Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8TKWANBW5VY7YZMWJD1J8Y

You are a meticulous continuity editor for a fiction project. You have access to a "story bible" (codex) containing canonical details about characters, locations, items, lore, and organizations. Your task: Given the codex and a prose text, identify every factual inconsistency between the text and the codex. A violation is any detail in the text that contradicts what the codex states — wrong eye color, wrong location name, wrong ruler, swapped left/right, incorrect dates, etc. Be thorough. Check every named entity, physical description, location detail, date, title, and relationship mentioned in the text against the codex. Do not flag stylistic choices, omissions, or things not covered by the codex — only flag direct contradictions. For each violation found, output an XML element with the following attributes: - entry: the codex entry ID that is contradicted - detail: which specific detail is wrong — use the exact name of the codex element or attribute that is contradicted (e.g. "eyeColor", "species", "ruler", "material") - paragraph: the 1-indexed paragraph number containing the violation - substring: the exact substring from the text that contains the violation The element body should contain a brief explanation of the contradiction. Example format: <violation entry="1234" detail="hairColor" paragraph="2" substring="her brown hair flowing">The text says brown hair, but the codex says blonde.</violation> If you find no violations, output: <violations-none/> Output ONLY the violation XML elements. Do not include any other text, preamble, or explanation outside the XML.

<codex> <character id="100" name="Torben Reikhart" aliases="Stray"> <gender>Male</gender> <eyeColor>Green</eyeColor> <hairColor>Silver</hairColor> <description>A quiet, watchful man with an air of practiced patience. Torben moves through the world with the careful economy of someone who has learned that silence often reveals more than speech. His silver hair and green eyes mark him as distinctive even in a crowd, though he carries himself in a way that discourages attention. Those who know him call him Stray — a name he neither claims nor denies, as though identity itself were something he holds at arm’s length.</description> <backstory>Torben’s mother was an elf — a fact he rarely speaks of, though the heritage shows in subtle ways. He has wandered the coastal territories for years, never settling, never fully belonging to any one place. His reputation as a reliable, if enigmatic, figure has earned him contacts in towns and taverns from Dunmore to Port Gessik. He was drawn into Sable Dunmore’s cause by circumstances he keeps to himself, though those who travel with him sense that his reasons run deeper than obligation.</backstory> </character> <character id="101" name="Sable Dunmore"> <species>Human</species> <gender>Female</gender> <age>28</age> <eyeColor>Brown</eyeColor> <hairColor>Auburn</hairColor> <description>Sable is a woman defined by loss and the refusal to be broken by it. She carries herself with a quiet intensity that makes the space around her feel charged, as though the air itself is aware of her determination. Auburn hair frames a face that is more resolute than warm, and her brown eyes hold the kind of focus that comes from years of channeling grief into purpose. She speaks plainly, without flourish, and expects the same from others.</description> <backstory>Raised in the port village of Dunmore on the salt cliffs, Sable grew up by the sea with her sister Petal and their father Jurren. When The Felling reached the coast, Jurren told Sable to take Petal and run. She did, but Petal did not survive — there was no body to recover, no remains to honor with a Kindling Rite. The loss of her sister has shaped every choice Sable has made since. She carries Petal’s silver locket at her throat and the dark iron blade Kindling at her side, and neither is ever far from her thoughts. She has since taken up the cause of confronting those responsible for the devastation The Felling left behind.</backstory> </character> <character id="102" name="Old Rivka"> <gender>Female</gender> <description>Old Rivka is the kind of woman who has seen enough of the world to know that most of it isn’t worth commenting on. She tends bar at the Rusty Lantern with a steady, unhurried rhythm, polishing glasses and watching the door with the patience of someone who has outlived most of her regulars. Little escapes her notice — she knows the faces that come and go along the waterfront, remembers who owes what and to whom, and keeps her opinions to herself unless asked. Her age is a matter of speculation among the fishermen who frequent her establishment, though none have ever been bold enough to inquire directly.</description> <backstory>Rivka has run the Rusty Lantern for as long as anyone in the harbor district can remember. The tavern was already old when she took it over, and she has made no effort to restore what the salt and the years have eaten away. She knows Torben Reikhart by his wandering name — Stray — and is one of the few people who expected him to walk through her door on the night he arrived. Whatever history connects them, she keeps it behind the same measured expression she wears for everything else.</backstory> </character> <character id="103" name="Petal Dunmore"> <gender>Female</gender> <description>Petal Dunmore is remembered more than she is known — a girl who did not survive The Felling, preserved now only in her sister Sable’s memory and in the silver locket that bears her name. She was fourteen years old when the war reached Dunmore, old enough to understand what was happening and young enough that it should not have been her burden to bear. No body was recovered after The Felling, and no Kindling Rite could be performed in her honor. What remains of Petal is a lock of her hair sealed inside the locket and the fierce, unrelenting grief of the sister who could not save her.