Rome, 89 B.C.

Not even the light of day dared to penetrate those icy walls. Inside, an old woman worn by years, her hair white as snow falling over her stooped shoulders like an ancient glacier resting on the side of a mountain, was immersed in absolute silence, broken only by the sound of a pen that flowed incessantly on parchment. The room was lit only by flickering candle lights, whose flames danced on the walls like specters, casting their shadows across the old woman’s face, her skin wrinkled and cracked like clay in the sun. With trembling hands and worn out by fatigue, she was intent on writing the last lines of the last of nine books. The eight already completed lay stacked on the floor beside her feet. Her hollow, vacant eyes seemed to stare into nothingness, while her mind traveled through visions that only she could see. Her decrepit figure, wrapped in a tattered cloak, was like a shadow, a presence that defied time itself.
The gods had chosen her as a guardian for eternity. In her long existence, time seemed to matter little to her. Her presence in that sacred place, suspended outside human knowledge, was charged with deep meaning, rooted in the very fabric of existence. The mission entrusted to her by the heavenly powers involved guarding the knowledge of good and evil that permeated the world, while simultaneously protecting humanity from the primal source of all evils. A delicate balance, a play of forces that only she, with her immortal wisdom, could manage.
Her prominent nose was not merely a physical feature, but a powerful seal, a living symbol of her infinite wisdom and her authority over arcane knowledge. It was as if every line of her face had been sculpted by the gods to reflect the gravity of her charge. That nose was the bulwark that held back the darkest evils, preventing them from spilling into the world of men and sowing destruction.
Around her, a sanctuary of peace and power, a temple without walls where the echoes of eternal knowledge resonated in harmony with the very essence of the universe. The ancient parchments she safeguarded were more than mere artifacts; they were living witnesses to the history of humanity, vessels of truth that awaited only to be revealed at the right time.
In her realm beyond time, she watched with omniscient eyes, scanning the horizon of existence for signs and omens. Her knowledge of good and evil gave her a unique perspective, allowing her to see beyond appearances, beyond the veil of Maya that envelops the mortal world.
Her existence was an act of sacrifice, a renunciation of earthly life in exchange for the safeguarding of the cosmic balance. Yet, she felt no regret. The awareness of being the beacon that protected humanity through the storms of history granted her an inner peace, a certainty that her mission was just and necessary.
In that timeless place, she remained unchanged, an eternal sentinel stationed at the threshold between the world of men and the realm of the gods. Hers was an endless task, a promise made to the universe itself: to protect what was kept in that place and which could not be released.
For months, almost without touching food, the old woman continued in that imposing work: the chronicle of key events in the entire human existence, from the appearance of the first man to the end of time. A tale that stretched beyond mortal comprehension. Her hands, guided by a force beyond will, traced words that enclosed destinies and secrets, revealing what had been, what would be, and what must never occur.
Upon completing that titanic work, realizing the extent of what she had written, the old woman felt an almost tangible weight upon her, as if the knowledge sought to claim its tribute. Her gaze drifted into the distance, beyond a horizon only she could see, while her hands began to tremble subtly, like leaves stirred by an unexpected breath of wind. With a breath that seemed to hold the echo of centuries, she gently closed the manuscript, as though fearing its secrets might escape the pages and scatter into the air. The decision to hide such knowledge from the world, along with her prophecies, was not made lightly; it represented a tribute to the strength and dangers inherent in the truths she had set down on parchment. Yet, she could not find the courage needed to destroy the work of her entire life, her legacy.
The decision was made, with a firm and authoritative voice, she called her most trusted followers to her side and gave them precise instructions. She had a specially constructed stone chest brought to her, inside which she placed the nine voluminous books. Then, with a resolution that bore the weight of immense sacrifice, she ordered to be walled in alive with her destiny within the walls of that crypt for eternity.
Beside her, she would carry the sum of all her wisdom, the unfathomable mysteries she had guarded for a lifetime, and, more importantly than anything else, the entity that must remain hidden, whose release could signify the ruin of humanity. It was an act of extreme protection, a bulwark against the forces threatening to overwhelm the world with darkness and despair. In the heart of that secret place, she would forever watch, a silent guardian of truths too dangerous to be revealed.
Her followers, with eyes full of tears and hearts filled with doubts, carried out her will. They sealed the entrance to the room with a large stone, upon which they engraved words of warning, a caution to keep the curious away and condemn any desecration with death.
And so, in the silent crypt, the old woman remained alone with her secrets, waiting for the end of times to arrive in silence and darkness. The last glimmer of light disappeared as the last candle burnt out, leaving her in the eternal embrace of the deepest darkness, a solitary guardian of truths too vast to be revealed.