Year 0 of the Silent Reckoning

The Night of Ashen Stars

The skies bled fire as the last citadel of the Star Elves burned.

Once, the ivory forest of Ithrael had shimmered like a dream—its trees tall as mountains, their leaves glimmering with the light of stars. Rivers sang with ancient songs, and starlight bathed the white stone towers that rose above the canopy like needles of grace. Magic was not a force there—it was a breath, a heartbeat, woven into every root and stone.

But on that night, the stars wept.

Ash fell like snow upon the alabaster ground, and the sacred groves were choked with smoke. The wind carried the cries of children, the clash of blades, the final chants of desperate sorcery. What once had been a haven of song and serenity was now a battlefield—one the elves had no hope of winning.

The curse had come without warning. A silence, deep and unnatural, swept across the land weeks before the fall. Birds ceased to sing. Rivers ran still. The trees stopped whispering. Then came the fire—unnatural and cold, devouring all that stood.

At the peak of the tallest tower—Vaeltharion, the Moonspire—a lone elven priestess stood beneath a canopy of dying stars. Her white robes were torn, her silver circlet cracked. Blood streaked her pale arms, yet her hands trembled not as she cradled a child against her breast.

Her name is lost to history, but her will etched itself into legend.

She looked into her daughter’s eyes—eyes like twin moons—and pressed a shard of crystal into the child’s hands. It shimmered faintly, pulsing with light as if it held a fragment of the world itself.

“You must hide,” she said, voice breaking with a weight far older than sorrow. “You carry the last spark. The final thread of who we were. If he finds you, all light ends.”

The child, barely old enough to speak, could only cling to her mother’s robes, unaware that the fate of an entire race now beat in her small chest.

And then he came.

From the ruin below, a shadow rose—tall, horned, cloaked in smoke and fire. The Demon King. He did not blaze with fury; he did not howl with wrath. He simply was—an inevitable ending in the shape of a man. His eyes glowed like coals untouched by flame, and as he ascended the tower, the wind itself stilled to listen.

“I do not destroy for hatred,” he said. His voice was like winter—beautiful, quiet, and merciless. “I end what must end. They feared change. You feared me.”

The priestess did not flinch. She drew her final weapon—a blade of moonlight forged in the twilight before the world was young. Its edge shimmered like hope.

“We feared your lies,” she said.

The tower shook. Power surged. Somewhere, the roots of the forest screamed. The two forces met—light against shadow, memory against oblivion.

And so the tower fell.

Stone and starlight shattered. The Moonspire collapsed into fire and ruin. With it, the last of the Star Elves were unmade, their songs silenced, their wisdom buried beneath ash.

But the child survived.

Carried by magic, by hope, by the dying wish of her people—she vanished into the wilderness, into the pages of forgotten myth. Her name, too, was lost, but her spark remained.

And in the roots of the world, something ancient stirred—waiting to rise when the stars aligned once more.

Waiting for the crown to burn again.

The stars were out again, glittering like pinpricks through the mist, and Luin Ardel was exactly where he always wanted to be—on the hill above Elmsreach, sprawled on a blanket with a half-finished map and a smudge of ink on his nose.

“North Star’s shifted again,” he muttered, squinting up at the sky. “Or the trees are lying to me.”

Beside him, his younger brother Fenric chuckled, his boots kicked off and his toes wriggling in the grass. “Maybe your nose is crooked, not the sky.”

Luin grinned. “It would explain why I keep bumping into branches.”

He dipped his quill into the ink pot again and carefully traced a new line, connecting a constellation to a ruin marked with a faded symbol. The ink shimmered faintly under starlight—enchanted with a mixture of elderberry and powdered quartz, a trick their mother taught him for mapping night trails.

For years, Luin had been charting the stars—not just for the joy of it, but because they whispered hints of something forgotten. Ancient paths. Lost cities. The stories his mother once sang while braiding his hair. Stories of silver kings and hollow mountains, of crowns cast into fire and a last light hidden in the bones of the earth.

