The crystalline halls of the Whispering Archives stretched into shadow, their translucent walls capturing and transforming the afternoon light into prismatic patterns that danced across ancient tomes. Master Archivist Lysander Moonshadow moved between the shelves with practiced grace, his silver-embroidered robes barely disturbing the reverent silence that blanketed the repository of forgotten knowledge.
Each shelf housed memories more fragile than spun glass—histories of fallen civilizations, accounts of magic now lost to time, personal journals of those who had glimpsed beyond the veil of reality. Lysander’s fingers, stained with the permanent blue tint that marked decades of handling enchanted ink, traced the spine of a particularly weathered volume.
The soft clearing of a throat announced a presence before he turned to find Novice Elara hovering at the threshold of the reading alcove, clutching her journal against her chest like a shield.
“Master Archivist,” she began, her voice carefully modulated to the hushed tones required within these walls. “The Academy’s delegation arrives tomorrow for the annual Questioning. The Headmistress suggested I seek your counsel, as it’s my first time participating.”
Lysander’s expression remained impassive, though something flickered behind his eyes—a shadow of disquiet quickly masked by professional courtesy. The Questioning was tradition, after all. Tradition with teeth.
“Come,” he gestured toward a secluded alcove where two chairs of carved silverwood faced each other beside a window that overlooked the mist-shrouded mountains beyond. “Some conversations require both privacy and perspective.”
Once seated, Elara’s nervousness manifested in the subtle drumming of her fingers against her journal’s leather cover. “They say you’ve undergone thirty-seven Questionings. That you’ve faced the Crystal Inquisitors more times than any living Archivist.”
“Thirty-eight, actually,” Lysander corrected softly. “Though who’s counting beyond these weathered bones?” A smile touched his lips without reaching his eyes.
“Is it true,” she hesitated, lowering her voice further, “that they can ask us anything? That we must answer truthfully or risk expulsion from the Order?”
The afternoon light shifted as clouds passed over the distant peaks, momentarily dimming the alcove. In that brief shadow, Lysander seemed to age decades, the carefully maintained composure of the Master Archivist giving way to something more vulnerable.
“There is one question,” he began, his voice acquiring the textured quality of old parchment, “one question I have dreaded each time. One question that has haunted my preparation for every Questioning since my fifteenth year in service to these Archives.”
Elara leaned forward, her curiosity overcoming protocol. “What question, Master?”
“They ask us, with such deceptive simplicity: ‘What knowledge have you withheld?’”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with implications that seemed to press against the very walls of the Archives around them.
“But surely,” Elara’s brow furrowed, “as Archivists, our duty is to preserve all knowledge, to withhold nothing.”
A humorless laugh escaped Lysander’s lips. “In theory, yes. In the sanitized philosophy taught to Novices. Reality, as it often does, carries more complicated burdens.”
He rose, moving to the window where his reflection was superimposed against the distant mountains. “Consider the Codex of Ashkari, housed in the eastern wing. It contains rituals that could unravel the protective wards around the Blighted Lands. Or the Journal of Thorne the Wayfarer, with its precise instructions for opening doorways between realms.”
Turning back to face her, his eyes held centuries of witnessed wisdom. “Knowledge is neither inherently good nor evil, Elara. But its applications can devastate worlds. As Archivists, we don’t merely catalog information—we make judgments about its accessibility.”
“You’ve withheld information,” she whispered, the realization dawning slowly.
“I have… contextualized access,” he corrected gently. “Directed certain seekers toward knowledge they were prepared to wield responsibly. Guided others away from discoveries that would have consumed them—and perhaps much more besides.”
The shadows lengthened across the Archives as the sun continued its descent behind the mountains. Lysander returned to his seat, his movements measured, deliberate.
“When the Crystal Inquisitors ask what knowledge I have withheld, they aren’t merely testing my adherence to Archivist principles. They’re asking me to justify every moral judgment I’ve made in service to these halls. To explain why I directed the young war mage toward healing texts rather than the forbidden battle enchantments he sought. Why I ‘misplaced’ the Necromantic Verses when that grief-stricken princess came searching for ways to resurrect her father.”
Elara’s expression had transformed from nervous anticipation to solemn understanding. “How do you answer them?”
“Truthfully,” Lysander said, a certain weariness settling into his features. “But truth is rarely simple. I tell them that I have withheld nothing that serves the greater balance. That I have merely been the gatekeeper they appointed me to be—one who judges not just the knowledge itself, but the readiness of those who seek it.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “But here is the secret beneath the secret, young Elara. It is not their judgment I fear. It is the doubt that follows me through these halls each day—the question that haunts my dreams. Did I withhold too much? Or too little? Have my judgments saved lives, or merely delayed inevitable disasters? No Inquisitor’s crystal can reveal those answers.”
Twilight had fully claimed the Archives now, transforming the transparent walls into mirrors that reflected their seated forms amidst the countless books surrounding them. Lysander raised his hand, and with a simple gesture, awakened the luminescent crystals embedded in the ceiling. Their soft glow restored the space to its timeless quality.
“Tomorrow, when they question you,” he said, his composure returning like a familiar cloak, “remember that our highest duty is not to knowledge itself, but to the world that knowledge can either elevate or destroy. Answer truthfully, but understand that truth contains multitudes.”
Elara nodded, clutching her journal tighter. “And if they ask what knowledge I have withheld?”
A genuine smile finally reached Lysander’s eyes, creasing their corners. “Tell them you are still learning what questions to ask, before presuming to decide which answers others deserve.”
As she departed, Lysander remained in the alcove, surrounded by the accumulated wisdom of centuries. Beyond the window, stars began to emerge against the darkening sky—distant lights, like the countless facts and histories contained within these walls. Each one brilliant when viewed alone, yet part of a greater constellation when seen in proper context.
In the perfect silence of the Archives at night, he whispered the answer he never gave the Inquisitors: “I withhold precisely as much as needed to help knowledge serve wisdom, rather than power.”
Whether this represented his greatest service or most terrible failing, not even the Archives could say.
I hope that everyone is enjoying these little short stories. I know I am. If you are then subscribe to my newsletter by entering your email. It’s free to do. There’s plenty more to read here on my blog. You can Read about Mikhail and Anora, a human and half goblin that fall in love, and their struggles as they travel through the land of Velthorn. Or you can read about Valorie the Giantess and her adventures through the Realm of Calladan. Comment what what you think about these stories. I would love to know.
Chadwick Rye 
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