In the shadowed eaves of Eldrath Forest, where the ancient oaks whispered secrets to the wind, Elarion trudged through the underbrush, his boots sinking into the mossy earth. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp leaves and something fouler, like rot from a forgotten grave. He was seventeen summers old, marked by a star-shaped birthmark on his palm that glowed faintly under moonlight—a sign, the village elders said, of destiny. The prophecy had come down from the Oracle of Thalor: ‘The bearer of the star shall wield the Shadowblade and seal the Void forever.’
Elarion had left his home in Willowbrook three moons past, driven by duty and the cheers of his kin. The Void was stirring; villages burned, shadows devoured travelers on moonless nights. He carried a simple iron sword, a gift from his foster father, and a satchel of bread and dried meat. The path to the Ruins of Kalthar, where the Shadowblade lay hidden, was fraught with peril, but his heart burned with resolve.
As night fell, the forest thickened, branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Elarion kindled a small fire, its flames dancing uncertainly against the encroaching dark. He dreamed that night of endless blackness, a void that hungered, calling his name in a voice like cracking ice. He awoke sweating, the star-mark throbbing.
Dawn brought companions—or so he thought. A hooded figure emerged from the mist: Lirien, a wanderer with eyes like polished obsidian and a staff carved with runes. ‘The stars guide me to you, Starborn,’ she said, her voice a silken thread. ‘I know the trials ahead.’ Skeptical but desperate for knowledge, Elarion accepted her aid.
Together they pressed on, encountering the first trial: the Whispering Glade. Spectral voices assailed them, promising riches and power if they turned back. Lirien chanted incantations, her staff glowing with ethereal light, banishing the illusions. ‘The Void tests the weak,’ she murmured. Elarion gripped his sword tighter, feeling a strange pull in his chest, as if the whispers echoed his own unspoken doubts.
Deeper in, they faced the Fangwolves—beasts with eyes like burning coals, summoned from the Void’s fringes. Elarion fought fiercely, his blade drawing blood, but it was Lirien’s magic that turned the tide, vines erupting from the earth to ensnare the creatures. ‘Your mark strengthens me,’ she said, and Elarion wondered at the warmth spreading from his palm.
At the Ruins of Kalthar, crumbling spires pierced the canopy, overgrown with thorny vines. The air thrummed with power. They descended into the crypt, torches flickering on walls etched with warnings in an ancient tongue: ‘Beware the blade that binds light to shadow.’ Lirien translated, her face paling. ‘It speaks of balance. The Shadowblade drinks shadow to forge light.’
In the heart chamber, the pedestal awaited, shrouded in darkness. Elarion approached, his mark blazing. The shadows recoiled, revealing the blade: obsidian hilt, edge like frozen night. As his fingers closed around it, power surged through him—visions of glory, of kingdoms kneeling. The blade hummed in harmony with his blood.
But the Void stirred. Cracks spiderwebbed the floor, tendrils of blackness lashing out. Lirien raised her staff, weaving spells of containment, but the shadows overwhelmed her, coiling around her form. ‘Elarion! The blade—use it!’ she cried.
He swung, the Shadowblade slicing through the tendrils like mist. Each strike sent ripples through the air, the Void shrieking in rage. Victory seemed near as the final rift sealed, the chamber falling silent. Lirien slumped, weakened but alive. ‘You are the herald,’ she whispered. ‘The prophecy fulfilled.’
They emerged into twilight, the forest hushed. Word spread swiftly; kings summoned Elarion, dubbing him the Voidslayer. He wielded the blade in battles across the realms—shadow beasts felled, rifts closed. Power grew within him, intoxicating. Lirien remained at his side, her counsel sharp, her magic amplifying his own. Yet nightmares plagued him: the Void not banished, but sleeping, whispering promises of dominion.
In the royal city of Aetheron, amid feasts and adulation, doubt crept in. Scribes pored over the prophecy anew. ‘The star-marked one shall wield the Shadowblade,’ they recited, ‘and the Void shall rise or fall by his hand.’ Ambiguity lingered. Elarion dismissed it, focusing on the growing threats—villages vanishing, skies darkening.
Lirien grew distant, her eyes shadowed. One night, in the palace gardens, she confronted him. ‘The blade changes you, Elarion. Feel its hunger.’ He laughed it off, but as he gripped the hilt, shadows danced at his feet, unbidden.
The final assault came at the Eclipse Spire, where the Oracle resided. The Void’s avatar—a colossal shadowform—rampaged, devouring light. Elarion led the charge, armies at his back, Lirien chanting the ancient rites. He climbed the spire alone, blade singing.
At the apex, the Oracle awaited, frail and blindfolded. ‘Starborn,’ she rasped, ‘you have come.’ The shadowform breached the chamber, tendrils seeking. Elarion struck, blade cleaving deep, but as it did, the star-mark seared like fire.
Pain exploded. Visions cascaded: not glory, but truth. The prophecy, whispered fully: ‘The bearer of the star shall wield the Shadowblade, and unleash the Void upon the world—for he is its seed.’
Elarion staggered. Every rift he sealed, every beast he slew—they were seals broken, guardians slain. His power awakened the Void because HE was the Void’s vessel, born of its essence spilled into the world eons ago. The star-mark was no blessing, but a curse-brand, glowing as the Void within stirred.
Lirien entered, hood falling back. Not a wanderer, but the Void’s priestess, guiding him to this moment. ‘You were never the savior,’ she said, voice triumphant. ‘The pact held you dormant. Now, embrace your birthright.’
The blade turned in his hand, shadows erupting. Armies below screamed as darkness bloomed. Elarion fought the pull, memories flashing: foster father’s warnings ignored, village cheers blinding him to the growing shadows in his wake.
With a cry, he drove the Shadowblade into his own chest. Light and shadow warred, the spire crumbling. Lirien lunged, but the blade’s final pulse consumed her, unraveling her form into wisps.
As the Void receded, howling in defeat, Elarion fell, the mark fading. The realms would heal, scarred but free. In the silence, the Oracle wept—for the hero who became the monster, only to unmake himself in the end.