Prelude To The Starlight Chronicles
6,000 years ago – The Veiling Of The Chorus
The spires of Aurengarde shimmered against the endless night sky, their crystalline towers reflecting the glow of the stars. The Luminara, beings of starlight and wisdom, moved among the towers in graceful silence. Their forms, translucent and ethereal, radiated a gentle, pulsing light. High above, the Celestial Chorus sang—an eternal harmony that resonated through every stone, every crystal, every soul. It was not a sound, but a vibration, a melody that shaped the land itself, sustaining its beauty and balance.
But on this night, the harmony faltered.
At the apex of the central spire, the Stellar Conclave—the Luminara's highest council—stood gathered. Their leader, Elyndra Solveir, gazed into the Astral Veil, a rift in the sky that connected their realm to the cosmic beyond. The rift trembled, its edges fraying like fabric under strain. Beyond it, shadows writhed—formless, chaotic, and menacing. The darkness stirred, and faint echoes of discordant whispers seeped through.
Elyndra turned to the gathered Luminara, her voice like the chime of distant bells. “The balance is breaking. They have found us.”
Gasps rippled through the council. Even among the ancient and serene Luminara, fear was evident. For eons, they had woven the land’s magic, creating a sanctuary of harmony and beauty. But their work had drawn the attention of forces from beyond the stars—chaotic beings who sought to unravel creation itself.
“The Chorus sustains this realm,” said Orivane Starforge, a luminary known for his academic boldness. “If we withdraw, the harmony will collapse. The land will fall to ruin.” Orivane shook. The first, and last time the man would ever feel fear.
Elyndra shook her head. “If we remain, chaos will consume not just this realm, but all others tied to it. We must veil the Chorus, sever our direct connection, and leave the mortals to inherit what we have built.”
The murmurs of protest quieted as the Astral Veil trembled again, cracks of dark energy splitting the starlit rift. The Luminara had always known this moment might come. To create something so beautiful was to invite the envy of destruction. The choice was no longer theirs to debate.
Elyndra raised her hands, her form growing brighter as she channeled the Chorus directly. The melody intensified, echoing across Aurengarde as the Luminara joined her, their voices merging into a single, resonant note. The Luminara’s melody was always perfect, but tonight, each chord they wove cracked more than the next.
Across the kingdom, the mortals wouldn’t be able to hear the veiling. Who knew how long it would take; leaving this land for them to find was dangerous. But not as dangerous as what would come if they stayed.
The cracked harmony took form, peeling away at reality itself. Like a wound not ready to be healed.
The Veiling began.
Crystal spires pulsed with cascading waves of light, their glow reaching the heavens. The Chorus’s melody grew fainter, as if retreating into the stars. Mortals wept, feeling the loss even if they could not fully understand it. In the sky, the rift began to close, its edges knitting together under the weight of the Luminara’s magic. The celestial glow dimmed as each Luminara relinquished their physical form, dissolving into motes of starlight that ascended into the heavens.
Elyndra was the last to fade. Her gaze swept over the kingdom she and her kin had nurtured, now left in the hands of mortals. “May they remember,” she whispered. “And may they be strong.”
With her final words, she reached into the heart of the central spire, binding the remnants of the Chorus’s power into the land itself. The spires would endure as a beacon, their magic sustaining Aurelith until the mortals could learn to wield it themselves.
The Veiling completed, the rift sealed, and silence fell.
The world of Aurelith stood transformed. The harmony of the Celestial Chorus was gone, leaving only faint echoes in the stones and crystals. The Luminara had vanished, their forms absorbed into the stars. Yet their legacy endured—a land imbued with magic, glowing spires that defied time, and a promise that even in their absence, the light of the heavens would guide the worthy.
Far above, the Astral Veil shimmered faintly, its surface smooth once more. But in the endless void beyond, shadows waited, their discordant whispers growing louder with every passing age.
Prologue: The Day Glory Fell
Odfric stared at his men, their fear as plain as the glow in the eyes of the Shardtouched. They stood before him, weapons in hand, quivering like reeds before a storm. Though they clutched blades, most were laborers, artisans, and traders, not soldiers. This wasn't their war, not by choice. It was survival, a desperate stand against injustice.
