"It's the questions we can't answer that teach us the most. They teach us how to think. If you give a man an answer, all he gains is a little fact. But give him a question and he'll look for his own answers."
Patrick Rothfuss
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Under the celestial spectacle, the northern lights gracefully draped the night sky, illuminating it in a dance of vibrant colors. Luna and Celestria, the twin moons, cast a serene glow, while stars glittered like diamonds against the crisp darkness. Nature itself joined the cosmic display as plants and animals revealed a breathtaking, luminous aura.
In the distance, the grandeur of Everdaile, the Elven Empire's majestic city in the Eastern Lands, emerged. Crystal buildings soared into the heavens, radiating opulence and might. Each architectural detail whispered of wealth, and every corner echoed with the magnificence and glory that surpassed imagination.
"Long live the new Avallon! Long live Livian of Everdaile!"
Amidst the cheers for Livian of Everdaile, a silent tale of anguish arose. Varelor, child of the master and teacher, harbored a shattered heart. His aspirations for becoming the keeper of the Wind Emerald, a potent artifact in Enchantria, were crushed.
As the new guardian ascended, Varelor's hopes crumbled with the revelation that the magical stone would not be his. The room, adorned with cobbled walls, echoed with the weight of his silent sorrow, the torchlight casting shadows that mirrored the fractures in his once hopeful heart.
"When I pass the fourth ring to the next rightful keeper, I want him to be a kind and brave one. I want him to be a responsible guardian for our beloved land," his father's words lingered in the air, carrying the weight of expectation and legacy after a quiet evening meal.
"I will, Vio (Father)," Varelor's confident response resonated with determination, spoken in the rhythmic cadence of the Enchantrian language.
In the room, the master's voice echoed with unwavering confidence, declaring, "I know that you will not bring me down..." The pregnant pause lingered as his penetrating gaze shifted towards the youngest student. Then, with a calm authority, he broke the silence, uttering a single name, "Livian."
Varelor's voice seemed to fade into the background, unnoticed, as all attention converged on the named warrior. In response, Livian's words became a reflection of kindness and gratitude. "Thank you, Master," he replied, embodying sincerity that resonated in every uttered syllable.
Caught in an impossible daydream, Varelor sought to jolt himself awake. With a surge of emotion, he forcefully rose from his chair, his fist meeting the dining table with a resounding thud. Eyes locked on his father, he sprinted forward, anger etched across his face, a turbulent sea of emotions reflected in his determined stride.
"I am your son. Why did you choose Livian over me?! Why?!" Varelor's impassioned shout sliced through the room, a tempest of hurt and betrayal unleashed, the echoes lingering like a storm's aftermath.
"Varelor, I'm so sorry, but... but the elders chose Livian," his father's regretful admission resonated with a palpable sense of pity, his voice trembling.
"The elders?!" he questioned. "Oh, come on! You can say that Livian is your favorite student because he is the son of the Emperor. And... And you can say that you did not choose me because the Avallon Tree showed you that I am not rightful for the magical rings!" His frustration surged, punctuated by a released punch.
Stunned and thrilled, the elders and students witnessed the unfolding drama. As Varelor's furious fist aimed for his father's face, Livian and others intervened, shields raised to block the impending attack.
"Vio? Why? You told me I'm the rightful keeper of one of the rings! How could you lie to me?!" Varelor's voice carried a mix of betrayal and hurt, tears welling up in his eyes, intensifying his resentment. "You believe in that tree more than me?! How could you? I am your son!" He paused, contemplating his next move.
Varelor's hand ascended, and a mystical transformation rippled through the air. The students, Livian among them, watched in awe as their rings shape-shifted into weapons. An unseen force took hold, manipulating their bodies, leaving them mere puppets in a bewildering dance of fate.
In the unfolding chaos, the elders discerned the anomaly. The students, now weaponized, pointed their newfound instruments at each other, caught in a malevolent force beyond their control. Abruptly, Varelor lowered his hand, succumbing to unconsciousness.
In the aftermath, an edict from the Emperor sealed Varelor's fate - exile from the cherished land. Lost and adrift, he wandered the expanse of the Elven Empire, grappling with the uncertainty of his destination. Struggling for respite and sustenance, each day became a battle for survival. Amidst the hardship, his hatred festered and swelled, an unwelcome companion on his solitary journey.
In a quest for sustenance, Varelor ventured into an unfamiliar, shadowy forest. As he pressed on, the air resonated with the echoes of long-departed infants, and an eerie fog slithered along the ground.
Amidst the unsettling atmosphere, strange voices surrounded him, prompting a shiver of fear. To evade the perceived threat, he attempted to retreat, only to find himself encircled by the twisted trees-a realization that he was now lost.
Continuing through the eerie woods, Varelor stumbled upon a blinding light. Hope flickered as he moved toward it, anticipating a return to the familiar realm. However, upon reaching what seemed like the forest's edge, the climate turned colder than expected.
Surveying the surroundings, he discovered a peculiar site-ruins strewn with remnants of a forgotten structure. The source of the blinding light lay beneath a massive stone amidst the ruins, beckoning him to uncover its mysterious secrets.
Driven by curiosity, Varelor approached the source of the blinding light. With each step, the air grew colder, and a swirling snowstorm enveloped him, signaling his arrival in the long-forgotten Northern Lands.
A strange sensation washed over Varelor, memories flooding his mind like turbulent waters-chaotic and unresolved. The blizzard threatened to freeze him, but a touch to the glowing object dispelled both the storm and the blinding light.
