Lord Death sits upon his throne, reading from a tome to a figure standing before an endless vision. His voice is soft, sinking into the unconscious mind of the one listening, binding them to his words.
The Tome of Eternity lies open before me, whispering secrets of time itself. Through its ancient pages, I see the past, the present, and the future—threads woven by gods and mortals alike. But what is a thread if destined to fray, to unravel?
I have observed many such threads—strong, resilient, yet weakened by the weight of their journey. Your thread, Mistwalker, is no different. Yet, it is fragile... and there is a destiny within it that calls for a new ending. For the first time in eons, I wonder if I should intervene.
Magic is a fickle thing, a gift that comes with a price. The gods’ emotions, their desires, flow through the elements like a river carving its way through stone. Over time, this influence can overwhelm the caster, bending them to the will of the power they draw from. It is a subtle, insidious corruption—one I have watched with both fascination and dread.
Will you fall victim to these influences, or rise above them? As I turn these pages, I am reminded of the delicate balance I must keep. To intervene, or to watch from afar? The question weighs heavily. Yet, one thing is certain: if you fall, all may be lost, and that is a fate I cannot allow. You must find power on your own.
"And now, your story begins, reborn into the world of mortal men. A shadow lurks at the edges of your mind, waiting."
You are falling. The sensation grips you suddenly, yanking you from nothingness into a terrifying descent. Wind tears at your skin, and your limbs flail as if they belong to someone else. For a moment, you think you’re screaming—but no sound escapes. The darkness swallows everything, the endless void pressing in from all sides, suffocating you.
Panic surges, but it is the cold that truly takes hold—a deep, numbing chill that gnaws at your bones, turning your blood to ice. And yet, there is something else. A presence, creeping along the edges of your consciousness, brushing against your thoughts like a claw scraping against stone. It is faint, an echo at the edge of your mind.
The abyss pulls at you, dragging you deeper. You realize, with a jolt of terror, that there is no bottom. It wants you to fall, to break.
This is how it ends, you think. Lost in the void, a fragment of a forgotten dream.
But then, something shifts. A light—faint and distant—begins to pierce the darkness. It flickers like a dying star, timid and unsure, but it grows, swirling into hues of white, red, and yellow. The colors spiral around you, chasing away the cold, bringing a strange warmth to your frozen limbs. The presence recoils, slipping into the shadows, but you can still feel it lurking at the back of your mind.
You’re still falling, but now you can see—barely. Below you, jagged rocks jut out from an island suspended in the void, an ominous sight that sends a fresh wave of fear through you. The wind whips around, carrying whispers—voices, ancient and unknowable, scraping against your thoughts.
The ground rushes up to meet you.
With a bone-jarring impact, you crash onto the jagged rocks. Pain explodes through your body as you scramble to your feet, heart pounding in your chest. The mist, thick and cloying, swirls up from the island, curling around you like a living thing. Again, you feel that faint pressure in your skull, lurking, waiting.
Then, you see them.
Shadows, shifting and writhing in the mist, their eyes glowing with a horrifying yellow light. They slither forward, their distorted forms growing clearer, their whispers rising to a fever pitch. They are not just watching—they are hunting. The grip on your mind tightens, feeding on your fear.
You turn and run. The ground is uneven, the rocks sharp underfoot, but you force yourself to move faster. Panic claws at your throat as the shadows close in, their twisted forms looming ever closer. You’re trapped on this island, nowhere to go but down into the void. The weight against your thoughts urges you to surrender, to give in to the darkness.
Ahead, the edge of the island looms—a sheer drop into nothingness. You skid to a halt, loose gravel slipping under your feet as you teeter on the brink. The shadows are upon you now, their whispers turning into shrieks of anticipation. The pressure tightens, pushing you toward despair.
Just as the darkness threatens to consume you, the grip loosens. Your eyes snap open, and the harsh sunlight blinds you momentarily. As your vision adjusts, you realize you’re lying in a small, weathered canoe that has washed ashore. The presence has retreated, for now.
