The Isle of Nehmaris rested quietly in the heart of Lake Ostra, its sandy dunes curving like a crescent moon under the pale light of dawn. The air carried the fresh scent of water mixed with the faint tang of fish, a reminder of the lake's role as a lifeline for the three kingdoms—Velmora, Zarephar, and Dravonar. At the center of the isle stood the Library of Forsaken Paths, a temple carved from weathered gray stone, its walls blending into the cliffs that rose behind it. To the people who sailed past on fishing boats or traded goods along the lake's shores, the temple was just a quiet place, a building they barely noticed. They thought it was nothing more than a home for old monks who spent their days copying dusty scrolls, a place of knowledge that held no real importance in their busy lives. But the truth was far different, hidden beneath layers of stone and secrecy.
The temple was a fortress, a shield against dark forces that most people didn't even believe in anymore. Inside its walls, the air was cool and heavy, filled with the musty smell of old paper and the faint smoke of wax candles that burned day and night. Narrow hallways twisted through the structure like a maze, their stone floors worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Tall shelves lined the walls, stretching up to the ceiling, each one packed with scrolls and books that told stories of the past—wars fought, kings crowned, and dangers defeated. Some writings were so old the ink had faded to a faint brown, the words barely readable under the dim light of oil lamps that hung from iron hooks. The monks who worked here moved with quiet steps, their robes brushing the floor as they carried stacks of parchment or knelt in prayer, their voices a soft chant that echoed through the halls.
The people who lived in the temple, members of the Order of the Forsaken Paths, had made a hard choice. They had left their families, their homes, and their old lives behind, vowing to protect the world from supernatural threats—ghosts that whispered in the night, spirits that could possess the living, and powers so dark they could tear the land apart. They trained with swords and chants, learning to fight both steel and magic, their days spent studying old texts and their nights spent watching for signs of danger. It was a life of sacrifice, one that asked them to give up everything to keep others safe, a duty they carried with heavy hearts but steady hands. They all made a vow, an oath to serve till death relieves them of this duty…
By shadow cast and truth unseen,
We Walk the paths that lie between.
To guard the Font, we bind our breath—
From life's first cry till solemn death.
We vow to hold what time conceals,
And never turn its sacred wheels.
No love, no grief, no mortal plea
Shall bend the fate not meant to be.
The Echo's power is not our right—
To use it brings the final night.
Let none invoke it to defy,
Lest stars fall dark and kingdoms die.
We stand as flame, as stone, as shield,
Our will unbroken, sword unyielded.
This oath we bear, without regret—
Till death relieves, we don't forget.
Kaela was one of them, a young woman with bright eyes the color of the lake on a clear day and a warm smile that could light up even the darkest corners of the temple. She had grown up here, brought to the isle as a small child after a raid took her family away. The monks had found her hiding in the wreckage of her village, her tiny hands clutching a broken doll, her face streaked with tears. They took her in, raising her within the stone walls, teaching her the ways of the Order. Now, at twenty-one, Kaela was a sword instructor, her days spent in the training yard, showing young monks how to swing a blade with strength and balance. She was also a scroll-runner, darting through the temple's halls to carry messages between the elders, her steps quick and sure as she navigated the maze she knew by heart.
But Kaela was different, and the monks knew it from the start. She carried a power called shadow echoing, a gift that let her see things others couldn't—flashes of lives she never lived, battles she never fought, faces of people she had never met, and futures that might never come to pass. When she was just a girl, the monks had seen it happen, her eyes going blank as she spoke of a burning village or a crowned figure weeping, her voice trembling with fear. It scared them, not because the power was evil, but because it reminded them of Vaelros the Hollow Flame, a name they spoke in whispers, a man who had once been a hero but turned into a danger they couldn't control. Fearing Kaela might follow the same path, the elders had locked her powers away, using chants and bitter herbs to keep them quiet. They burned sage and spoke old words over her, their hands trembling as they worked, hoping to protect her—and themselves—from what she might become.
Kaela felt the weight of their fear, even now. She knew they watched her closely, their eyes following her as she moved through the temple, searching for any sign that her power might break free. She tried to push it aside, focusing on her tasks—sharpening swords, tying back her dark hair before a training session, or laughing with the younger monks as they stumbled through their drills. But deep inside, she felt the power stirring, a quiet hum that grew louder with each passing day, like a voice calling her name. It whispered of things she couldn't understand, showing her glimpses of fire and steel, of a man with a burning sword and eyes full of pain. She didn't know what it meant, but it made her heart race, a mix of fear and longing she couldn't shake.
She wasn't alone in the temple, though. Her closest friend was Ralen, a tall man with a steady voice and a kind face that always seemed to hold a hint of a smile. He was a Sentinel, trained to fight with a sword and to sense the spirit world, his skills sharp from years of practice. Ralen had been with Kaela since they were children, the two of them growing up side by side, sharing secrets and dreams in the quiet corners of the temple. He was loyal to the Order, his faith in their mission as solid as the stone walls around them, but his loyalty to Kaela was just as strong. He often walked with her through the halls, his presence a comfort, his sword always at his side, ready to protect her if needed.
