Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ912Q8JSFWWRNM1DW7ACKD

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> </character> <character id="101" name="Sable Dunmore"> <species>Human</species> <gender>Female</gender> <age>28</age> <eyeColor>Brown</eyeColor> <hairColor>Auburn</hairColor> </character> <character id="102" name="Old Rivka"> <gender>Female</gender> </character> <character id="103" name="Petal Dunmore"> <gender>Female</gender> </character> <character id="104" name="Jurren Dunmore"> <gender>Male</gender> </character> <location id="105" name="The Rusty Lantern"/> <location id="106" name="Dunmore"> <terrain>Coastal</terrain> </location> <item id="107" name="Kindling"> <material>Dark iron</material> <objectType>Weapon</objectType> <power>Fire</power> </item> <item id="108" name="Petal's Locket"> <material>Silver</material> <objectType>Jewelry</objectType> </item> <lore id="109" name="The Felling"> <timePeriod>Two centuries ago</timePeriod> <category>War</category> </lore> <lore id="110" name="The Kindling Rite"> <category>Tradition</category> </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.