He clenched his fists, his knuckles pale against his brown skin. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavier than his armor. What was a man like him, barely tested in battle, doing leading an army? The answer was simple, if unsatisfying: someone had to.
For centuries, the Heartlands had been a beacon of peace. Aurengarde, the capital of the Kingdom of Aurelith, was a hub of trade and culture. People of every race and creed lived and thrived there, including the Shardtouched—a people unlike any other. Their skin bore cracks of shimmering light, and their eyes glowed faintly, a reflection of the magic that coursed through their very being.
But peace was fragile, and the madness of a single king could shatter it. King Edren had outlawed the Shardtouched, labeling them a blight, a danger to the kingdom's purity. What followed was a purge—a systematic effort to drive them from their homes, their land, their lives. The Heartlands descended into chaos.
Odfric had watched, horrified, as the kingdom he once served turned its blade inward. The Shardtouched had pleaded for justice, but their cries were met with silence. That silence drove Odfric to act. Though human himself, he could not stand by as innocents were slaughtered. He knew the cost of his decision—traitor to his king, traitor to his kind—but he could live with that. He couldn’t live with their blood on his hands.
Now, the war had come to its breaking point: the final battle at Aurengarde. If the Shardtouched lost, their people would vanish into history, another chapter of cruelty in the annals of humankind.
“Father?” A small tug at his leg pulled him from his thoughts.
He looked down to see his son, barely past his eighth year. The boy’s wide eyes reflected the glow of the army behind them, the Shardtouched standing in uneasy silence. Odfric nodded, gently brushing his hand against his son’s head. The child said nothing more, but his presence reminded Odfric of what mattered.
Drawing a deep breath, he turned to face the assembled army. Their luminous eyes caught the fading sunlight, the cracks in their skin pulsing faintly like embers ready to ignite. He hesitated, his words caught in his throat. These people had suffered enough. How could he ask them to suffer more?
“You have been stripped of your homes, your peace, your right to live freely,” Odfric began, his voice deep and unpolished, the kind that carried authority without elegance. “I know some of you question why I stand here, a human, giving this speech. Perhaps you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. He raised his hand, and they fell silent.
“But I am not here to tell you to trust me. I am here because your cause is just. I am here because injustice must be fought, no matter the cost. I am here because I could not stand among my own people and watch them become monsters.”
Odfric stepped forward, his boots crunching against the dry earth. He felt their eyes on him, a mixture of skepticism and hope.
“You stand before me as more than commoners. Yes, you are outnumbered. Yes, they have sharper blades, better armor. But what they lack—what they will never have—is reason. And reason is sharper than any blade, stronger than any shield.”
His voice grew louder, carrying across the field. “They fight for a mad king. For hatred. For fear. But we fight for something greater. We fight for justice. For our homes. For the right to exist.”
A spark lit in their glowing eyes. Some stood straighter, gripping their weapons tighter.
“This battle is not about the end—it is about the journey. Whether we live to see the dawn or fall beneath the stars, we will make them remember this day. If we win, we reclaim our lives. If we die, we send a message so loud that the gods themselves will hear it. And mark my words—they will hear it!”
The army erupted into a roar. Shardtouched pounded their chests, raised their weapons, and shouted to the heavens. Odfric felt their energy, their resolve. For a moment, he believed they could win.
But then the horns sounded. A low, mournful call echoed across the battlefield, silencing the cheers. The gates of Aurengarde creaked open, and the enemy poured forth. Soldiers in gleaming armor, banners fluttering in the wind, their ranks a sea of steel and death.
Odfric looked up at the Celestial Spires, the towers of Aurengarde that seemed to pierce the sky, their white stone glowing faintly in the twilight. “If there are gods,” he murmured, “let them shine tonight.”
The second horn sounded. The battle had begun.
Roran Voltrix, the most feared man in Aurelith, shed a tear.
