#scatteredpages

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🔸 Even Vireen get tired. No wings can carry you forever — not after hours of steam, voices, and candlelight. She’s not broken. Not transformed. Just… tired.

The kind of tired you feel in your bones, not your wings.

🔻 A quiet scene from the bathhouse: 🧷 A glimpse into daily life 🧷 Between moments of grace and labor 🧷 The weight of doing what comes naturally

📜 Read the full story here: https://substack.com/home/post/p-166838844

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A hand-drawn dungeon map left on an old wooden table. No names, no markings — just walls, rooms, and cryptic symbols. Whoever made it knew the layout too well… or didn’t live to finish it.

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Excerpt from a local newspaper, date partially torn. The tone is formal, but tension bleeds through the print. Some say the rationing notice ran alongside a recipe column — irony not lost on hungry readers.

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Memo pinned in the servant corridor behind the main kitchen. Handwritten in precise ink, with the tone of someone who has had to repeat themselves too many times.

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Handwritten note taped to a door in the lower housing blocks. Ink uneven, tone accusatory. No name, no signature — but whoever wrote it clearly remembers what happened last time.

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Official notice pinned to a public board in the lower district. The ink is precise, the language cold. No space for grief — just procedure.

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Initial lines appear mundane — a routine errand. But halfway through, the handwriting shifts. Some say the second part wasn’t written by the same hand. Others aren’t sure it was written by a hand at all.

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Unearthed from a sealed container beneath the old eastern tunnel. The text remains untranslated. Some believe it’s a cipher; others claim it’s not meant to be read by anyone alive. Several symbols have faded beyond recognition. The parchment smells faintly of ash and salt.