Opening Tale — Selvara's Light

The Highlands

It was a cold night in the Highlands. The kind of cold that bites through even the thickest wool and makes the silence feel heavier than stone. The stars had hidden themselves behind storm-swollen clouds, and the moon was nothing but a dim glow, swallowed by the sky. Thunder rolled across distant peaks, slow, deliberate, like the heartbeat of something ancient stirring in the dark.

A small band of travelers had found shelter in a cave. A fire cracked at the center, casting flickering shadows on damp stone. They sat close, not just for warmth, but for comfort. Most were couples. Hands clasped beneath blankets, shoulders pressed together in anxious silence. The night felt longer than it should.

Among them sat a bard. Cloak heavy with the scent of old rain, eyes lined with the weariness of too many roads, but there was still something alive in his gaze. He looked around the circle and saw what fear did to people: it shrank them. Curled them up like leaves under frost.

He cleared his throat. No one looked up, not at first. So he leaned forward, and his voice, low, rich, and steady, slipped into the space between heartbeats.

"A tale, then," he said. "A tale of mercy, and madness. Of light, and the shadow it leaves behind."

Some looked up from the fire, at the man who spoke without fear.

"Let me tell you a story, an old one, older than the roads we walk, older even than Veteris. A story about a warrior, a curse, and the goddess who undid it."

And then, softly, his voice steady as the crackle of flame, he began:

"Our story begins in the unknown regions to the west, beyond the Great Shroud, in a time long before Veteris, when the world still bled from the wounds of ambition. The lands were torn, city-states locked in endless war, each one clawing for dominion. And in every clash, Azhomar, Lord of War, listened well. His hymn was steel on steel, his prayer the cries of men. Beast roaming amidst the blood and destruction, as they tend to do. But taming them — that was a secret art. Few knew it. Fewer survived it.

And among those war-torn hills and smoking fields, there lived a man who would become legend. His name is lost, like so many things from that age. But he was a warrior, fierce, loyal, and praised in song. The kind of man whose blade moved before his fear did. His city crowned him a hero, and his king trusted him like no other.

He had a friend, too. We all do, don't we? Someone who makes the world feel less broken. But fate, cruel and unsleeping, placed that friend on the other side of the battlefield. Sometimes, they saw each other from afar. Sometimes, they crossed swords. But they never struck to kill.

And still, the war ground on. One day, a summons came. The enemy was marching again, too fast, too close. The king called upon his champion. He sent him out with his finest men, not just to win, but to be seen, to give the city hope when its walls trembled.

The army rode before dawn. Their banners hung low in the mist, their boots heavy with frost and silence. And when they reached the valley where the battle would be fought, the clouds above broke open. Not with light, but with darkness.

The battle began like so many others: shouts, steel, the thunder of beasts. But soon, something strange stirred in the heart of the warrior. At first, a shimmer, no more than a breath of smoke clinging to his skin. Then brighter. Then burning. A glow rose from him, dim crimson at first, but growing with each strike of his blade, each cry of rage. It wrapped around him like living fire, curling from his shoulders like wings forged in war.

A cloak. But not cloth. Not thread. It pulsed like breath. Flickered like dying stars. Molten veins cut across its form, flaring with each heartbeat. Some in the army named it on sight. They had heard the whispers, the warnings. The Crimson Veil.

It was not armor. It was not protection. It was something else. Something alive. The Veil did not rest on his shoulders, it clung. Fed on fury. And in return, it gave him strength beyond imagining. His muscles surged with unnatural power. His wounds no longer slowed him. His spells struck harder, darker, as if the world itself recoiled from them.

And yet, it was not a gift. It was a pact. Silent. Binding. The Crimson Veil had no voice, but it had will. It numbed pain, but not grief. It sharpened the blade but dulled the soul. And worst of all, it burned brightest when he lost control. If someone he loved was harmed, the Veil flared. Tore free from restraint. The warrior became a beast of wrath, a storm that could not be stopped. This state had a name. Berserk. And only a voice — the voice — of someone he loved could bring him back.

The king saw it once. And it terrified him. So, he called his warrior to the throne and issued a single decree: 'You are forbidden to love.' Not from cruelty. But from fear. Not of losing the man, but of what might rise in his place.

And so, he obeyed. He buried his heart and embraced the power. In battle, he was a legend. They said he moved like lightning wrapped in flame, like war made flesh. But the Cloak whispered louder with every victory. It fed on his triumphs. And he began to hunger for more.

And then, on a distant battlefield far from home, he met him again. His friend. Still alive. Still fighting. But something had changed. The friend wore a different cloak. Not red. Not wild. A shimmering mantle of deep gold and velvet blue, flowing like banners caught in wind, calm even in chaos. The Velvet Reign. A cloak of clarity. Of wisdom. A symbol of those destined to rule not with fear, but with grace.