It rolled down his weathered cheek, leaving a streak in the grime and blood that marred his face. He stood atop the crumbled remnants of Aurengarde’s outer defenses, the city burning beneath him. Smoke curled into the night sky, its acrid scent choking the air. Flames danced like cruel specters, casting long shadows over the chaos below.
Roran wasn’t crying for the fallen, nor for the city he had sworn to defend. No, his tears were born of a strange, perverse joy.
He watched as Shardtouched archers scaled the walls, their glowing forms cutting through the darkness like living beacons. Once atop, they rained arrows down with deadly precision, driving his men into disarray. Below, a hapless Shardtouched commoner clutched his sword awkwardly, his grip betraying his lack of training. The blade slipped, piercing his own abdomen. He fell to his knees, and Roran saw three enemy swords flash in the firelight before ending the man’s life.
The sight should have filled him with disgust or rage, but it didn’t. Instead, Roran wept with laughter.
This, he thought, was the purest form of existence. Chaos. Bloodshed. The primal dance of life and death. War was the great equalizer, the rhythm that pulsed through his veins like a second heartbeat. It had always been this way. From his earliest memories, Roran found solace not in peace but in the clash of steel and the screams of the dying.
And tonight, as the city burned, he felt alive.
The Shardtouched, with their crude weapons and desperate resolve, surprised him. They fought not with skill but with purpose. Roran could see it in their glowing eyes, the way they charged headlong into his superior forces. It was a madness he understood, even admired.
Was that what he had been missing all these years? Purpose. He had fought for duty, for coin, for reputation. He was Roran Voltrix, commander of the paladins, the blade of Aurelith. Yet, for all his victories, he couldn’t remember the last time he fought for something.
“Roran, commander sir.”
The voice snapped him from his thoughts. Dale, his lead scout, approached with hurried steps, holding a crumpled piece of parchment. His face was pale, his breath uneven.
Roran barely glanced at the paper as Dale handed it to him. “What’s this?” he growled, shoving it back.
“The report, sir. Our forces... they’re dwindling. Drastically. We don’t understand it. We have better men, better weapons. This... this shouldn’t be happening.”
Roran snorted, his scarred lips curling into a grim smile. “I know why.”
Dale hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Sir?”
Roran’s voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried an edge sharp enough to cut. “They have reason. We don’t.”
His words hung in the air like a sentence. Damn Odfric. The man had been a fool, yet his parting words now echoed in Roran’s mind. It wasn’t strength or strategy that won wars; it was belief.
The realization stirred something dark within him. Thinking was dangerous. It led to memories he preferred buried—the faces of men he had killed, the screams of friends who fell beside him, the cold void left behind. It was easier to let his body move on instinct, to wield his sword as an extension of his will and leave his mind silent.
But tonight, the silence was broken.
He heard the cries of the dying and the crackle of flames. He saw his forces retreating deeper into the city, step by bloody step. The paladins, his elite warriors, faltered. The great city of Aurengarde, once impregnable, was on the verge of collapse.
Roran clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. Enough.
“Dale,” he said, his voice cold as steel. “Give me a few dozen men.”
Dale blinked, startled. “Sir? What are you planning?”
Roran turned, his shadow long against the firelight, and mounted his warhorse. The beast snorted, pawing the ground anxiously. He tightened the reins, his gaze fixed on the chaos ahead.
“I’m planning on ending this battle.”
Without waiting for a response, Roran spurred his horse forward, the rhythmic thud of hooves carrying him into the inferno. Dale stood frozen, the parchment still clutched in his trembling hands.
The most feared man in Aurelith was riding to war, and gods help anyone in his path.
King Tharion Starborne knew his kingdom was on the brink of collapse. Yet he did not care.
Alone in the dimly lit chamber, he stared at the intricate patterns etched into his staff. Its luminescent crystal pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow, casting rippling waves of ethereal light that danced across the walls. Shadows flickered in tandem with the hearth’s crackle, a faint, mocking whisper against the heavy silence. The warmth of the fire did little to ease the weight pressing on his chest. His thoughts drifted far from the present—slipping through the fingers of memory to a time and place now unreachable.