A shadow falls across your face, and you squint up to see a man standing over you. His rough, calloused hands hold a fishing pole, his expression one of mild surprise. He is broad-shouldered and strong, with a rugged look that speaks of a life spent outdoors. Runes, geometric and intricate, snake down from his chin, subtly glowing with faint, mystical energy. His long, silver hair is tied back, and his dark red eyes, though sharp, carry a kindness that belies his appearance.
“Ah, awake at last, eh? Thought you might’ve tried crossing the border.” The man’s voice is deep, weathered, like stones worn smooth by the ocean. He crouches beside you, offering a water-skin. “Drink up, lad.”
Gratefully, you take the container and drink deeply, the cool liquid quenching your thirst. “What brings you to Carlin, friend? Don’t seem like you’re here for the fishing.”
“Carlin?” you murmur, your voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “I… I don’t remember. I was on a boat, and then….”
The man studies you for a moment, then nods thoughtfully. “Aye, don’t often see something come from the mist out there to the shore.“
You glance at him, puzzled, as you take another sip of water. His words are confusing, but there’s a familiarity in his tone.
Trying to speak but instead you cough out words with your dry throat “Where.. are you from? My name.. pretty sure… it’s Erazon”
He continues, his voice softening slightly, “I come from a place up in the mountains, where the folk have a bit of the old world in them. Hard as stone, but with hearts still beatin’ ”
You try to stand, but your legs wobble under you. The man quickly reaches out, steadying you with surprising gentleness for someone of his size.
As you rise, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the water's reflection. Your golden eyes stare back at you, glowing faintly even in the murky shore. Your dark hair, disheveled and tousled, falls into your eyes as you struggle to regain your balance.
“Easy now,” the man says. “You’re not in any shape to be wanderin’ around just yet. But if you’re set on goin’, I won’t stop ya. The temple’s not far, just follow the main road.” He gestures with his hand behind him, and you can see the dirt path stretching on into town.
He pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Those eyes of yours... rare to see in these parts. There’s history in them. Don’t lose sight of it."
As you regain your balance, you notice a girl with vibrant blue hair approaching. Her hair is tied back in a high ponytail, and she carries a basket filled with what looks like a freshly prepared lunch. Her face lights up with a smile when she sees the man.
“Godriiic! Let us go home!” she calls out, her voice cheerful. Then she notices you, her smile faltering slightly as she takes in your disheveled appearance.
The silver haired man turns to her with a gentle smile, it softens the hard edges of his features. “Aye, Elii, just a moment.” He then looks back at you, his expression growing more serious. “You’ll be plenty fine, take care of yourself, Erazon. The temple will see to your needs. Just tell them Godric sent you. They’ll know what to do.”
Before you can respond, he adds, “And remember, lad, whatever’s behind you, don’t let it weigh you down.”
With a final, grateful nod, you turn and start down the path he indicated. As you walk, you can hear the girl asking him about you, her voice full of concern. His deep, rumbling laughter reaches your ears as he reassures her, their voices blending with the sound of the waves and the rustling of leaves in the breeze.
Soon, their voices fade, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You find yourself reflecting on his words, wondering what lies ahead and what Carlin will be like. The road is lined with ancient trees, their gnarled branches forming a natural arch overhead. The shadows they cast make the path feel almost claustrophobic, but you press on, eager to find the temple.
As the trees thin, the city walls come into view, looming tall and weathered. You slow your pace, noticing a cluster of figures near the east gate. The sound of metal clashing against bone and the sharp, guttural growls of combat drift through the air. A chill runs down your spine as you realize the guards are locked in battle with a group of... what are those things?
You squint, drawing closer. They look like men, but twisted and decayed—skin mottled with rot, eyes glazed and empty. They lurch forward with unnatural movements, jaws snapping hungrily at the guards. The guards, clad in simple armor, fight with a practiced ease, dispatching the creatures as if this is just another task in their daily routine.