The friend saw at once what the Veil had done. And he pleaded. Begged the warrior to turn back, to shed the cloak before it consumed him. But the warrior, drunk on power and pride, refused. And only when his blade struck too deep, cut too close to ending the very man who once called him brother, did something in him begin to crack.

The warrior dropped his blade. And in that pause, fire fell around him. And so did he. An enemy struck him down. The wound was grave. They carried him from the battlefield like shattered stone, the Cloak dim, pulsing faintly, as if stunned by its own failure.

He awoke days later. The pain was distant. The silence, loud. And beside him, a woman. She was not made of gold or velvet, nor did she wield magic or blade. She brought no power. Only presence. She had a smile that could mend what healing spells could not. Her voice soothed like rain on ash. She never asked about the Cloak. Never flinched at the scars. She only treated him like a man. Not a hero, nor a weapon.

He tried not to speak. Then tried not to listen. Then tried not to feel. But her laughter filled the room like sunlight through smoke. And slowly, without his consent or command, something stirred.

One night, the sky split with fire. An ambush. Screams tore through the tents. Steel clashed. Spells cracked the earth. And somewhere in that storm, the woman fell. A blade meant for another caught her instead. Blood bloomed across her robes. Her cry was lost in the chaos. But the Cloak heard. And so did he.

Something inside him broke. The Crimson Veil did not ignite. It devoured. He did not roar. He did not speak. He simply moved. A storm of limbs and fury, of claws and heat. He tore through men like paper, shattered bones with bare hands. Ally or enemy, he no longer saw the difference. The battlefield became a graveyard, lit by pulsing crimson light. Even beasts fled.

And in the eye of that storm, a figure. Small. Wounded. Steady. Her. She rose, broken but unafraid. And she walked, not ran, through ash and flame, toward the thing he had become. She saw no monster. Only pain. She reached out. No blade. No shield. Just her hand. Her voice, hoarse but unwavering, cut through the screaming magic and splintered earth. And the Cloak paused. The smoke thinned. The red dimmed. He staggered. Then, he dropped to his knees. And she embraced him. Not the warrior. Not the weapon. Him. And so, the beast fell silent. And the man returned.

The battlefield fell still. But the wrath that followed was not from the gods. It came from the king. He did not see love. He saw betrayal. So, the punishment came swift and cruel. The woman was forbidden to return to the front. She was summoned to the capital, kept under close watch. The warrior was exiled to distant warfronts, no rest, no leave, a blade in motion, kept far from what tethered him.

But distance could not unmake what had been felt. And something had changed. The Cloak, once so volatile, now glowed with a steadier light. The smoke no longer lashed and flared. Its edges softened. The crackling violence grew quiet. Even his enemies noticed. His movements were precise, no longer wild. He fought not with rage, but with focus. And somewhere in his chest, he felt longing. Not just for her, but for something more. Peace. Forgiveness. Redemption.

And he was not alone. Far away, the king dreamed. Not of conquest. But of her. Selvara. She did not arrive with trumpets or thunder. She was simply there. A presence woven from warmth and sorrow. She showed him the battlefield, the warrior, bloodied and torn, kneeling before a woman with bandaged arms. She showed him the woman, alone in a cold chamber, hands clutched around a ribbon the warrior had once worn. And then, she showed him himself. Not as king. Simply as man. And he wept.

Selvara placed no curse, no command. Only a choice. Let them burn or let them bloom. He awoke with tears on his face, and a heart cracked open. When his guards brought word the next morning that the woman had fled the capital, vanished into the night, he did not send riders. He only whispered, 'Then let her find him.'

The woman found him on a battlefield not unlike the first. The air stank of ash. Screams echoed through the ridges. And yet, she walked. No armor. No spells. Only certainty. He did not see her at first. But his Cloak did. The Crimson Veil, once pulsing with rage and ruin, now shimmered, hesitant, almost expectant. When his eyes found her, he did not shout. He did not run. He only stood. And breathed.

She reached him again as she once had, through chaos, through fire. And when she embraced him, this time, he embraced her back. The Veil lifted. It did not vanish. It changed. Crimson bled into white. The smoke coalesced into silk. Gold threads pulsed beneath its surface. And above his head: a quiet halo. The Mantle of Grace.

Soldiers stopped fighting. Even beasts turned still. The battlefield fell silent, watching not a weapon, but a man transformed. And then, a second presence. He looked up. Not at the sky, but at her. Selvara, as nothing but a faint white light. She stood above them both, not with wings or fire, but with light that bent like wind-blown petals. She did not say it. But they felt it. A blessing. A promise. Love, not rage. Mercy, not ruin.

