The Folio of Threads – Entry 22a
Filed by: Elias Maerlowe of the Ninth Chair
Subject: On the Soulwells of the Forgotten
Note: Access restricted to Wardened Archivists. Not to be recited near open gates.
There were once hundreds of soulwells beneath the hills and hollowed trees. Now we count fewer than thirty. The rest lie empty, cracked, or silenced.
The soulwell is not a vessel, but a covenant. Each was carved—woven, really—into the world by the Threadmother's hand, when memory was first gifted to death. These places are neither Fae nor mortal, but something older: sanctified thresholds, where a soul might release its weight and choose rest.
The Unseelie tend them still.
They do not light the way forward. They simply leave the door open. To pass on is not an escape. It is a choice. To remain whole in memory, to return to the loom of the world as a tale told once, not repeated.
In the years of war, plague, and ruin, few chose rest. Pain made the dream of peace sweet, and the Unseelie were fed by sorrow.
But now— We live in a golden age, or so we tell ourselves.
The wars are digital. The famines statistical. The pain is quieter, and so are the dead.
And yet—despite peace, despite plenty— the soulwells continue to wither.
We expected the Unseelie to thrive again, finally. Instead, their strength fades by the year. Some wells echo, like a shell once full of ocean. Others are simply dark. And in a few… there is interference.
False memories. Sweet illusions of unfinished business. Threads that do not belong.
These are not the work of ghosts. The patterns match Seelie glamour, gilded and deliberate. Rebirth is being imposed through dream and doubt.
Not chosen. Enforced.
We now believe the soulwells are not simply declining. They are being starved.
If memory is a river, the Seelie are building dams.
If choice is a flame, they offer light without warmth.
Beware the well that overflows with voices not your own.
Filed. Bound. Unfinished.
May the Threadmother watch our pages.