Then there was Tirian, a rough man from the desert with dark hair that fell over his sharp eyes, his laugh loud and wild as it echoed through the temple. He wasn't born to the Order like Kaela and Ralen. He had come to the isle years ago as a raider, seeking a legendary sword he thought would make him rich. But the Order had caught him, and instead of sending him away, they gave him a choice—join them or leave empty-handed. Tirian stayed, drawn by something he couldn't explain, and now he worked as a scout, his skills from his old life put to use watching the lake's shores for trouble. He often leaned against a wall near Kaela, his gaze lingering on her, a spark of something bold in his eyes that made her heart beat faster. He was different from Ralen, his spirit free and untamed, and Kaela felt drawn to that wildness, even as she leaned on Ralen's steady calm.
Lioren was the last of their group, a quiet novice scribe with gentle hands and a shy smile. He spent his days copying scrolls, his quill scratching across parchment as he worked in the dim light of the library. But Lioren carried a burden too—dreams that came to him at night, showing him places and people he didn't know, visions that left him pale and shaken. He often stayed close to Kaela, finding comfort in her strength, his soft voice sharing the fears he couldn't tell anyone else. Together, the four of them formed a tight circle, their lives woven together by the temple and the duties they shared, a bond that held them up even as the world outside grew darker.
…
A century ago, a darkness rose over the land, a supernatural evil that spread fear through every village and town. It wasn't a beast or a spirit, but a figure that looked almost human—a man-like creature standing ten feet tall, with a broad, powerful build that made the ground tremble under his steps. His name was whispered as Malakar, the Storm-Wrought, a being born of magic and rage. His skin shimmered like polished iron, reflecting the light in a way that made him look like a living statue, his muscles rippling with every move. His eyes glowed with a sickly green light, and his hair was a tangle of black vines that writhed like snakes, snapping at the air around him. Malakar's hands crackled with energy, bolts of lightning dancing between his fingers, and when he spoke, his voice was a deep growl that carried the howl of the wind, making the air itself shake. He could summon storms with a thought, dark clouds gathering above him, rain pouring in sheets, and lightning striking where he pointed, splitting trees and scorching the earth. He moved with a speed that didn't match his size, his steps a blur as he tore through the land, leaving destruction in his wake.
Malakar's wrath was unstoppable. He walked through villages, his lightning setting homes ablaze, the flames spreading as the rain did nothing to stop them. He lifted grown men with one hand, tossing them aside like they weighed nothing, their bodies crashing into walls or trees with sickening cracks. Fields withered under his storms, the crops turning black as the soil turned to mud, leaving nothing for the people to eat. Families fled, their screams lost in the howling wind, but Malakar hunted them, his green eyes glowing through the rain, his vine-like hair lashing out to snare those who tried to run. The ground bore the marks of his power—deep scars where lightning had struck, puddles of water that steamed with heat, and the air filled with the sharp smell of ozone. He was a force of nature in human form, a giant of a man who threatened to destroy everything the kingdoms had built.
The Order of the Forsaken Paths, trained to fight such evils, knew they had to stop him. They turned to Vaelros, a young man who had shown great promise since he was a boy. Vaelros was born with a rare gift called shadow echoing, a power that let him see glimpses of other lives—battles he never fought, faces he never met, futures that might one day happen. He would wake in the night, his heart racing, speaking of a crowned figure falling or a village saved, his voice shaking with the weight of his visions. The masters of the Order saw his potential early, taking him in when he was just a child, teaching him their ways. They trained him to wield a sword with precision, his blade moving like part of him, swift and deadly. They taught him to chant words that could push back spirits, his voice steady as he spoke the ancient phrases. They showed him how to carry himself with a quiet strength, a presence that made others feel safe, drawing them to him like a light in the dark.
Vaelros grew into a man of honor, someone who believed in love and sacrifice above all else. He cared deeply for the human race, his heart full of kindness that made him a hero to those who knew him. He didn't fight for glory or power—he fought to protect those who couldn't protect themselves, to keep the world safe from the darkness that threatened it. He would walk through villages, children running to him, their small hands tugging at his cloak, their laughter filling the air as he knelt to talk with them. He shared bread with the hungry, his own stomach empty, and stood guard at night so others could sleep, his eyes scanning the shadows for danger. The Order trusted him, not just because of his skill, but because of his heart, and they knew he was the only one who could face Malakar.
When the time came, Vaelros took his sword—a simple blade forged by the Order's smiths, its edge sharp but plain—and set out to meet the Storm-Wrought. The battle happened on a rocky hill near the lake, under a sky that churned with dark clouds Malakar summoned, the rain falling in heavy sheets, the wind howling like a pack of wolves. The ground was slick with mud, the rocks jagged and sharp, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and lightning. Vaelros stood ready, his cloak soaked through, his sword gripped tightly as Malakar approached, his iron-like skin gleaming in the flashes of lightning, his vine-hair snapping at the air, his green eyes locked on Vaelros with a hunger for destruction.