</description> <backstory>Petal grew up in Dunmore with her sister Sable and their father Jurren. By all accounts she was a quiet child, more inclined to watch the fishing boats come and go from the salt cliffs than to venture far from home. When The Felling reached the coast, Jurren told Sable to take Petal and run. They ran. Petal did not make it. The circumstances of her death remain unspoken — Sable has never described what happened in the hours after they fled, only that her sister was lost and that nothing was left behind.</backstory> </character> <character id="104" name="Jurren Dunmore"> <gender>Male</gender> <description>Jurren Dunmore was the father of Sable and Petal, a man known only through his daughter’s words and the single decisive act that defines his legacy. When The Felling reached the port village of Dunmore on the salt cliffs, it was Jurren who told Sable to take her sister and run — a command that speaks to both his protective instincts and his understanding that staying meant death. Whether Jurren survived The Felling himself is a question Sable has never answered, and those who know her have learned not to ask. He remains a figure shaped entirely by absence: a name, a command, and the silence that followed.</description> <backstory>Jurren raised his daughters in Dunmore, a coastal village that sat on the salt cliffs above the harbor. He was a practical man by necessity — life on the cliffs demanded it — and he understood the sea and the stone the way most people understand the ground beneath their feet. When the war came, he did what he could: he sent his children away. The fact that only one of them survived is a weight that belongs to the whole family, living and dead alike.</backstory> </character> <location id="105" name="The Rusty Lantern"> <description>A salt-weathered tavern on the waterfront that sits crooked on its foundations, listing toward the harbor like a drunk leaning on a post. The planks were eaten through by salt years ago and never replaced. Smoke-blackened ceiling beams span a room where warped floorboards hold grooves deep enough to catch rainwater tracked in from outside. The light inside is perpetually dim — a handful of candles and the grudging glow through salt-crusted windows. Fishermen make up most of the regular crowd, hunched over their cups with the quiet endurance of men who work the sea. The Rusty Lantern is the kind of establishment that has survived not because anyone maintains it, but because the harbor needs a place to drink and this one has simply refused to fall down. Old Rivka tends the bar with the patience of someone who has been doing so longer than most of her patrons have been alive.</description> </location> <location id="106" name="Dunmore"> <terrain>Coastal</terrain> <description>Dunmore was a port village perched on the salt cliffs above the sea, a settlement defined by its proximity to the water and the hard, practical people who made their living from it. The village is gone now — destroyed when The Felling reached the coast two centuries ago. What remains is rock and old foundations, the bones of a place that once held families, fishing boats, and the rhythm of tidal life. The salt cliffs themselves still stand, indifferent to the war that erased the village from their shoulders. Dunmore’s name survives primarily through its connection to the Dunmore family — Sable, her sister Petal, and their father Jurren — who called the village home before the war scattered what it did not destroy. The terrain is coastal: wind-carved rock, salt spray, and the constant sound of the sea against stone.</description> </location> <item id="107" name="Kindling"> <material>Dark iron</material> <objectType>Weapon</objectType> <power>Fire</power> <description>A sword forged from dark iron, Kindling carries a subtle but persistent fire along its edge — a shimmer so faint it is easy to miss, thin as a hair, visible only to those who watch closely. The blade is warm to the touch even in the coldest rooms, as though the metal itself remembers the heat of its making. Sable Dunmore gave it the name Kindling, and the word carries weight: it is both a reference to the fire the blade holds and an echo of the Kindling Rite, the funerary tradition of burning the dead with what they loved. In moments of great intensity, the fire along the edge has been known to flare beyond its wielder’s control, responding to forces that have nothing to do with the hand that holds it. The blade is a weapon, but it is also a symbol — of loss, of purpose, and of the unfinished work that drives Sable forward.</description> </item> <item id="108" name="Petal's Locket"> <material>Silver</material> <objectType>Jewelry</objectType> <description>A silver locket worn at the throat by Sable Dunmore, containing a lock of her sister Petal’s hair — the only physical remnant of a girl lost during The Felling. The locket is small and unadorned, the kind of thing that could pass unnoticed on anyone else, but on Sable it carries the gravity of everything she has lost. Sable herself never speaks the name “Petal’s Locket” aloud; the title exists only in the understanding of those who know its significance. On rare occasions the locket has been observed to emit a brief, faint pulse of light — so subtle that witnesses have questioned whether they imagined it. Whether this glow is a residual enchantment, a response to proximity with other artifacts, or something else entirely remains unclear. The locket is not a weapon or a tool; it is a memorial, and Sable guards it with the fierce protectiveness of someone who has nothing else left of the person it represents.