy. "This place will not be charted by hands that only take!"

Zen flinched inside, but his posture stayed vigilant and balanced. The abruptness of the change was shocking. An ultimatum emphasized by undeniable menace has replaced the intellectual debate. There was a noticeable vibration against his flesh as the energy from her parchment blade flashed through the air. The Archive's very will, manifested in its guardian, now prohibited the weak signal on his reader that indicated his goal someplace under her dais.

He found himself already holding one of Icor's smooth, symbol-etched stones, whose familiar coldness stood in sharp contrast to the sudden, scorching tension in the air. His thoughts were focused on understanding this abrupt, unfriendly ritual rather than on acting aggressively. He had looked for understanding, but now he was written off as someone who merely "takes." Even as he weighed the Curator's bright parchment weapon against the imminent, physical threat, he could not help but notice the irony.