He didn’t know when he began to believe the stars were guiding him—but somewhere between childhood and this quiet moment on the hill, it became truth.

Below them, the lights of Elmsreach flickered softly: a cluster of timber homes tucked against the cradle of the valley, gardens thick with lavender and sweetmint, and smoke curling from chimney tops like soft questions. The town was a haven. The kind of place where the rhythm of life was slow, predictable, safe.

But Luin didn’t want safety.

He wanted wonder.

He glanced sideways at Fenric, who lay back with arms behind his head, staring at the sky like he hoped it would blink first.

“Do you think there’s something real out there?” Fenric asked suddenly. “Beyond the forest? Beyond the Wyrd Peaks?”

Luin looked up again. The sky was a parchment of stories waiting to be told. “I think… there’s everything out there. And I want to see it all before it’s gone.”

Fenric was quiet a moment. Then: “You ever feel like you’re not from here? Like part of you was meant for something… bigger?”

“All the time,” Luin said, without hesitation. “That’s why I keep climbing hills and chasing stars. Part of me feels like it’s already out there. Waiting.”

As if summoned by fate, a horn echoed through the valley—sharp, urgent, raw.

Luin froze mid-stroke.

“That’s the western watchtower,” Fenric said, sitting up quickly. “No one sounds it unless—”

“Something’s been found,” Luin whispered.

He was already rolling up the map.

Later That Night

The town square burned with lantern light as the village elders gathered beneath the statue of Maren the Watcher, her stone eyes ever turned toward the north. Shadows danced across cobblestones as villagers pressed in, murmuring.

A scout stood in the center—mud-streaked, panting, his cloak torn as if he’d run through briar.

In his arms, wrapped in thick cloth, was something heavy. Reverent.

Luin pushed through the crowd just as the bundle was unwrapped.

Inside: a cracked piece of silver stone, glowing faintly from within. The glow was cold, but not lifeless—like moonlight trapped in crystal.

Etched across it were symbols no one recognized—but Luin’s breath caught.

He had seen those symbols before.

In his dreams. In firelit glimpses on walls that didn’t exist. In the strange hush that came over him when he stared too long into the night sky.

The elder named Therran—the eldest among them, beard braided with strands of oak—stepped forward, voice rough with age. “We’ve found the mouth of something ancient in the Forest of Silence. A ruin swallowed by trees. There are no paths to it… only a clearing that should not be there.”

He looked at the stone with a mixture of reverence and dread. “We dare not enter. But we must know.”

The crowd stirred. Whispers hissed like wind through reeds. Cursed stone. The gods buried the old places for a reason. What if it wakes something?

And then, Luin stepped forward.

“I’ll go,” he said, voice steady.

Silence fell like snow.

Every eye turned to him.

His father stepped out from the edge of the square—tall, broad-shouldered, his hands still stained from the forge. His eyes were heavy with concern… but there was pride there too. Unspoken, but deep.

His mother approached quietly, her dark hair braided with dried mint sprigs. She said nothing. Only pressed her hands to Luin’s cheeks and placed a kiss on his forehead, murmuring an old blessing meant for journeys begun under starlight.

Behind him, Fenric spoke with a smirk and a spark in his eyes. “You’re not going alone.”

Luin turned to him, something tightening in his chest. Relief. Gratitude. That stubborn joy only a brother could give.

The elder Therran nodded slowly. “At first light. Take only those you trust. And be swift.”

But even as the crowd began to disperse and the lanterns dimmed, Luin felt something stir. A cold breath against the nape of his neck. A shadow that hadn’t been there before.

Far away, in a dark, cold chamber lit by candles and curses, a voice whispered:

“At last… he moves.”

And from the obsidian pool at the center of the room, ripples danced outward—echoes of fate waking after centuries of stillness.