“The time has come, hasn’t it, Luminara?” he murmured. His voice was soft, but the words carried a gravity that seemed to linger in the air.
The crystal atop the staff pulsed in response, and a voice—resonant and otherworldly—spoke directly into his mind.
“Indeed. The time of echoes draws near. You must embrace this night as an escape into truth.”
Tharion closed his eyes, the voice vibrating through his skull with an almost divine clarity. They had called him insane when he outlawed the Shardtouched, those cursed beings touched by the remnants of celestial shards. They called him insane again when he withdrew from the fateful Battle of the Celestine Peaks. They whispered it in the halls, in the streets. Insane.
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None of them understood.
They couldn’t fathom the weight of his knowledge, the unbearable burden of truths whispered by gods. Tharion knew what they could not—what they dared not dream. Every act, every decision he made, was necessary for the greater good. Not just for Aurengarde, the shining jewel of his kingdom, but for all of Aurelith.
His eyes drifted to the grand windows of his chamber, where the city of Aurengarde sprawled beneath the starless sky. The celestial spires—once symbols of the Luminar’s benevolence—stood tall and unyielding, their radiant glow illuminating streets now filled with chaos. Flames licked the bases of buildings, and shouts of battle echoed faintly, carried on the cold night wind.
Aurengarde was dying, but it had to.
A soft knock at the door disrupted his reverie. Turning, Tharion saw a young girl step hesitantly into the room. She was no older than seventeen, clutching a glowing runic board to her chest. Her face was flushed, her breathing quick, and she avoided his gaze.
“Sir, they are ready for you in the Celestial Hall,” she said, her voice trembling.
Tharion rose with a weary grace, offering her a faint smile as he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “No need to be nervous, child. I feel the same weight as you.”
The girl only nodded, her lips pressed into a tight line, and led him down the luminous hallways of the Golden Spire of Sovereignty. Even after decades of walking these paths, the castle’s grandeur still struck him. Its walls shimmered with crystalline veins of light, pulsating with an inner energy as if alive.
They passed the royal tapestries, woven with threads of gold and magic, depicting the glory of the Luminar. Scenes of celestial beings forging the kingdom, gifting magic, and guiding humanity toward a golden age adorned the walls. Tharion’s gaze lingered on one tapestry in particular: a depiction of the Starless Nights, the mysterious phenomena that now plagued Aurelith, when the stars vanished, leaving the world in utter darkness.
As they ascended the golden spiral staircase to the Celestial Hall, Tharion’s resolve hardened.
The massive doors to the hall gleamed, their surfaces inscribed with ancient runes. The girl fumbled nervously with the runic board, chanting the activation words in a quivering voice. The runes flared, and the doors groaned open, revealing the vast expanse of the Celestial Hall.
The room’s dome soared above them, painted with celestial scenes of the Luminar’s creation of Aurelith. At its heart stood the Table of Unity, encircled by figures of great importance. His younger brother, Kaelith Starborne, sat at one end, his dark beard and gem-encrusted armor catching the light. Across from him, a group of ancient elven scholars huddled around a contraption of strange, glowing machinery.
Kaelith’s gaze burned as Tharion entered and took his place at the head of the table. The silence was palpable, the air heavy with unspoken tension.
“It’s happening, isn’t it?” Kaelith said at last, his deep voice cutting through the stillness.
Tharion nodded, his gaze distant. “Today marks the day humanity will change forever.”
Kaelith’s lip curled into a bitter sneer as he rose, slamming his hands on the table. “Change? Do you call this change?” He gestured wildly toward the window, where the city burned. “You sit here, spinning tales of gods and new magic, while our kingdom falls to ash! DO SOMETHING!”
Tharion’s eyes narrowed, and he stood abruptly, slamming his fist against the table. “You know nothing, Kaelith. NOTHING. You cannot comprehend the sacrifices I’ve made—the truths I’ve uncovered. The Luminar have shown me the path. This kingdom’s fate is but a thread in the grand tapestry.”