From a distance, you watch in awe and horror as one of the guards drives his spear through the chest of a ghoul, pinning it to the ground. Another swings his sword in a wide arc, severing the head of another creature, sending it rolling to the dirt. A third guard brings down a heavy mace, crushing the skull of a ghoul with a sickening crunch.
How can they be so calm? you think, heart pounding in your chest. What are those...things?
As the last of the ghouls collapse into a pile of lifeless limbs, the guards brush off their weapons and casually begin dragging the bodies to the side of the road. One of them spots you approaching and raises a hand, signaling you to stop.
"Halt there, stranger!" he calls out. The other guards turn, their eyes scanning you warily. You can see them exchange looks as they take in your appearance—your pointed ears, your disheveled hair, and most notably, your golden eyes.
“What business do you have in Carlin?” one of the guards asks, his voice gruff and tinged with suspicion. He eyes you up and down, the corners of his mouth curling into a slight frown.
You hesitate, unsure of how to answer. "I... was told to come here," you reply, your gaze drifting to the grotesque pile of the fallen ghouls strewn around the gate. "What... what were those things?"
The guard narrows his eyes at you, a hint of incredulity crossing his face. “You don’t know what ghouls are?” he mutters, glancing at his comrades. "Where in the gods' names have you been living, under a rock?"
"Never seen anything like that," you admit, unable to tear your eyes away from the still-twitching hands of the nearest ghoul. The guards share another look, and the suspicion in their eyes deepens.
"Well," the guard grunts, his grip tightening on his spear, "they’re ghouls. Undead. Nasty business, but we deal with ’em often enough. Now, what are you doing here, elf? You look like you’ve been through the Nine Hells and back."
"I'm here to... find the temple," you say uncertainly, your mind still reeling from what you just witnessed. "I... I need to speak to Master Kiatsu."
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The guards exchange a glance, then one of them scoffs. "Sun-sick, by the look of you," he mutters under his breath. Turning back to you, he gestures toward the gate. "Right, head to the temple then. See if he can sort you out. You’re talking nonsense, elf. Not knowing about ghouls... Next, you'll be saying you're seeing wizards falling from the sky."
He gives you one last, appraising look before nodding to the others. "Off you go, then. But stay out of trouble."
You nod, still processing the scene. As you step past them and into the city, you can't shake the image of those ghouls—their twisted forms, the way they moved, the way the guards treated them like just another nuisance. Is this normal here? you wonder.
One of the children, a boy no older than twelve, struggles to lift a heavy crate. His small hands grip the wooden sides, and his face is twisted in a grimace of effort. Your heart softens at the sight, and you approach the boy, offering a gentle smile.
“Here, let me help you,” you say, bending down to take hold of the crate.
The boy looks up at you with wide, innocent eyes and nods. “Thank you, sir,” he says, his voice small and trembling.
You lift the crate with ease, surprised by its weight. You follow the boy up the stairs of the butcher shop for a few paces, but before you can get to the top, two older boys emerge from the shadows, their expressions hard and unfriendly. They move quickly, positioning themselves below the stairs, cutting off your descent.
“What’s this, then?” one of the youths sneers, his eyes narrowing as he glances at your spellbook. “Looks like you’ve got yourself something valuable here.”
Your heart sinks as you realize you’ve walked into a trap. “I don’t want any trouble,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just let me go, and I’ll be on my way.”
The second youth chuckles darkly, blocking your path. “You’re not going anywhere with that book,” he says, his voice dripping with malice. “Hand it over, and we might let you go.”
You shake your head no. The book—no, your hand—is trembling. A shiver courses through your body as you defy their demands.
The eldest boy takes the lead and raises his hand up like claw. He says “Reckon’ we’ll just have ta take it then.”
In his outstretched fingers, you see a quick flash, blinding you. Then, a red molten ball of steel is floating in the air above his hand. Its white hot core gives off heat that you can feel on your face. It’s as if your cheek were pressed up against the forge.
