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The silence was the first sign that something was wrong. In the Monastery of Silverwood, silence was a texture, a familiar blanket woven from soft prayers, the rustle of robes, and the distant hum of the Sunstone. But this was a different quiet—a hollow, breathless void that pressed in on Elara’s ears. She paused on the stone path, her basket of vesper-herbs forgotten in her grip. Even the birds, usually a riot of song in the evening light, were still. A creeping dread, cold and sharp, trickled down her spine. The protective warmth that always radiated from the monastery’s heart felt thin, almost non-existent.
A single, discordant sound shattered the stillness: the sharp crack of stone, followed by a guttural cry of pain that was abruptly cut off. It came from the direction of the Sanctum. Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs. The Sanctum was the heart of the monastery, the sacred vault where the Sunstone of Aerthos rested, pouring its ceaseless golden light into the world, holding the creeping darkness of the Gloomfang Forest at bay. No one entered the Sanctum after sundown prayers except for the Elder Master, Cormac.
Her feet moved before her mind could fully grasp the terror. Dropping the basket, she ran, her soft-soled sandals slapping against the cool, moss-kissed flagstones. The air grew colder as she approached the Sanctum’s grand archway, a chill that had nothing to do with the setting sun. It was a damp, ancient cold, the kind that whispered of tombs and forgotten things. The golden light that should have been spilling from the entrance was gone, replaced by a sickly, purple-tinged gloom. The ornate carvings of suns and radiant figures around the archway seemed to weep shadows.
Pushing through the heavy, iron-bound doors, which now stood ominously ajar, Elara gasped. The Sanctum was in ruins. Carved stone plinths were overturned, ancient tapestries depicting the Sunstone’s history were slashed and thrown to the floor, and in the center of the chamber, where the Sunstone should have been floating in its cradle of light, there was nothing but a void. Elder Master Cormac lay crumpled near the desecrated altar, his white robes stained with a terrifyingly dark crimson.
“Master!” Elara cried, rushing to his side. She fell to her knees, her hands hovering over him, afraid to touch, afraid of what she might find.
Cormac’s chest rose in a shallow, rattling breath. He blinked, his wise, gentle eyes clouded with pain. “Elara…” he rasped, his voice a ghost of its usual warmth. He coughed, a wet, terrible sound that sent a fresh splatter of blood across the stone floor. “He… took it.”
“Who, Master? Who did this?” Her voice trembled, a reflection of the tremor in her hands.
“Malakor…” The name was a venomous whisper. “He seeks to… devour the light. To remake it in his own image.” Malakor. The disgraced magister, exiled from the capital for practicing forbidden shadow magic. Elara had only read of him in the forbidden texts, a cautionary tale of ambition curdling into madness. She never imagined he was real, let alone that he would dare to strike here.
Cormac gripped her wrist with a surprising strength, his gaze locking onto hers. “The Gloomfang… it will answer his call. The shadows will spread. The world will grow cold.” He struggled for another breath. “You must get it back, Elara. The monastery… the world… cannot survive without its light.”
“Me?” The word was a choked squeak. “Master, I am just an acolyte. I have no skill in… in this.” She was a foundling, left at the monastery gates as an infant. Her life was one of quiet study, of tending herbs and transcribing texts. She was not a warrior. She was not a hero.
“You are more than you know,” Cormac insisted, his grip tightening. A faint, golden light, the last remnant of the Sanctum’s power, seeped from his palm into her skin. It was warm and tingling, a stark contrast to the deathly cold of the room. “There is a light within you, child. One you have always suppressed. The Sunstone… it will resonate with you. You are the only one who can safely reclaim it.”
His eyes began to glaze over. “Go to the Grayport. Find a man… named Kael. Show him this.” With his last ounce of strength, he pressed a small, smooth river stone into her other hand. It was etched with a single, intricate knot, a symbol she didn’t recognize. “He is… in my debt. He will guide you.”
“Master, no, don’t leave me,” Elara pleaded, tears finally breaking free and tracing hot paths down her cold cheeks.
Cormac’s last breath was a sigh, a final release. The faint golden light in his hand flickered and died. The oppressive, purple gloom thickened, and from outside the shattered Sanctum, a new sound began to rise—a low, hungry growl that seemed to emanate from the very edge of the world. It was the sound of the Gloomfang Forest, stirring from its long slumber, its ancient darkness no longer held in check.
Elara knelt in the ruins of her world, clutching a cold river stone and the dying words of her mentor. The weight of an impossible task settled upon her shoulders. She was just an acolyte. A girl who was afraid of the dark. And now, the dark was coming for everyone. Trembling, she rose to her feet. She looked at Master Cormac’s peaceful, lifeless face, then at the gaping emptiness where the Sunstone had been. Her fear was a living thing, a coiling serpent in her gut. But beneath it, a tiny, unfamiliar ember of resolve began to glow, fanned by the Master’s final, desperate plea. She had to try.
