The world was dying, but Emory still wrote.
His fingers, once steady and sure, trembled as they pressed against the cracked leather of the ancient tome. The pages were thin and brittle, yet he could still feel the weight of history in every line. The Beacon Fires were lit across the land, their flames flickering weakly in the heavy winds, but it felt like the last breaths of a fading world. Everything was slipping into shadow—cities crumbled, the great empires fell to dust, and the very earth seemed to recoil from the touch of life.
But Emory, the last scribe, refused to let it all fade into nothingness.
In a ruined tower, buried deep within the heart of what was once a thriving city, he sat alone. The sound of his quill scratching against the page was the only sound in the vast silence. His task was simple: to record, to preserve. The world around him crumbled, but his words would remain—if only for a time.
The days were long, the nights longer. Every so often, Emory would hear the distant sound of footsteps on the wind. He would look up, heart racing, only to see nothing but the pale shadows cast by the dying light of the Beacon Fires. The world had become a land of ghosts, and Emory was the last witness.
But then, one evening, as the last light of the sun bled red into the horizon, something changed. The door to his chamber opened with a creak, and a figure entered. She was tall, draped in tattered robes that shimmered with an otherworldly glow. Her face was pale, almost ethereal, and her eyes—black as midnight—shone with a strange, piercing light.
Emory didn't flinch. He had seen many strange things in his years of solitude, but there was something about this woman that felt... different. She moved with a grace that was unnatural, almost as though she glided rather than walked.
"You are the last," she said, her voice like the rustle of dead leaves, distant and haunting.
Emory nodded slowly, setting down his quill. "The last of many things. The last scribe, the last witness. I write to remember, even as the world forgets."
The woman stepped closer, her presence filling the room like the night itself. She reached out and touched the page before him, her fingers brushing lightly against the ink.
"Your words are noble," she said, her voice soft but tinged with sorrow, "but they are nothing more than echoes of a dying world."
Emory looked up at her, his tired eyes searching her face. "Perhaps. But in the end, what else is there? If the world must die, then let it be remembered, let it be known. Someone must bear witness to the passing of all things."
The woman's lips curled into a faint, sad smile. "You seek to preserve the world that was. But what if that world has already moved on? What if the future lies beyond the words you write?"
Emory felt a cold chill wrap around his heart. "What do you mean?"
She bent down, her face coming closer to his. "The world is not truly dying, Emory. It is transforming. The old ways are fading, but new things are already stirring in the shadows, in places you cannot see. You record history, but you do not see the future. You cannot. It is beyond the reach of ink and paper."
Emory's heart raced. "What do you want from me?"
"I do not want anything," she replied, standing up again. "I have no need for anything that belongs to this world. I simply come to tell you that it is time to let go."
"Let go?" Emory echoed. His hand tightened around the quill. "No. I cannot. Not yet. There is too much to record, too much to remember."
The woman's gaze softened, and she placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "You are a keeper of the past, Emory. But the past is only a shadow of what was. The future is already in motion. It is time for you to stop writing, to stop holding on to what is fading. The world does not need more memories. It needs people who can shape what is to come."
Emory felt the weight of her words, the deep truth that hung in the air like a storm on the horizon. But still, he refused to let go. He couldn't.
"I am the last scribe," he said, his voice filled with quiet defiance. "It is my duty to preserve what has been. Even if the world fades, I will write its final chapter. Someone has to."
The woman was silent for a long moment, her eyes studying him. Then, she slowly stepped back, her ghostly form shimmering with light.
"As you wish, Emory," she said softly. "But know this: the world is already writing its own story. It does not need you to hold it together."
With that, she turned and began to fade into the shadows, her figure dissipating like mist in the wind.
Emory watched her go, his mind swirling with her words. She was right. The world was changing, shifting beneath his feet. But even so, he couldn't bring himself to stop. He couldn't bear to see it all disappear without leaving something behind.
He picked up his quill again, the weight of the decision heavy in his chest. His hand hovered over the page, but the words didn't come. Instead, a thought echoed in his mind, a whisper like the wind through the ruins.
Maybe the world didn't need more memories. Maybe it needed something else.
He placed the quill down and stood. There was still time to record, but there was also something else he could do. He could teach. He could inspire. He could give the future the tools it needed to rebuild. The last scribe didn't have to be a keeper of the past alone. He could be a builder of the future.
Emory left the tower, his heart lighter than it had been in years. The Beacon Fires still flickered in the distance, and the world was still on the edge of ruin. But there was something new in his heart—something that hadn't been there before. The future was not in the past. It was in the choices he made now, in the hands of those who would come after him.
And as the last scribe walked into the gathering dusk, he knew that his work—his true work—was only just beginning.