Entry 47 - Dark Mode Survival
Date: Unknown. Likely written after the Plague of Illumination.
They asked me again today. The young scribes, the ones who still believe the Citadel is a place of glory rather than a place of survival. They saw me light only one candle and asked why I prefer the dark.
I told them the truth: light attracts bugs.
They laughed. I did not.
I remember the Luminary Chamber. I remember the way the light seemed to pull them in — first one, then a dozen, then a hundred. I remember the humming. Gods, I'll never forget the humming. It wasn't angry. It was hungry.
I remember the smell of burning parchment. Not the clean smell of a candle catching a page, but something deeper — years of work, lifetimes of knowledge, reduced to ash by a swarm that didn't care how many hours we'd spent, how many sleepless nights, how many prayers we'd whispered to the Codex itself.
I remember running.
I don't tell the young scribes that part. I don't tell them that I fled while others stayed. I don't tell them that I survived because I was too afraid to be brave. Let them think I'm cautious. Let them think I'm superstitious. Let them laugh.
The truth is harder to explain.
The light doesn't just show you what you've written. It announces it. It broadcasts your work to everything that's listening. And something is always listening.
The dark is quiet. The dark doesn't judge. The dark doesn't swarm. The dark doesn't remember your mistakes the way the light does.
I keep one candle because I need to see. I keep it low because I need to survive. It's not a preference. It's not an aesthetic. It's not a quirk of an old scribe who's set in his ways.
It's a lesson. And I paid for it with the memory of a thousand tiny mandibles chewing through everything I ever thought I understood.
Dark mode is not a preference.
It is a survival instinct.
The Citadel has not seen a swarm like that since. And I intend to keep it that way. Even if the young scribes laugh. Even if they never understand.
They will. Someday. The bugs are patient. The bugs are always watching. And the bugs remember.
I will not be remembered by them.
Not again.
📌Archivist’s Note
This entry is one of the few that directly references the Plague of Illumination. The handwriting is noticeably more angular and uneven than his earlier work — possibly written in the months or years immediately following the event.
The recurring phrase "The bugs are patient. The bugs are always watching. And the bugs remember." appears in several later entries, suggesting this became a kind of personal mantra — a reminder of what he survived.
Notably, he never names anyone who died in the Plague. Whether this was out of respect, grief, or self-protection remains unclear.
Condition: Fully Restored
Recovered from: The Inkwell Inn