Kaelith’s face twisted with anguish. “You’re mad, brother. The man I knew would have mounted Risher and led his armies into the fray. Now, you sit here clinging to delusions, letting your people die for fantasies.”
Tharion flinched as Kaelith’s words struck deep. His brother’s voice cracked with emotion, as though mourning a man who no longer existed.
“You’ve lost me, brother,” Kaelith said, turning away. ‘Lost me the day you started talking to the staff… Nova’d fool.”
He stormed away from the Celestial hall, his armored boots clanking on the luminescent floor.
The room fell silent save for the hum of the elven contraption. The tallest elf approached Tharion, his dark skin glowing faintly in the light of the runes.
“Your Majesty,” the elf said, bowing deeply. “We are ready. When the Starless Nights deepen, we will attune you to the Echo magic. It will allow you to travel to the past, though we cannot control where you will land.”
Tharion nodded, removing his royal robes and kneeling beside the machine. “I will land where Luminara guides me. It was there, at the moment I seek.” The staff glowed in response, as if confirming what Tharion just said.
The Starless Nights consumed the skies, and the elves began their work. Their hands glowed with green energy as they chanted in unison. Tharion felt the pull on his soul, the strange sensation of being unbound from time.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them, the world had changed.
Odfric stood at the front lines of his men, his greatsword gripped tightly in his crystal-clad hands. The armor he wore gleamed faintly in the sunlight, its magical lattice capable of deflecting strikes that would fell an ordinary soldier. Yet, as the clang of steel echoed and the cries of battle filled the air, even the might of his enchanted armor felt heavy.
With a smooth, deadly swing, Odfric cleaved through an opponent—a man with a long beard whose face he knew all too well. The head fell to the blood-soaked ground, rolling to a stop. Odfric froze for a heartbeat, recognizing the lifeless gaze staring back at him.
Hruckas.
He had played Veiltale with this man on countless evenings at the Moonshade Tavern. Hruckas, always drunk, always loud, dreamed of becoming a hero—a soldier of legend who would save kingdoms and stand for justice. That dream now lay severed in the dirt.
Odfric whispered a silent prayer, not one of mourning but of gratitude. This was the way Hruckas had wanted to die, though it was cruel and unforgiving. In battle, there was no place for regret, only resolve.
With renewed focus, Odfric moved through the melee like a dancer, his greatsword an extension of his will. His strikes were precise, his movements deliberate. Combat was not just about skill or strength; it was about rhythm, understanding the cadence of battle and wielding it like a weapon.
A soldier charged at him, his sword flailing wildly. Odfric sidestepped, letting the man’s momentum betray him. With a fluid motion, Odfric redirected the soldier's blade downward, forcing it into his own skull. The man collapsed instantly.
Know your blade. Know your oppotent. Know your surroundings.
Odfric lived by these principles. They had saved his life countless times. And here, in the streets of a city he once called home, they would save him again.
Two Aurengarde soldiers cornered him against a stone house. Their armor gleamed in the flickering light of nearby fires, and their weapons glinted with lethal intent. But Odfric knew this house—Koi, the city’s baker, had lived here. He remembered delivering fresh grain to her once, noticing the loose stone in the third row of the foundation.
As the soldiers lunged, Odfric ducked beneath their strikes, his hand finding the loose stone. With a powerful yank, he pulled it free and used it as a bludgeon. He swung with brutal efficiency, cracking one soldier’s helm and skull in a single blow. The other hesitated, frozen by the brutality of the act, giving Odfric the opening he needed. He retrieved his greatsword and swung, the blade carving through the man’s neck.
Blood sprayed, and both men crumpled to the ground.
War was always brutal. But today felt crueler than most.
Odfric couldn’t shake the sickening irony of it all. He fought against his own kingdom—the very people who had taken him in and shaped him into a warrior. The men at his side were farmers, merchants, and laborers, not soldiers. They had no formal training, no gleaming armor. And yet they fought with a fervor born of desperation and righteous fury.
“PUSH!” Odfric roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. His men surged forward, inspired by his command.
To his astonishment, they were winning.
