Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8V50V0S70DBX2HP8EAAZDC

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 Spire of Echoes rose from the mountain's shoulder like a black tooth against the snow. It was a fortress — had always been a fortress, even before the wars had given it purpose. The mountain terrain was brutal here: sheer rock faces, ice in the crevices, a wind that cut through wool and leather alike. Frost coated every surface. The stone was dark and slick with it. Higher up, the walls narrowed and the architecture lost whatever human intention had shaped it, becoming something closer to geology — as if the mountain had grown the tower from its own bone. Birds didn't nest here. Nothing lived on these upper slopes that didn't have to. Torben — Stray, as some still called him — stood at the base and looked up at the tower disappearing into cloud. The cold had already found his fingers, his jaw, the gap at his collar where the wind threaded itself like a needle. He had been in worse places. Not many. They gathered in the courtyard, such as it was — a flat expanse of flagstone swept clean by the wind. Sable stood to his left, arms crossed, her jaw set. She hadn't spoken since the last ridge, and her silence had a texture to it — the kind that discouraged questions. Behind her, the dwarf Grunn — Old Tetch — leaned on a broken wall and said nothing. His eyes moved, though. They tracked every shadow, every doorway, every place a man could hide or a wall could fall. Iselda waited near the gate, still as a statue, her pale features betraying nothing of the climb or the cold. Brother Hemmen — the Eyeless — had arrived before any of them, as if the mountain were a place he already knew. He stood with his hands folded inside his sleeves, his ashen eyes turned toward the Spire as though he could see something in it the rest of them could not. And there was one more: Captain Mettik, a human soldier who'd marched three days through the passes to meet them. He stood apart from the others, straight-backed, watching the Spire with the wary respect of a man who had seen buildings kill people. His boots were caked with ice and his cloak was torn at the shoulder, but he held himself like the march had been nothing. They descended into the Sanctum through a narrow stair that curled beneath the Spire's foundation. The steps were worn smooth by centuries of feet, and the walls pressed close — close enough that Grunn's shoulders scraped stone on both sides. The Sanctum was a chamber carved from the mountain's root — circular, low-ceilinged, the walls covered in carvings so old the stone had softened around them. Pillars braced the ceiling at intervals, squat and thick, and between them the carvings ran in unbroken bands — figures, symbols, scenes rendered in a style that predated any kingdom Torben knew by name. Dim light filtered through cracks in the rock above. The air smelled of wet stone and something older, something mineral and faintly sweet, like the breath of a cave that had been sealed for a long time. It was cold. Everything here was cold. Hemmen spoke first. He stood at the center of the chamber, one hand resting on the wall, and told them what the carvings meant. "The Riven War," he said. "A thousand years before the Felling. Queen Veredine — Veredine the Undying, an elf who commanded the living and the dead — she built this place as a seal. Her army, the Pallid Host, were the restless dead she had bound to her will. They did not tire. They did not question. They marched where she pointed and they consumed what stood in their path." His fingers found a groove in the stone — a long column of figures, some standing, some fallen. "When the war ended, she sealed them here. Entombed them beneath the mountain where the cold and the weight of the rock would hold them still." He traced a line across the stone with one finger. "Hatchwell — the town that stood at the mountain's base — burned. Nothing left. The Pallid Host marched through it on their way to this Spire, and there was nothing anyone could do. The people of Hatchwell had no warning. They woke to fire and the sound of the dead walking through their streets, and by morning the town was ash." The silence that followed was broken by footsteps. Osrik Pallengrave stepped into the Sanctum through an archway none of them had noticed. The Pale, they called him. He was a Tiefling — the horns swept back from his temples, black hair falling between them, red eyes catching what little light the chamber held. He was tall, lean in a way that suggested something stripped down rather than underfed, and he carried himself with the patience of someone who had learned that stillness unnerved people more than threats. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if he wanted them to see every part of him before he spoke. In his right hand he carried a blade: Harrowglass. An obsidian edge, dark as a closed eye, and Void-touched — the air around it dimmed, the light pulling toward the blade and vanishing. Some called it the Hungering Edge, and the name fit. It looked like it could eat the light from a room and still be hungry. Torben stepped forward. His green eyes met Osrik's red ones across the chamber. Neither moved. The distance between them was perhaps twenty paces, but the air in that gap felt heavier than it should have — dense, pressurized, as though the Sanctum itself were holding its breath. Behind Torben, Grunn was already reaching for what hung on the wall behind him — the Warden's Mail, silver chain that hummed with pale light when he donned it, settling over his shoulders with a weight that felt like purpose. The links caught the dim glow and threw it back against the walls. Captain Mettik's hand went to his sword, though he did not draw. Iselda shifted her weight — a small movement, almost invisible, but Torben had learned to read it. She was ready. The carvings on the walls seemed to shift in the changing light. Hemmen's voice rose. "The Binding of Reshkai — you know of it. What was sealed in The Hollow was one half of a lock. This Spire is the other." He looked at Osrik. "The Felling broke the world two centuries ago. But this — this was built to stop something older." Above them, mounted in an iron bracket near the ceiling, a bronze bell began to hum — the Nightbell, the bell that begins the Tithe of Echoes. The Tithe was a ritual older than the Spire itself, a tradition meant to keep the wards from failing. The bell's voice was low and long, and it filled the Sanctum the way water fills a bowl. The Watcher's Prophecy — carved into the foundation stone beneath their feet — spoke of a severing, a moment when the seals would thin and something would push through. Sable drew Kindling. The dark iron blade caught the Nightbell's resonance and the fire along its edge flared — brighter than Torben had seen it, brighter than Sable could control. She didn't look at the blade. She looked at Osrik. "Wren Hessik died at your hands," she said. Her voice was steady but her knuckles were white around the hilt. "And before her — Petal. My sister. You remember, don't you? You were there when The Felling reached the coast. You were there when the world caught fire." Osrik said nothing. The Hungering Edge moved slightly in his grip, as if it were breathing. The first strike came from the dark. Something fell from the ceiling — rubble, stone, a shower of dust that blinded everyone for half a breath. Chains rattled in the walls. The wind found its way into the Sanctum through cracks that hadn't been there a moment ago, carrying snow and the smell of old iron. Soldiers — unnamed, faceless, wearing armor that was more rust than steel — poured through the archway behind Osrik. They moved like men who had forgotten how to stop. Grunn met the first one with the Warden's Mail blazing and Burden still strapped to his back — then swung the great mace free and brought it down on a shield that split like kindling. Torben moved left. Sable moved right. Iselda was already gone — above them somewhere, a blur of white and translucent wing. Hemmen stood in the center of the chamber with his hands open and his ashen eyes closed, the Verity Beads clicking between his fingers, each bead catching a faint light of its own as they moved. The floor shook. Stones fell. A wooden beam cracked and swung loose from the ceiling, trailing dust. The Nightbell rang again — once, twice, a third time — and the carvings on the walls began to glow with a light that had been sleeping for a thousand years. The crumbling walls shed mortar like dead skin. An iron door at the far end of the Sanctum buckled inward. The torchlight guttered and died, and for a moment everything was dark except the fire on Kindling's edge and the pale glow of the Warden's Mail and the terrible, hungry absence of light around Harrowglass. Then the Spire shook to its roots, and the mountain answered. </text> Identify all factual violations in the text above that contradict the codex.