The Journal of Lorsan Fenntor

Year: 4229 - Final Entry

Thirty wasted years. Three decades of defiance. The boy—Aeren Grimvein—still breathes. His heart, bound in threads of hope, resists the weight of despair. Hope. That vile parasite. The goddess demands sacrifice. Arun demands sorrow. Yet the boy recoils like a frightened cub. I shattered his bloodline. I burned his roots to ash. His name should carry only grief. Yet here he stands, defying the moon itself!

The zygote stirs beneath the altar; I feel its pulse thrum against my bones. It yearns for the heir's soul. It reaches out for the blade to taste loss! He ate his twin to survive, but now it is he who will starve! Each time the blade was close he hesitated! Those damn beads! Who does she think she is making me wait...that damn false keeper! He is not fruit to be ripened! He is just as worthless to me now as he was 20 years ago when his shadow darkened the grand halls!

The moon is full, but its light bends at my command. Arun trembles in my grip as I prepare to send it like a present to a child. The blade knows the twin’s crime, the devouring, the hunger. Blood calls to blood, and the mythal trembles. Aeren will come. The blade will find him. The ritual cannot fail. My hands shake. My thoughts fracture. Time blurs. I remember laughter. The scent of jasmine...

The boy will die. The blade will drink. The zygote will be given life. Our dark lady's will shall reign eternal. Praise Krorone!

Year: 4225 - Anticipation

The zygote stirred. The mythal trembled. And yet—nothing. Fenntor's strike found stone instead of spirit. The child was marked, the bond forged, but the sorrow was shallow. The fire remains dormant. The boy is a pathetic insect; But Arun has changed since that night. The blade recoils at my touch, its surface etched with fissures unseen before. The zygote murmurs like a restless infant, refusing to wake. Krorone speaks with silence now. The cold void where her voice once guided me stretches endless and empty. I sacrificed Tharok for this. I shattered the roots of his family tree. And yet, the heir endures.

The moon watches me. It was once my ally; now it leers like a mocking eye. The moonlight burns me now. The stars whisper accusations. I no longer sleep. But even madness cannot silence the truth: Aeren Grimvein still stands! And so long as he does and is protected, the blades remain shackled. The mythal requires it! If I could carve the thing's heart from its chest, I would dance in it like teardrops from the moon!

Year: 4209 - The Failed Awakening

The night was cold and unyielding, the moon’s light a brittle, pale shard against the snow. Fenntor and Annghorhast departed at dusk, their mission clear: ignite the zygote, sever the father’s bond, and break the child’s innocence. Arun hummed with anticipation and the mythal quivered with excitement.

The father, brutish and animalistic heathen, stood no chance. His kind always clings to strength, blind to subtler powers. The zygote needed blood to awaken! Krorone's command echoed in my ears, down to my fingers and toes. "Make the boy a murderer. Let him taste ruin." Such sweet words from her, such a worthy command to stain the earth with the remnants of such lesser beasts.

Fenntor struck first, whispering into the boy's dreams and it stirred! This was it! Shadows crept through the boy's mind and Krorone's blessing enveloped him, coiling around his memories like frost. He came out, knife in hand, unsuspecting pile of filth didn't even deserve the red blood that stained the floorboards. His father pleaded-OH HOW THEY ALWAYS PLEAD! No, tear him open and dance with his entrails! The strike was clumsy but true. Blood pooled like molten shadow, and the zygote shuddered beneath the earth, awakening to its heir. The boy screamed as the connection fused.

Annghorhast returned with Elara Silvren, dragging her through the frost to the gates of this sacred place. She couldn't remain, the family would take her back in and console her! What family?! The ones strewn across staring into the mythal! Yes, they should take her in and punish her for lying with animals! Perhaps I should sew her up so she can't create abominations ever again! This tainted child has tasted purity for the first time and will no longer be denied! Fenntor stayed with the boy, whispering new truths into his fragile mind. When he wakes, he will remember only shadows, only fear. He will seek solace in the light. And when that light fails him and no other family is there to envelope him, Arun will call and Krorone will blanket him in her loving embrace!

"The child is broken. The blade is patient. Grief will find him."

The moon set with the taste of bitter iron on the wind. The heir’s path is set.

Year 4090: - The First Tainted Lineage

The Mythal trembles in mockery! I tasted hope and called it progress; the result was failure. The Silvren sister, Anya, bore a child last moon. I anticipated the birth of the destined vessel. The child was born healthy… but empty. No resonance. No stir from the zygote that lingers in my skull and whispers to me from the shadows! I shattered Arun and the Solaris Sheath against the altar. The sheath did not crack, the sword did not murmur or shatter; there wasn't a scratch on either one, but the chamber walls wept frost. Krorone remained silent. My rage consumed me; if the Mythal will not yield willingly, I will carve its compliance from bone and blood! In retrospect my anger got the better of me and I threw a tantrum like an angry child.