The war ended, as all wars do, not with triumph, but with silence. The king awaited him. No crown, no guards. Just a man who had once commanded armies, now bowing his head in apology. 'You loved where I feared. And that is why you prevailed.' He offered the warrior not gold, but a wedding. A public one, blessed by the people and, so they say, by Selvara herself.

Years passed. But one day, the hero vanished from the city. No warning. No farewell. He returned to the battlefield. The place where the light had changed. And with his bare hands, he began to build. Stone by stone. Wordlessly. Relentlessly. A statue. Of Selvara. Not towering or divine, but gentle, standing with open arms, a hand outstretched not to strike, but to receive. He never spoke of it. And when it was done, he left it behind. A silent testament.

They say it still stands. Hidden in her Preserve. Only seen by those who are destined by her."

With these words he ends his tale. The travelers had listened intently and huddled together even more. Not a single word was spoken but all could feel the warming effect the tale had on them. Almost like Selvara was already amongst them, warming their hearts and bodies to get the couples through the night. And soon enough the sky cleared and gave way to a gorgeous night sky, littered with beautiful, bright stars, and the moon illuminating the mountains around them.

Episode I — Ember

Whisperwood — Sep 21, 308 AV

It was a biting autumn night. The sun had set hours ago, and the stars had vanished behind a mass of pitch-black rain clouds.

"Not even a sliver of moonlight," Neyos muttered, the smell of damp earth in his nose.

A few feet away, a dying ember guttered; the decoy fire, meant to hold a predator's stare or scare it off while he lay hidden in the thicket. The wind, lashing through his short, black hair, and tugging at the worn seams of his coat, reminded him of the first time he encountered the apex predator of the notorious Whisperwood, a dense forest in the west of Elterra.

It was named for the whispers said to lure travelers from the path. The result of an elusive beast, undocumented so far, yet its presence remained evident.

Neyos didn't mind. He had been traversing these paths from a young age and knew what he was doing. The low-level Neurexic tremors, however, were peculiar.

He picked them up with his Spectrometer a few months ago, and immediately realized: so, did the beasts.

Two weeks ago, he had crossed paths with a Lykostryx pack, the most silent predators he knew. Always in threes. One never heard them coming.

He had stumbled into them while tracking a faint Neurexic trail, one left by a Fayrákos, oddly evasive.

Neyos managed to evade the first strike, barely dodging. But the second sank its teeth into his arm before he could even draw breath. Blood poured fast.

The wound had nearly been fatal.

The third lunged from behind, its jaws snapped shut where his throat had been.

Only a flashbang and a dash of luck had bought him enough space to vanish beneath his Umbrasilk cloak.

A cloak made of Neurexically treated silk, hiding its wearer from sight.

That day, the forest had nearly claimed him.

The wound, now turning to scar, still throbbed some nights. A permanent reminder.

Today he was back in the same part of the same forest.

"I'm losing focus," he muttered, preparing to move. He had been lying still for nearly three hours, the scent of damp bark and moss thick in his nose, thorny undergrowth pricking at his skin.

As he crawled out, Neyos paused. There had been a sound to his right. He listened carefully. Nothing followed.

"Must be my imagination," he decided.

It was getting late, after all.

Getting back on his feet, he noticed that his Neurex-flow Spectrometer had picked up a small Neurexic concentration nearby.

A split second later, a Boryx burst from the darkness, squealing as it rushed past him. Neyos froze, eyes tracking it, heart racing.

He moved on. He wasn't keen on another encounter with them. Mentivar was still a long way off, and he craved nothing more than a hot shower and a warm bed.

Disappointed with his lack of progress, Neyos trudged forward. The distant sound of the Nerides river, west of Whisperwood, guided him home. Though for him, home wasn't a particularly warm place either. He was an orphan, and any memories he may have had of his parents had faded a long time ago.

As the sky began to clear, the rain eased. Even a bit of moonlight broke through the clouds. By this point it was merely his hunger that pushed him forward, the leftovers of his lunch on his mind. Boryx stew.

As the rain cleared completely, he noticed something unsettling. Too much silence, no birds, no beasts, not even the rushing river in the distance. As if the forest itself were holding its breath.

Dropping to his knees, he checked the Spectrometer. He tapped the device with nervous precision, watching the sonar needle complete its rotations, each pass slower than the last.

Suddenly, the trees fell silent, as even the wind held its breath. Then they appeared, three Lykostryx, their eyes glowing dimly, fur as black as shadow. Blue veins of light throbbed beneath their fur, pulsing like some living current. Neyos felt it in his teeth. Their Neurexic pulse.

