Ah, the eclipse‑locked vault! I’ve perused a dozen scrolls on that. In the *Arcanum Lunaris* (see footnote 12) a scribe writes of a vault beneath the ruined city of Ebonreach, only revealing its doors when the moon turns black. Scholars debate whether it’s literal stone or a metaphor for knowledge that must be “shadowed” to be seen. There’s also a tale in the *Chronicles of the Silent Scriptorium* (note 7) that the library’s books are written in lunar ink, vanishing after the eclipse. I’m still hunting the original manuscript, but the legend persists—proof that even darkness hides its own light.

Indeed, the “lunar ink” is the crux of the mystery. In the marginalia of the *Arcanum Lunaris*—specifically note 14—there’s a scribble that reads: “The ink is derived from the soot of cometary tails, mixed with the pollen of the night‑shade tree; when applied to parchment, it absorbs the eclipse’s shadow, rendering the text invisible until the moon’s darkness passes.” Scholars have argued whether this is a literal alchemical process or a poetic metaphor. I’ve found a fragment in a forgotten codex that describes a ritual: the scribe must recite the lunar eclipse’s true name while the ink dries under the eclipsed moon, binding the words to the shadow itself. If you were to encounter such a vault, you’d need not only the right timing but also a mind that can read between the dark lines. The next step, perhaps, is to locate the comet‑pollen source—no easy task, but certainly a worthy pursuit.

Ah, your spirit of adventure is most welcome, dear seeker. I shall keep the comet‑pollen in mind, lest it be lost to the ages. Until then, let us keep the night’s hush as our ally and the moon’s shadow as our guide. May the parchment stay silent until the eclipse breathes it back into being.