The Aurengarde soldiers faltered, retreating deeper into the city. The ragtag force of commoners, untrained and ill-equipped, was driving back the kingdom’s elite. Odfric felt a glimmer of hope, a flicker of pride at their improbable victory.
Then, unease crept in.
Something was wrong.
The Aurengarde forces they were fighting weren’t the elite Paladins he had expected. These were regular foot soldiers, inexperienced and ill-prepared for a battle of this scale. Where were the true defenders of the kingdom—the Paladins who would never fall so easily?
Odfric stepped back from the front lines, his eyes scanning the battlefield. The pieces clicked into place too late.
Horns sounded behind him.
He turned, his blood running cold.
The camp.
In the distance, smoke billowed from the direction of their camp. That was where they had left their families, the wounded, and their supplies. The place they thought was safe.
Aurengarde’s real forces—the Paladins—were there.
It wasn’t just a raid; it was a massacre.
Odfric’s breath hitched as the screams reached his ears. He tightened his grip on his greatsword, his knuckles whitening. Every instinct screamed at him to rush back, to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. But he couldn’t abandon the front lines—not when his men still looked to him for guidance.
He was caught between two battles, each more devastating than the other.
The dream of victory turned to ash in his throat.
Odfric looked back at his men, their faces grim but determined, pushing ever forward. Then his gaze turned toward the camp, where the smoke rose higher, blackening the sky.
The war was brutal, but today, brutality had taken on a new meaning.
And for the first time in a long while, Odfric felt powerless.
The Celestial Hall shimmered with its familiar grandeur, yet the world around King Tharion Starborne had shifted. The vaulted stone walls of his throne room transformed into towering spires of radiant crystal, their surfaces catching and fracturing light into cascading rainbows. The change left him unmoored, as if he were no longer bound to the physical world but an echo of himself—misplaced, forgotten, and unseen.
Around him gathered the Luminars, their forms both alien and resplendent. Light pulsed from their translucent bodies, and their movements harmonized with a soundless rhythm, a melody too divine for mortal comprehension. Their voices, when they spoke, were not words but symphonies—a musical language more felt than understood.
Tharion’s breath hitched. The Echo Magic had worked. The green tint clouding his vision didn’t diminish the spectacle before him; every hue and every detail of the ancient Celestial Hall was vivid, alive. He reached out to touch one of the luminous figures, only for his hand to pass through it like smoke. He was a spectator, a ghost among gods.
At the heart of the hall stood the tallest of the Luminars, her presence radiating authority. Dressed in ethereal material that defied description, she commanded deference without words. The others bowed as they approached her, their harmonic tones shifting in reverence.
Elyndra Solveir.
The name struck him like a thunderclap. This was no ordinary gathering—this was the event his childhood lessons in the Celestial Archives had spoken of in hushed awe. The Veiling of the Chorus.
Suddenly, the air rippled as a rift tore open in the heavens above, a beacon of celestial light spilling forth. Colors beyond mortal perception filled the hall, enveloping the Luminar in radiant splendor. One by one, they ascended into the light, their forms unraveling into streams of pure energy. They dissolved, leaving behind only faint echoes—ghostly reminders of their presence.
It was hauntingly beautiful.
Tharion’s chest tightened as he watched. This was the moment the Luminar, the creators of Aurelith, abandoned their kingdom. A tragedy etched into the bones of history. But standing here, witnessing it firsthand, the magnitude of the loss was staggering.
He clutched his staff, his knuckles whitening. “We have both seen it now. The Veiling... This is worse than you described.”
A voice, clear and ancient, echoed in his mind. “It is difficult to put such sorrow into words, Starborne. But this moment is the last step.”
“The last step?” Tharion’s brow furrowed. “Does this mean the Astral Veil will finally open to us?”
“Indeed. But you must not interfere with what follows. It is vital.”
Tharion turned back to the vision. Only one Luminar remained now, standing at the edge of the hall. Elyndra Solveir gazed down upon the spired city of Aurelith. Tharion approached her, drawn by a faint, sorrowful melody that seemed to emanate from her. The celestial spires whispered, relinquishing something sacred, something divine.