A grin spreads across his face, and you feel terrified.
Taking a quick step up, you clutch the spellbook tightly. You know you can’t afford to lose your life over it. Then again..even if it smells of old socks, you can feel the connection to it. Quickly, you turn and bolt over the railing. The crate slips from your grasp and begins tumbling down the stairs after the boys.
The youths are delayed but continue after you, you don’t look back. Your heart pounds in your chest as you weave through the twisting streets, the mist seems to close in around you. The buildings blur together, their dark silhouettes blending with the fog as you run. You can hear the footsteps of your pursuers growing fainter, but you don’t slow down.
Ahead, the tall spires of the obsidian temple come into view, rising above the city’s rooftops like sentinels in the sky. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you near the entrance.
A stout and elderly man with a bald head and bright blue eyes stands at the doorway, sweeping cabbages into a pile. His face is scrunched with annoyance as he works. The bells attached to his belt jingle softly with every movement.
He notices the boys chasing you and waves you inside. "Quickly, quickly now! Get in before those rascals catch you!"
You don’t hesitate, darting inside as the heavy wooden doors close behind you, muffling the shouts of your pursuers. The sound of your footsteps echo off the stone walls as you stumble to a halt, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.
The interior of the temple is dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of incense and old parchment. The main hall is vast, its walls lined with beds where people lie moaning in pain. The man moves between them with surprising agility for his age, his hands glowing with a soft, healing light as he tends to their wounds. His bells belt faintly with every step.
"Ah, another lost soul washed ashore by the sea, eh?" His voice is quirky, with an almost sing-song quality, making his words feel both whimsical and unsettling. "Carlin's full of dangers, yes indeed. You’ll learn soon enough!" He shakes his head with a knowing chuckle.
You nod, still trying to catch your breath. “Thank you for the quick rescue, I’m Erazon,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “A man who helped me from my boat said you might be able to heal me.”
The monk’s expression shifts from one of curiosity to one of intense focus. He stands slowly, wiping his hands on his plain, purple robe as he studies you. A large, macabre pendant in the shape of a skull, made from polished bone, hangs from a leather cord around his neck.
“Freshly arrived, you say. And already needing aid, hmm?” He squints at you, his bright blue eyes narrowing as he looks you over. "Dehydration, fatigue, maybe a touch of delirium... Here, drink this," he says, waving his hand in a circular motion above an empty cup, which suddenly fills with water. He hands it to you with a flourish. “Drink up, drink up! Water’s the best cure for what ails ye. Not much need for fancy spells here, no sir.”
As you take the cup and raise it to your lips, a piercing scream echoes through the temple, causing you to freeze in place. "IT BURNS! PUT IT OUT! PUT IT OUT!" a man screams from the back of the temple, clutching at his chest.
He sighs deeply. "Another one," he mutters under his breath. "Come, lad, let me show you something. Might make your troubles seem a bit smaller, hm?"
You follow the elderly man as he shuffles quietly to the back of the temple, the sound of people coughing and moaning filling your ears. The air grows colder as you walk deeper inside.
As you approach the source of the commotion, you see a man sitting and trembling on a straw mat. His skin is a vivid patchwork of deep reds and blistering burns. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps, and a faint, almost imperceptible steam rises from his body, a sign of the internal heat ravaging him.
He kneels beside the man. "Ah, the curse has taken hold deep within him," he whispers, his voice full of pity. "His body’s burning from the inside out, poor soul. You can see it in his skin, the way it blisters and peels, unable to heal properly. He’s trapped in an inferno of his own making, though there’s no flame to be seen."
Staring at the man in agony, you look down at your cup and realize your situation could be far worse. But you wonder to yourself, “What… kind of magic does this to someone?” The silence weighs on you heavily, and asking your questions feels like too great a challenge. You didn’t know what to say.