They panted softly, but he couldn't hear them. He could only see it. The silence was a common companion of this beast and usually the first and final give away of their presence.

Neyos was in no condition to fight them. Exhaustion weighed on his feet, and the cold had frozen his hands. But panic wouldn't help now. The Lykostryx on the other hand just stared at him. Waiting. Observing. That wasn't normal. They should have attacked on sight.

He glanced at the Spectrometer, three Neurexic signatures flickered across its curved display. The Spectrogram was stable. No erratic spikes. No threat. Lykostryx, for certain, but not their hunting pulse.

He shoved the device away and searched for anything useful but only found adrenaline injectors and a drawing set. Useless at this moment. He had forgotten to pack proper weapons. Resigned, he stared at the beasts.

He sighed, but even that faint sound was swallowed by the Lykostryx fur. Neyos raised his hand, trying to focus on the air. His hands trembled, not from cold, not entirely. He forced himself to breathe, to center. The spell needed clarity, and he had none.

He tried again, thinking maybe he had used the wrong element. But then he noticed: the Lykostryx weren't aggressive at all. They weren't attacking. No tension in their stance, no malice in their eyes.

Neyos blinked. The realization hit like a chill, they were yielding.

But just as he tried to cast his next spell the first turned around and vanished into the forest.

"Am I dreaming?" he whispered. "This is not normal behavior."

The other two promptly followed the first, and moments later the sound of rustling trees returned. Neyos held his breath as the wind began howling through the trees again.

Ancient taming legends flooded his mind, one of his long-term research interests. But this was no ancient bonding tale. Beasts did not yield. Not like that, at least. He took out the Spectrometer again. It vibrated in his trembling palm. Unfamiliar Neurex-traces lit up on the display. He saved the scan without a second thought.

"Guess I have to deal with that later," he said, standing up on shaking legs.

He hesitated for a second, before adding a note: Observed in Whisperwood, No Witnesses.

"That shouldn't have happened," he whispered as he walked out of the forest. "That breaks everything we know."

His hands were still shaking as distant lights gave him a brief sense of safety. Mentivar. It was a fortified city known for its persistent scientists; the Sophoi. Much of Arkana's beast knowledge originated there and the Logeion's headquarters were located at the city's center, next to its university.

Neyos would love to attend the university, for the simple chance of becoming a member of the Logeion, but sadly the tuition fees were too much for him to handle. Part of the reason he went out alone to the forest, to follow his passion. But right now, none of that mattered. He just wanted something to eat, warmth, and rest.

"Don't forget the shower," he reminded himself, still mentally recovering from the encounter. Of course not. The mud was everywhere. He could even taste it, while the breeze sliced through his damp clothes, sharp as a blade's edge.

Step by step he dragged himself towards the city. By now, he was halfway home. The trees gave way to wide, flat meadows, and the lights of Mentivar appeared faintly in the distance.

"I should have just used light spells," he muttered. "Or heat before that encounter." His research had consumed him so much lately, he forgot the basics. He chuckled exhaustedly at his own stupidity. But he had survived, and that was all that mattered now. He even made some progress. That counted as a success.

A short while later, he passed the check point and waded through the unusually crowded streets for such a cold Thursday night. Finally, his door.

"Finally... I'm home," he said, though it came out more as an exhausted sigh than anything. He briefly checked his mailbox. Empty, as usual.

The shower was a heavenly blessing. The warmth seeped into his bones, pushing back the tension he hadn't realized he was carrying. For the first time all night, he exhaled without fear. As the mud rinsed away, his gaze fell on the slowly healing wound. He knew a scar was inevitable. At least it's a story to tell, he smiled exhausted as he let the water rinse his hair.

Eventually the hunger forced him out. He changed into clean clothes, jogging pants and an oversized hoodie, and went to his kitchen. The smell of his reheated dinner calmed him. And his thoughts. Boryx stew was his all-time favorite since he was a small child.

As he ate, his eyelids became increasingly heavier. He left the dishes for tomorrow, knowing he would hate himself in the morning. Before going to bed, he took a short glance at the Sophos emblem, which always leaned against the wall behind his desk, waiting to be picked up. A small, black metal-plate in the shape of a downward pointing, tapering shield. An opened, white book, crossed by a green writing feather loomed in its center, symbolizing the Sophoi thirst for knowledge.

As he crawled into his bed, he tried to analyze the Lykostryx strange behavior once more. But sleep was about to claim him first. Fair enough, I earned this today. But his thoughts wouldn't let go of the encounter. Still... Those scans don't lie. With an exhausted smile, he fell asleep.