" A ring?" he questioned, cradling the sacred stone in his shivering palms. As he took in his surroundings, the once obscured Northern Lands unveiled their secrets. Vigilant of the Barbarians that roamed the icy ruins, Varelor marveled at structures built from ice, standing resilient after a millennium.
In the distance, Varelor's gaze fixated on the ice castle, its once majestic form now marred by destruction. Unbeknownst to him, a bewitched lake lay nearby, its warm waters defying the frigid Northern winter.
As he shifted his attention, the sight of the lake beneath him startled Varelor. Walking on the ice, he cautiously moved forward, discovering the ice's mysterious ability to freeze beneath his steps.
Abruptly, arrows materialized, hurtling toward him. Swiftly evading the unseen assailants, he sprinted for the safety of dry land. Miraculously, the water reverted to its original state as if untouched.
Overwhelmed by the surreal events, Varelor, half in disbelief, waved his hand, summoning a blizzard that dispersed the arrows. "Who are you? Show yourselves, or I'll use my magic against you!" he proclaimed, a blend of pride and trepidation echoing in his voice.
A group of barbarians came near him with their bows facing down. He stopped the blizzard as he saw them being so familiar. Again, a memory appeared inside his mind, but it was still unclear.
"He has the Emperor's ring!" one of them exclaimed.
"Which means... he is the next Emperor of the Northern Lands!" the other added. "He is the rightful ruler of the whole Everdailean Empire!"
"Emperor? Me?" Varelor asked with genuine curiosity, his eyes widening in disbelief. "And are you... are you Mhydrillians?!" The air in the room crackled with uncertainty, his words hanging like a veil of mystery between them.
"Yes, we are the last ones of our kind," a lady replied with a hint of sorrow, her eyes reflecting the weight of their dwindling existence. As she approached him, she added, "And it seems like you are the last ruler of the elves." The shared realization hung in the air, forging an unspoken connection between the two realms on the brink of extinction.
"After the war, we escaped the cruel hands of the Everdaileans. Here, we built our secret sanctuary deep below the mountains of Mhydrille," an old man spoke with a weathered voice, traces of resilience etched in his every word. As they approached the entrance to their hidden village, he continued, "We managed to live while they continued to rule over the lands, making the tribes of this land fall apart one by one." The shadows of history whispered in the hidden enclave, revealing tales of survival against the relentless tides of oppression.
The cave enveloped Varelor in pitch darkness, the temperature colder than he was accustomed to. In the heart of it, ice crystals glistened, and when rubbed, they emitted a soft glow, casting an ethereal light. As if responding to the subtle illumination, a gateway to the hidden village emerged from the ground, revealing a mysterious world beneath the surface.
In the tapestry of time, Varelor, draped in the regal mantle of memory, ascended the throne as Emperor of the Northern Lands, Mhydrille. A crescendo of years unfolded, each a chapter in the saga of remembrance, until the hourglass of destiny turned, granting him the moment to unleash the echoes of vengeance upon the canvas of his reign.
The resolute Mhydrillians advanced with purpose, their gaze unwavering as they confronted the beings who had laid waste to their homeland, meting out justice with a stern hand reminiscent of the mercilessness inflicted upon them in bygone years.
Amidst the harrowing symphony of battle, countless Everdaileans and denizens from disparate realms met grisly fates, succumbing to the vengeance-fueled wrath of the Mhydrillians.
A relentless pursuit unfolded, reclaiming stolen lands in a methodical dance of retribution, each step a solemn testament to the echoes of their enduring resilience.
At last, the eagerly anticipated confrontation unfolded as they marched towards the lair of the guardians nestled in Sepphora, a city ensconced within the realm of Everdaile.
Anticipating the inevitable clash, Livian, now donned in the imperial regalia following his father's demise, awaited Varelor's arrival. The seasoned strategist had devised a plan, weaving a tapestry of conquest that could have unfolded triumphantly.
Yet, the Avallons, as if ordained by fate, interposed, obstructing Varelor's path to victory. In a fateful twist, he and his loyalists faced banishment to the Mortal Realm, where the specter of eternal powerlessness awaited, casting a shadow over their once-potent abilities.
As he teetered on the precipice of vanishing, Varelor's gaze fell upon Alfira, cradling a child in her arms, embraced by Livian. The tumult within him erupted, and with a heart laden with hatred and envy, he exclaimed, "You betrayed me, Alfira! How could you do this to me?" The bitter echoes of resentment reverberated as he accused them all of betrayal, attributing the annihilation of everything to their actions.
"It's enough, my dear friend! You've done enough!" Livian's voice echoed, carrying a blend of weariness and firm resolve.
"I am not and will never be your friend!" Varelor's declaration cut through the air with unyielding certainty. "I promise you that I will come back, and it will be done with the help of... with the help of that child!"
"Please don't, Varelor!" Alfira pleaded, her voice laced with a plea that carried the weight of shared history and unspoken emotions.
Varelor intoned the ancient Enchantrian words, clutching his magical ring with unwavering determination. The Avallons sought to expedite the banishment, yet regrettably, the enchantment reached its culmination. Now, it had been transferred to the innocent princess, fated to be the harbinger of Enchantria's eventual demise.
•○GLOSSARY○•
⚔️Avallon
- an Enchantrian word that means guardians, warriors, and protectors
- bearers of the ancient rings of power
⚔️️ Vio
- an Enchantrian word
- in English, it can be translated as Father
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