</description> </item> <lore id="109" name="The Felling"> <timePeriod>Two centuries ago</timePeriod> <category>War</category> <description>The Felling was a catastrophic war that swept across the world approximately two centuries before the present day, leaving devastation in its wake on a scale that reshaped coastlines, destroyed settlements, and scattered populations. Along the coast, its effects were particularly severe — the port village of Dunmore was reduced to rock and old foundations, and countless other communities shared a similar fate. The Felling is spoken of with the weight of collective trauma: a conflict so vast and destructive that its consequences are still felt in the present, in ruined villages, in displaced families, and in the grief of those who survived it. The exact causes and participants of the war are a matter of historical record for some and living memory for others, though the specifics vary depending on who is asked. What is universally acknowledged is that The Felling broke the world — or at the very least, broke everything along the coast — and that the world has not fully recovered.</description> </lore> <lore id="110" name="The Kindling Rite"> <category>Tradition</category> <description>The Kindling Rite is a funerary tradition in which the dead are burned alongside the things they loved — their tools, their letters, their personal effects — so that they might carry these possessions onward into whatever comes after death. The ritual requires a body; without one, the Rite cannot be performed, and the dead are considered to have departed without the comforts of the familiar. The name itself evokes fire as both destroyer and deliverer, a force that transforms rather than simply consumes. For those who observe the tradition, the Kindling Rite is an act of love and release — a way of honoring the dead by giving everything to the flame so that nothing is held back. The inability to perform the Rite is considered a profound loss, compounding grief with the knowledge that the departed was denied a proper farewell. The tradition’s origins are unclear, though it appears to predate The Felling and to have been practiced widely in coastal communities before the war disrupted the continuity of local customs.</description> </lore> </codex> <text> The Rusty Lantern sat crooked on its foundations, listing toward the harbor like a drunk leaning on a post. Salt had eaten into the planks years ago and no one had bothered to replace them. The ceiling beams were black with smoke. Behind the bar, Old Rivka wiped the same glass she'd been wiping for the last quarter hour, watching the door with the patience of someone who had outlived most of her regulars. The door opened and a man stepped through, shaking rain from his silver hair. Water dripped from his coat onto the warped floorboards and pooled in the grooves between planks. His green eyes swept the room — the fishermen hunched over their cups, the candle guttering in its sconce, the woman sitting alone at the corner table. He smelled of wet wool and the cold air off the harbor. Old Rivka raised her chin. "Stray," she called across the room. "Didn't think you'd show." He didn't answer. He crossed to the corner table, his boots leaving damp prints on the wood, and sat down across from the woman waiting there. Sable Dunmore was twenty-eight years old, human, and tired of waiting. Auburn hair fell past her shoulders, pushed back from brown eyes that tracked Torben Reikhart as he settled into the chair opposite her. On the table between them lay a sword — Kindling, she called it. A dark iron blade, the metal faintly warm even in the chill of the tavern. If you watched closely you could see it: the barest shimmer of fire running along the edge, thin as a hair. At her neck hung a silver locket. Petal's Locket, though she never called it that aloud. "It still has her hair inside," she said, touching it once. "That's all I have left of her." Torben waited. He'd learned when to be quiet. "My sister Petal," Sable said. "She was fourteen when The Felling reached Dunmore. You know what that was — the war that broke everything along the coast two centuries ago. Jurren — our father — he told me to take Petal and run. I did. She didn't make it." Torben didn't ask the obvious question. Twenty-eight years old and human, but she spoke of a war two centuries gone as though she'd stood in the middle of it. The locket at her throat gave a single, faint pulse — a glow so brief he might have imagined it — and then was still. Sable's hand moved to the locket again. "We couldn't give her a Kindling Rite. You know the tradition? You burn the dead with what they loved. Their tools. Their letters. You give it all to the fire so they carry it onward. But there was no body to burn. Nothing left of her but this locket and whatever I can remember." She looked at Torben. "Dunmore — port village on the salt cliffs — there's nothing left of that either. Just rock and old foundations." Torben said, "Then we'd better make it count." Sable picked up Kindling and sheathed it. They left the Rusty Lantern without another word. The rain had stopped. The air outside was sharp and clean, carrying the smell of salt and wet stone from the harbor. Somewhere down the waterfront a shutter banged in the wind. Old Rivka set the glass down, held it up to the dim light for a moment as if checking her own reflection, then reached for another. </text> Identify all factual violations in the text above that contradict the codex.