The fight was long and brutal, lasting hours as Vaelros clashed with the giant. Malakar's lightning struck at him, bolts of white-hot energy that lit up the night, forcing Vaelros to dive and roll, the ground exploding where he had stood. The giant moved fast, his huge hands swinging, each blow strong enough to shatter stone, the wind from his strikes knocking Vaelros back. Malakar's vine-hair lashed out, trying to wrap around Vaelros's arms, their sharp tips cutting into his skin, drawing blood that mixed with the rain. The storm raged around them, the rain blinding, the wind pushing Vaelros off balance, the thunder so loud it drowned out his own thoughts. But Vaelros held his ground, his training guiding his steps, his sword flashing as he struck at Malakar's legs, trying to slow him down. The giant's iron skin was hard, the blade barely leaving a scratch, but Vaelros didn't stop. He couldn't—too many lives depended on him.
Malakar laughed, his voice booming over the storm, mocking Vaelros as he fought. He summoned more lightning, the bolts striking closer, one grazing Vaelros's arm, the pain sharp as fire, his skin burning where it hit. But Vaelros's shadow echoing showed him flashes of what would happen if he failed—a world drowned in storms, the lake swallowed by mud, the people gone. He gritted his teeth, his arms heavy, his lungs aching with each breath, and kept fighting, his sword a blur as he dodged and struck, looking for any weakness in the giant's form.
After hours of fighting, when both were worn and the hill around them was scarred with lightning marks and muddy craters, Vaelros saw his chance. Malakar raised both hands to summon a massive bolt, his green eyes glowing brighter, his vine-hair thrashing wildly. But Vaelros moved faster, ducking under the giant's arm, the rain stinging his eyes as he ran forward. He drove his sword into Malakar's side, where the iron skin seemed thinnest, the blade sinking deep, piercing through to the creature's core. A burst of magical energy exploded from the wound, a light so bright it turned the night to day, a power that could be seen across the lake. The energy flowed into the sword, changing it, filling it with a force that pulsed like a heartbeat, the blade glowing with a faint blue hue. Malakar roared, his storm fading, the clouds breaking apart as he fell to his knees, his iron skin cracking like glass, his green eyes dimming. His body crumbled into shards of metal and dust, the wind carrying them away, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his growl.
Vaelros stood over the remains, his chest heaving, his sword shimmering with its new power, now known as the Hollow Flame—a weapon of immense strength, a symbol of the victory he had won. But that victory came with a heavy cost. The sword gave Vaelros new powers, its magic seeping into him, filling him with a strength he couldn't control. He could summon lightning with a thought, small bolts crackling at his fingertips, their energy buzzing in the air. His shadow echoing grew sharper, showing him futures that twisted his mind with fear and desire—visions of power, of a world at his command, of storms that never stopped. At first, he welcomed the power, believing it would help him protect the world better, his heart still set on saving others.
But the masters of the Order saw the change, the way his eyes turned a strange silver, flashing like lightning in the dark, the way he spoke with a voice that wasn't his own, a voice that whispered of control and destruction, its tone sharp and cold. They realized the sword was taking over, turning their hero into a danger they couldn't ignore. They tried to talk to him, to pull him back, their voices soft as they reminded him of the man he used to be. But Vaelros was lost, his mind clouded by the blade's influence, his honor fading under its pull. He began to speak of ruling the land, of using his power to force peace, his words harsh, a stark contrast to the kindness he once showed.
The masters had no choice—they fought him, a battle that raged through the temple halls, their swords clashing against his, their chants filling the air as they tried to break the sword's hold. The fight was fierce, Vaelros wielding the Hollow Flame with a skill that nearly overwhelmed them, his lightning striking through their defenses, the stone walls cracking under his power. The temple shook, dust falling from the ceiling, the scars of their battle etched into the stone for years to come. In the end, the masters managed to take the sword from Vaelros, their blades cutting deep into his body, leaving him bleeding on the floor. His silver eyes dimmed, his lightning fading as he fell, his breath shallow and ragged. They thought they had killed him, his body still as they carried the sword away, their hands trembling with the weight of what they had done. They buried the blade deep in the temple's lowest chambers, sealing it behind heavy doors carved with signs of protection, hoping its power would stay locked away forever. But Vaelros survived, his wounds grave but not fatal, his mind still sharp despite his broken body. He fled into the shadows, his spirit lingering, a threat the Order didn't know they had left alive, his desire for the sword as fierce as the storms he once controlled.
The story of Vaelros the Hollow Flame lived on in the temple, a tale of a hero who became a danger, a reminder of the cost of power. His shadow echoing, the gift that had once made him a savior, was the same power that now stirred in Kaela, a young woman of the Order who shared his rare ability. Like Vaelros, she could see glimpses of other lives, her own mind haunted by visions she couldn't explain, a connection to the past that whispered of lightning and steel, of a man whose story was far from over.