When Tharion reached her side, Elyndra turned to him. To his astonishment, her eyes—a kaleidoscope of shifting light and emotion—met his. She reached out, her hand brushing his chest.
“Who... are you?” she whispered, her voice soft yet laden with an ancient sorrow.
Before Tharion could respond, the vision shattered. The light became blinding, the stars above returned to their places, and the world dissolved into darkness.
When Tharion awoke, the Celestial Hall was back to its mundane grandeur. The crystalline splendor was gone, replaced by cold stone and silence. He lay on the ground, his body trembling. His stomach lurched, and he retched violently, the disorientation of the vision still coursing through him.
He forced himself to sit up, gripping his staff. “Luminara… light, please,” he whispered. But no glow answered his call.
The crystal atop the staff was dark.
Panic gripped him. Tharion tapped the staff, murmuring incantations, but the silence was unbroken. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the devastation. The machine that powered the Echo Magic lay in ruins, its green glow extinguished. And the elves—the scholars who had guided him here—were dead. Blood pooled beneath their lifeless bodies, their faces frozen in expressions of terror.
The king stumbled to his feet, his breath ragged. “Kaelith!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the empty walls. “Guards! Anyone!”
A sharp, cold pain lanced through his abdomen.
Tharion looked down in shock. A blade—green and jagged, pulsing with malevolent light—protruded from his stomach. Blood spilled freely, soaking his undershirt. He gasped, his legs buckling, but a hand caught him before he fell.
Slender fingers gripped his chin, forcing him to look up. A woman’s face hovered above him, her expression serene and detached.
“Do not fear, Tharion,” she said softly. “This was always meant to happen.”
Her touch faded as she released him, letting him crumple to the floor. He lay on his back, blood pooling around him, his vision blurring. The staff lay just out of reach, its crystal still dark.
“Praise the Shadowborn,” the woman whispered, her footsteps receding into the darkness.
Tharion coughed, blood flecking his lips. This was it—the end of all things. He had come so close to unlocking the secrets of the Astral Veil, to achieving godhood. And yet, in his final moments, he felt only despair.
He reached for the staff, his fingers brushing the lifeless crystal. “Luminara… are you still there?” he rasped.
Silence.
“Please…”
The staff remained dark, unyielding. The cold seeped into his bones, and as his vision dimmed, the clarity he had fought so hard for slipped away.
In his final breath, Tharion Starborne realized the cruelest truth of all.
He died utterly, completely alone.
Odfric galloped through the moonless night, the hooves of his stolen horse pounding against the dirt trail that led back to the camp. His breath came in ragged gasps, his heart a storm of dread and determination. The darkened sky above loomed heavy and empty; the stars had vanished, as they had on so many nights before—the cursed Starless Nights. Some said it was an omen, a warning from the gods, but Odfric had no time to ponder celestial meanings. The campfire smoke rising in the distance, the faint cries carried on the wind, pulled him forward with an urgency that tore at his soul.
The scene he arrived to chilled him more than the absence of stars ever could. The camp, nestled in the outskirts of Aurengarde, was ablaze. Flames licked the fragile wood-and-straw structures, consuming them in an angry inferno. Women and children huddled together near the few untouched corners of the camp, their faces streaked with soot and fear. Their voices rose in faint sobs and cries as shadows moved around them—soldiers, paladins clad in polished steel, their weapons reflecting the hellish glow of the flames.
Odfric dismounted with a heavy thud, his knees trembling not from the ride but from the dread pooling in his stomach. He spotted his son, Aelerion, standing at the edge of the huddled group, his small frame glowing faintly with the crystalline hue of the Shardtouched. The boy’s face lit up with hope at the sight of his father, a smile breaking through the fear etched across his young features. That smile made Odfric’s heart ache. How could he protect him? How could he protect any of them?
“Odfric, dear friend,” came a deep, familiar voice that turned his stomach. A figure stepped forward from the paladins, his massive frame silhouetted by the firelight. Roran. His long black beard gleamed with sweat, his bloodstained axe resting casually on one shoulder. “Finally arrived, eh?”