Monk outstretches his hand and a cooling, blue light envelops it. The light shines through the air like mist onto the man. Within moments, the patient stops writhing and begins to drift back off to sleep. His grimace fades.
Feeling slightly better about the man's situation, you lift the cup and drink, feeling the cool liquid soothe your parched throat. “He... used too much magic?” you ask weakly.
He looks at you, eyes narrowing as they study you intensely. "Aye," he says, his voice carrying a faint echo. "Magic’s a powerful thing, lad. But it’s also a hungry beast. Feed it too much, and it’ll eat you alive."
Monk straightens up, jingling softly as he does so. He studies you from head to toe, his eyes lingering on your hands. "Where did you say you came from, eh?" he asks in a tone that’s both curious and accusatory, as if trying to piece together a puzzle in his mind.
As the physicker looks you over, his eyes fall on faint, glowing lines that have begun to appear on your face. He raises an eyebrow, a hint of recognition in his gaze. "Ah," he mutters, almost to himself, “You may be more dangerous than you know."
You blink, taken aback by his words. "Dangerous?" you ask, confused.
The monk only smiles, his expression enigmatic. “I bet you don’t remember a thing, do you?”
“I… I don’t, I woke up from a…nightmare” you stammer, your voice wavering as you try to piece together the fragments of your memory. “I was in this place... filled with mist and shadows, and these... things were hunting me..” The last words escape you in a whisper.
His eyes narrow with curiosity as he listens. He places a bony, yet comforting hand on your shoulder, the faint chime of bells following the motion. “Ahh… You’re right to feel that way,” he says gently, with a hint of a smile that could be described as either comforting or unsettling. “The path you’re on is not an easy one.”
You look up at him, your heart heavy with uncertainty. “What path, can you tell me anything?”
His smile widens, and his blue eyes twinkle with a mischievous light. “I am Monk Kiatsu, a humble servant of this temple. And you, Ara’zone, are in the right place.”
Furrowing your brow, you say, “It’s Erazon.”
“Sure, sure,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Names are just words, lad. It’s what’s inside that counts, eh?”
He turns and begins to walk toward a narrow corridor near the back wall of the temple, gesturing for you to follow. “Come hither,” he says, his voice echoing softly in the dimly lit hall. “Let us find some peace and quiet.”
You follow him down the corridor, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the thick obsidian walls. The air grows cooler as you descend a spiral staircase, the dim light of the temple fading into darkness. With each step, the temperature drops further, the scent of decay and ancient stone thickening in the air.
At the bottom of the stairs, you enter a circular chamber lit by flickering torches. The room is lined with tombs, each marked with a name. Ancient carvings on the walls seem to move as the torchlight dances over them, casting eerie shadows that play tricks on your eyes.
He leads you to the center of the chamber, where a massive mural covers the wall. The painting depicts a great battle between two cities—one bathed in a green light, the other shrouded in shadow.
You stare at the mural, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s something unsettlingly familiar about the scene, tugging at the edges of your memory like a half-remembered dream. The colors, the figures, the expressions—they all seem real, stirring emotions you can't quite place.
As you reach out to touch the painting, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. The room spins, making you nauseous. The torchlight dims, reduced to a distant glimmer. You squint, trying to steady yourself, but everything fades into an abyss. The last thing you see before darkness consumes you is Monk Kiatsu's concerned face as he reaches for you.
When you come to, you find yourself standing in a vast, gothic chamber. The crypt is gone, replaced by an endless hall stretching into shadow. The air hums with an unnatural stillness, thick with the scent of ancient dust and cold stone.
A figure looms above you—a towering presence draped in robes of black and green, their fabric shimmering with an eerie, fatal glow. A hood obscures the figure’s face, but beneath it, the jagged contours of a massive skull glint faintly in the dim light. Hollow eyes, burning with a pale green fire, stare down at you. In its bony hand, the figure cradles a book, ancient and weighty, as though it holds the stories of countless lifetimes.
The voice, when it comes, is not spoken aloud but reverberates through the chamber like the toll of a distant bell.