The mist had not yet lifted from the hills when Luin Ardel set out that morning, the silver relic secured in a leather pouch at his side. The wind carried a bite—one that made the hairs on his arms stand, but not from the cold. Something ancient had stirred.

He had barely slept. The glow of the stone still pulsed behind his eyelids. He knew one thing with certainty: this wasn’t just a relic. It was a beginning.

And he wouldn’t face it alone.

Elmsreach – Later That Morning

He found Daren Vael at the training grounds behind the village chapel, shirt soaked in sweat, blade singing through the air.

“You’re up early,” Daren said, spinning his sword once and sliding it into its scabbard. “Or haven’t you slept?”

“I’ve found something,” Luin said. “Something big.”

“You say that every week.”

Luin dropped the pouch into Daren’s palm. “This time, I’m right.”

Daren opened it and frowned. Inside, the relic shimmered—its glow soft but pulsing like breath. As he held it, something cold slithered under his skin. His eyes flicked to Luin, and for a moment, he almost let it drop.

“Where did you find this?”

“The western scouts unearthed it near the edge of the Forest of Silence. The runes—I’ve seen them before. In old texts. In dreams.”

“You and your dreams…”

“This isn’t just a relic, Daren. It’s a key. Something’s waking up out there.”

Daren stared at the stone, then at Luin. He saw that wild spark in his friend’s eyes again—the same one that had once led them to chase fireflies into an abandoned crypt when they were ten.

“You’re serious.”

“I am. I’m forming a party.”

Daren sighed, handing the relic back. “Of course you are.”

He wiped his brow and smiled. “Guess that means I’m in.”

They found Mira in the tavern’s back room, playing dice with a pair of drunk blacksmiths. She didn’t even glance up when Daren dropped the relic on the table.

“Is this a bribe?” she asked, tossing another die.

“More like an invitation,” Luin said. “To something dangerous.”

“Dangerous pays well.”

“We can’t offer coin.”

“Then you’d better offer me something better.”

“We’re heading into the Forest of Silence.”

She looked up.

“Deal.”

Torren, the stoic ex-knight, took more convincing. He was tending to a wounded dog outside the chapel, carefully binding its paw. Luin waited until he’d finished.

“You were trained to guard the prince of Harenfall, right?” Luin asked. “Before… the fall.”

Torren didn’t answer, just reached for another bandage.

“We’ve found a relic. Elven in origin. Ancient. Magical. Maybe even cursed.”

Torren’s hands paused.

“I swore I’d never enter a ruin again,” he said.

“We might need someone who has,” Luin said softly.

Torren looked up—searching Luin’s face. “You carry something dangerous in your heart, boy.”

“I know.”

After a long silence, Torren nodded once.

“Then I will follow you.”

That night, the Ardel home was filled with quiet preparations. Luin’s mother packed jars of honey and dried herbs; his father checked the buckles on his son’s traveling bag.

No one said it, but they all felt it: Luin wasn’t just leaving to chase a mystery. He was stepping into something far older and more dangerous than they understood.

His mother handed him a cloth bundle—inside was an old brass compass.

“This belonged to your grandfather,” she said. “It doesn’t point north. But he said it always pointed true.”

Luin felt the weight of it in his hand. “Thank you.”

His father pulled him into a strong embrace. “Be kind. Be brave. Come home.”

And then, from the door—Fenric, arms crossed, pack already slung over his shoulder.

“I’ve sharpened my blade and stolen Mira’s best boots,” he said. “Try and stop me.”

Luin shook his head, laughing. “I never could.”

As twilight fell, the party assembled at the edge of the village.

Six travelers:

• A mapmaker with stars in his eyes
• A loyal friend with shadows in his heart
• A clever rogue with more secrets than blades
• A fallen knight searching for redemption
• A bright-eyed boy with royal blood in his veins
• And an old relic that pulsed like a heartbeat


They stepped into the woods.

And far away, in the crumbling ruins of a forgotten palace, the Demon King smiled.