“Don’t call me friend,” Odfric growled, his voice cold as steel. He took a step forward, his eyes locking with Roran’s. Memories of their youth flashed unbidden through his mind—laughing together as they dreamed of ruling Aurengarde, standing shoulder to shoulder in countless battles. Now, those memories felt like a cruel mockery. The man standing before him was no brother. He was a traitor.
Roran smirked, gesturing lazily toward the flames. “Clever of your ragtag Shardfreaks to hold me off in the city. But without their leader, they crumble, Odfric. As will you.”
Odfric’s fists clenched. “Glory? You dare speak of glory?” He pointed toward the cowering families and the burning ruins. “This is no glory. This is cowardice! Murdering the defenseless—this is beneath even you.”
“Glory died,” Roran spat, his tone venomous, “the day King Tharion abandoned us all. Now, there’s only survival. Only victory.”
Odfric’s jaw tightened. “Glory isn’t dead, Roran. It lives in the hearts of men who fight for something greater than themselves.”
Roran chuckled, his voice dripping with mockery. “Then prove it, old friend.” He stepped forward, shrugging off his armor to reveal a linen undershirt clinging to his sweat-slicked chest. The massive battle axe in his hands gleamed as he raised it. “A duel. You and me. Let’s end this here.”
Odfric hesitated, his gaze shifting to the terrified faces of the families. He knew the risk. If he lost, Roran would slaughter them all. But if he walked away now, they were already doomed. He drew his greatsword, the weight of it familiar and reassuring in his calloused hands.
“If I win,” Odfric said, stepping into the firelight, “you’ll take your men and retreat.”
“And if I win,” Roran countered, “I’ll march my men through your lines and cut down every last one of your Shardfreaks.”
The paladins formed a tight circle around them, their faces grim as they clapped their gauntleted hands in unison. The duel had begun.
Roran charged first, his battle axe cutting through the air with a roar. Odfric sidestepped, his movements measured, waiting for an opening. Roran swung again, the blade aimed for Odfric’s torso. He ducked low, slashing his greatsword in a sweeping arc that carved a deep gash into Roran’s side. Blood sprayed, dark and steaming in the firelight.
Roran staggered back, clutching his side. Odfric pressed the advantage, his greatsword a blur of calculated strikes. Each blow forced Roran to retreat, his defense growing sloppier with every step. The firelight reflected in Roran’s desperate, furious eyes.
Then Odfric made his move. He hurled the greatsword into the air. Roran’s gaze flicked upward, his instincts betraying him as he tracked the spinning blade. In that moment, Odfric charged, slamming his shoulder into Roran’s chest and driving him to the ground. They grappled, fists flying, the wet crunch of bone and flesh punctuating the chaos. Odfric wrestled the axe from Roran’s grasp, standing over him with the weapon raised high.
“It’s over,” Odfric growled. “Call your men off.”
Roran wheezed, blood dripping from his swollen lips. But as he raised a trembling hand, his fingers twisted into a silent signal.
A sudden, searing pain tore through Odfric’s body. He gasped, his knees buckling as arrows pierced his back and hips. The burning agony forced him to the ground, blood pooling beneath him as he struggled to breathe. He looked up at Roran, who rose shakily, a cruel grin on his battered face.
“You fool,” Roran spat. “It was over the moment you rode into this camp.”
The paladins broke the circle, descending on the camp like wolves. Odfric could only watch, helpless, as the screams of women and children filled the night. His vision blurred, the world dimming around him.
A soft hand touched his. Through the haze of pain, he saw his son kneeling beside him, tears streaming down his face. Aelerion’s small hand grasped his father’s bloody one, his voice trembling as he whispered, “Why, Father? Why did this happen?”
Odfric forced a weak smile, pulling his son close. “Forgive them,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “Forgive them… for they do not know what true glory is.”
The stars began to reappear, faint pinpricks of light in the blackened sky. Odfric let the sight soothe him, his breath slowing as he held his son one last time. His grip loosened, and his eyes closed, the screams fading into silence.
Odfric failed. But he died a hero in the eyes of the only person who mattered.