“You stand before me now, as all do, when their threads have unraveled.”
You tremble under the weight of those words, though you cannot fully grasp their meaning. A chill runs through you—this presence is ancient, beyond mortal comprehension. It fills the space, pressing against your very soul.
The figure gestures toward a mural on the far wall—a depiction of two cities: one bathed in green light, the other shrouded in shadow.
“These cities stood united once, under the guidance of The Nine,” the voice intones, each word sinking into you like a heavy stone. “But one of them… succumbed.”
A skeletal hand extends toward the city cloaked in darkness. “Magnatar fell. It twisted the land, spreading shadow and despair, raising creatures of plague and death from its fields.”
Your heart pounds as you gaze at the mural, feeling the truth in the figure’s words. Though your lips move, no sound escapes. Still, the figure seems to know your thoughts.
“And Carlin?” you think desperately, your gaze fixed on the city glowing with faint green light.
The figure shifts, its presence heavy with sorrow. “Carlin resisted. Its people fought to protect the balance… but even balance fades with time. The darkness draws near again.”
Silence falls over the chamber, oppressive and absolute. The weight of the knowledge seeps into your bones, filling you with dread. You feel as if the light within you is being slowly smothered.
“You seek answers,” the voice whispers, resonating deep within your mind. “But answers will not come freely. Your path lies in struggle, and through struggle, you will discover what you are.”
The edges of the chamber begin to blur, the darkness peeling away like smoke on the wind. The figure remains, watching as the room dissolves around you, its eyes glowing faintly through the fading shadows.
“Though you do not yet know it,” the voice echoes softly, “you are already dead.”
The crypt returns—solid, cold, and dimly lit. You stand before the mural, your hand still outstretched, your mind reeling with the weight of what you’ve just witnessed
Beside you, Monk Kiatsu watches with concern. “What happened, son? Your face went blank. I tried to heal you, but it was like you were... somewhere else,” he says gently.
You lower your hand, your mind reeling. “I... I had a vision,” you murmur, barely able to find your voice. "There was a giant...skeleton. He spoke of two cities, of a god who turned against the balance. He said that Carlin is in danger."
His eyes widen as he nods slowly, his expression growing serious. “The Lord of Death... That is no small thing.” he says, his voice lowering as if speaking a sacred truth. The bells on his belt jingle softly, the sound almost mournful.
You look down at your spellbook. “He told me to discover my own power, and struggle. Do you know what this means?”
Gesturing toward the spiral staircase, he waves you over, you can sense that his thoughts are elsewhere.
“Your path will be your teacher,” he finally says, his voice regaining its light, whimsical tone. “Tomorrow, I will guide you further. But for now, you must gather your strength.”
Following, as you feel the exhaustion settle into your bones. Treading carefully back up the stairs, your mind drifts to the encounter with Lord Death and the warnings about Carlin.
At the top, you notice that the temple is even quieter now, the patients resting under the watchful eyes of the other robed figures. The humble man gives you a final, knowing glance before turning away to tend to his duties.
Finding a small corner to rest, you place the strange spellbook beside you. With a sigh, you close your eyes, the day's events replaying in your mind—images of undead ghouls, a towering figure cloaked in shadow, whispers of ancient cities on the brink of collapse.
A shiver runs through you as you mutter softly, "What is happening to me? Ghouls... a Grim Reaper... almost burned by children..." You trail off, shaking your head. Please, let tomorrow be less terrifying.
Sleep begins to pull you under, but just as you start to drift away, a faint whisper echoes through your thoughts, as if carried by the wind itself.
"It is always darkest before the dawn."
Your eyes snap open, heart pounding in your chest. The temple is silent, the only sound the soft breathing of those around you. You close your eyes again, trying to calm your racing thoughts, but the unease lingers.
Tomorrow... you think, hoping for answers. But tonight, all you have are questions—and the unsettling feeling that something far greater lies just beyond your understanding