Prologue — The Knight’s Path
Truth spoken aloud is the first lantern.
‘Begin with a small truth, spoken while your hands shake.
Carry no crown, carry an oath you can keep.
There is no map, only the turns you choose in the open.
The sword bears empty grooves; the shield a tree and faint stars.
The Violet Core won’t save you; it steadies the world long enough to choose.
Write home. Do not vanish. Keep your vow.
Trade comfort for clarity that may break you.
Step past the last lantern; begin where you cannot stay.’
— from the Scroll of Lost Paths, preserved by Maldrin Aesthalor.
On this page
Lanterns and Oaths
Truth spoken aloud is the first lantern.
Eight realms, each breaks a lie and teaches a truth. At their centre sits the Maze of the Mind.
Once, a single violet crystal kept the Maze steady. When it shattered, distortions spread: pride swelled, fear thickened, grief hid, purpose thinned. Some shards were guarded when something darker moved; others were hoarded for hunger, glory, control, safety. They left no map. They never do.
The Violet Core is not a weapon. Its shards answer wounds by resonance: they quicken to honest remembrance and recoil from denial. They do not confer power; they offer a pause, long enough to choose the truer way.
On this path, no arrow is drawn at the beginning. No trophies glow. The greatsword’s fuller carries empty rune-grooves. The shield bears a rooted tree and eight faint stars, reminders, not enchantments, that kindle only after a lesson is lived.
This is where our story begins.
Departure
After dusk, fog hangs over the village square. Woodsmoke roughens the air. Children’s laughter fades to the edges, and then away. Ulden Vait sits with family on low benches near the fire, worn leather gloves on his lap. The distant river is a constant hush.
He clears his throat. He keeps his eyes on the flames. His jaw is tight. His fingers tremble once, then settle.
“I’m disappearing,” he says. “I need to seek purpose before I go numb.”
No one argues. No one blesses. The quiet presses and holds. A hand squeezes his shoulder and leaves. A friendly chuckle, “Be sensible”, then silence. He understands the fear behind both gestures. He doesn’t blame it.
Later, in the small house, the warmth feels far away. The children are asleep, his daughter slack with the heavy, honest sleep of evening play; the baby is a quiet bundle. His wife sits on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair slowly. Not out of habit, thinking.
“You’re leaving,” she says, soft but sure.
“I didn’t want to go without speaking to you.”
“You wouldn’t. That’s not who you are.”
He sits beside her. Breath holds between them.
“I’ve built a life I should be grateful for,” he says. “You. The children. This roof. But something is pulling me, quiet, steady. The longer I ignore it, the more it hurts. I’ve said ‘I’m fine’ for too long. I’m not.”
She takes his hand. Her thumb rests over the old scar on his knuckle. She has seen the dimness in his eyes for months and has not named it until now.
“It isn’t wrong to want meaning,” she says. “But you don’t vanish to find it.” Her voice turns to quiet steel. “You may go, but you don’t vanish. No secrets; you write every week.”
He nods. “I’ll send a letter each market day and keep our home safe.”
They dress for weather and truth. She fastens his armour, one strap, one breath, one small heartbreak each time. At the final buckle, she presses her palm to his chest and holds it there until his breath slows.
“Whatever you face,” she says, “take this with you: you are loved. That is your sword. That is your shield.”
He kisses her, steady, not hurried. A vow renewed rather than borrowed. He kneels by the children. He does not wake them. He brushes a curl from a small forehead; he knows the touch is for him, not for sleep.
On the shelf by the door sits a smooth river-stone his daughter once pressed into his hand for luck, his Whisper-stone. He slides it into his pocket. A reminder, not luck.
At the threshold, he looks back only once. “I’ll come back,” he says.
“I know,” she answers. “The man I married never leaves a promise behind.”
He steps into the fog.
The journey doesn’t begin when you leave home.
It begins the moment you decide you can’t stay.
He walks beyond the last cottage and the last gate. Frost sharpens the path. Each footfall sounds louder than it should, as if the ground is listening. The final lantern shivers in the wind and then steadies.
The Elders
The ridge sits above the village like a simple line of thought. Under a leaning pine, three Elders wait. Not kings. Not priests. Old as a good rule.
He comes without helm, cloak worn, blade sheathed.
“Do you seek power?” the silver-bearded man asks.
“No. Purpose.”
“Do you come to impress others?” the woman with the ash-plait asks.
“No. Only the man I am when I’m alone.”
“Are you ready?” the silent one asks at last.
He tells the truth. “No. But I’m willing.”
The silent Elder’s eyes are dark as burnt oak. “Then speak the thing you least want known.”
He breathes once. The breath steadies because truth has weight, not because of any charm or shard. He does not glow. He does not shine.
“My grief made me quiet,” he says. “I let that quiet become a wall. It kept out the pain and also the people. I said ‘I’m fine’ until I almost believed it.”
None of them flinches. None of them comforts. It is mercy, not pity.
“No map,” the silver-bearded man says. “Truth must choose your turns.”
“Take reminders only; they won’t do the work,” the woman says.
They hand him the sword, wrapped in dark cloth. He unwraps it. The steel is honest. It balances well in the hand. A deep fuller runs its length. Rune-grooves along the channel drink moonlight and give nothing back. There are no words on the blade. Words live in the bearer, or they do not live. (In time, at the right choosing, two lines will flare and remain. For now: silence.)
They hand him the shield. It is a kite shield, weight sure, edges sound. The boss holds a rooted tree whose branches cup eight faint stars. None is kindled.
“These will not carry you,” the woman says. “They will remind you.”
He nods. He understands the difference.
He draws a breath to go and feels the Whisper-stone warm once, quick as a heartbeat. He pauses. He does not ascribe it meaning. Not yet. He lets the curiosity stand.
“Last question,” the silent Elder says. “Would you trade comfort for clarity that might break you?”
“Yes,” he says. “Dying comfortably is still dying. I won’t die pretending.”
The Elders do not bless him. They do not stop him. He would not trust either, yet.
Beyond the Final Lantern
He turns towards the mountains.
He steps beyond the final lantern. Frost bites. Fog draws back from the path as if giving room. Somewhere in the dark ribs of the Northern Mountains, a mouth of stone waits, not to swallow him, but to show him what he has hidden.
He does not look back. The lantern holds. The Maze waits.
‘Begin where you can no longer stay.
Carry love like a shield and truth like a blade with empty grooves.
Write home; keep your vow.
Let the last lantern be the one you lit yourself.’
— from the Scroll of Lost Paths, preserved by Maldrin Aesthalor.
Next: Chapter 1
When you’re ready, Chapter 1 begins the first trial.