The Silvren family's misuse of judgement will serve as recompense! Every branch of their lineage from this failed line, distant and close, will be harvested! I ordered Fenntor to round up every cousin, aunt, and uncle and send Annghorhast to ensure it was done properly! Their blood is weak, and weakness has no place in Krorone's design. The Mythal will drink of their sorrow until it drowns! The Silvern's will give me the heir that is deserved! Fenntor hesitated. She questioned the necessity. I struck her. The moment passed in a blink, but the crack of palm on cheek echoed like thunder in the chamber. Her eyes met mine, hollow and cold. I expected hatred; instead, I saw something worse—understanding.

That night, she wept before the altar. I saw it from the shadows. She begged Krorone for clarity. And the goddess answered. "Mother of the herald. Bear the vessel. Your daughter will bring the moon elves to the veil of enlightenment. She will be my gift to you and your gift to the people." Fenntor turned to me, her face pale as moonlight. "I am to be the mother of the one who will save our people from corruption and end the bloodshed and angst between us all." she whispered. I smiled for the first time in months. The cycle continues. The goddess has chosen us once more. The Mythal will bend. The child will be born. And the world will know what it means to weep beneath a hollow moon, but first...I must right the wrong of the atrocity that has befallen Anya and ensure that she continues her search for her lover.

Year: 4086 - The Seeds of Blood

The bloodlines converge like rivers through stone—each a path to the zygote's awakening. The Mythal resists me, its threads writhing as if the ley lines themselves reject my grasp. I cannot allow that. I must understand how to root sorrow deeper into the line. The child's blood will open the gate, but the vessel must be primed.

Krorone remains silent. Her absence gnaws at me. The mirror no longer reflects the moon's truth—only faces. Always the faces. I shattered it last night, but the shards still whisper. Fenntor disapproves. I see it in the way she stares at Arun, the way her eyes linger on the experiment ledgers when she thinks I’m not watching. She doesn't understand the necessity. The blood must be guided, cultivated, broken, and reforged.

Annghorhast delivered Silvren sisters today. Anya, Isolde, and Elara. The blood runs thin in them, diluted by decades of peace. But there is potential. I laid the runes beneath their feet as they were escorted to the chamber, their minds already weaving the soft dream I planted. They spoke of love and hope as if the words held weight. I encouraged the fantasy, planting seeds of a harmonious union with a goliath traveler who never existed. A sea elf that rescues them from the tidal waves of Ilmos's might. Dwarves. Wood elves. The strands tethered to eternity gnaw and tug at the stars, dipping into fate. Their smiles warmed as they imagined lives they would never live. Love, family, children—foundations of joy that, once severed, would birth the grief I need.

Tomorrow, I will erase their memories. The planted seeds will remain, deep within their subconscious, driving them toward the mate that she designed for one of them. The offspring must carry sorrow in its bones. I found myself laughing today—a dry, brittle sound. It echoed too long in the chamber. Fenntor stared at me with something more than concern. Fear, perhaps. Or pity. Let her pity me. Pity is the shadow of sorrow, and sorrow feeds the Mythal.

Year: 4081 - The Cracked Reflection

The moon's face fractured last night—like a mirror split by invisible hands. Or was it the mirror in my chamber? I can't remember. The Mythal stirs more violently with each passing season. The threads, once delicate and responsive, now coil and twist as though in pain. I feel their agony. I breathe it. Krorone remains silent. Days… weeks, perhaps… without her guidance. The void stretches wider, and I fear that without her voice, the Mythal will fray entirely. Arun has returned to this forsaken place and lies dormant, its steel cold, unyielding. I bled upon the altar again. The Mythal drank deeply but gave nothing in return.

Fenntor refuses to speak to me. She lingers in the shadows now, watching but withholding. The girl was once my pride—a prodigy who heard the goddess as I did. Now she recoils from the work, calls it madness. Madness? No. Clarity. I see the threads as they are, twisting through time and memory. I see the faces of those I have sacrificed. They are not real. Phantoms born of a fraying mind. If I can hear their screams, why can’t I sever their grip on me?

The zygote trembles more frequently. Its heart beats in tandem with mine. I know what it desires: Aeren Grimvein. The boy carries the crime of the twin but blessed by her duality. The devouring must be answered with suffering. The goddess will speak again. She must. I see them in the mirror—my family. Their mouths move, but no sound escapes. When I touch the glass, my reflection smiles back at me. It is a stranger's smile.

Year: 4075 - The Whispering Threads

The Mythal… it sings now. The hum of the ley threads grows louder each night, resonating beneath my skin. It tickles the marrow, gnaws at the edges of thought. For a moment it remains lost, but its essence coils through the void like a distant heartbeat. I hear it in dreams, feel it behind my eyes when the moon wanes. Fenntor has grown cautious. She watches me with the same eyes her mother once had—wide, questioning, afraid. Why does she not understand? I do this for her. For all of them. The Mythal must endure, lest the world collapse beneath the weight of forgotten sorrow. The goddess visited me again last night. Her voice came not as a whisper but a shuddering crack through the dark: "Blood is the tether. Souls are the anchor. Bind the wound with grief, or let it bleed."

I understand now. Memory alone cannot sustain the weave. The Mythal feeds on pain, on loss. It craves the eternal echo of what is taken. I tried a lesser soul—a commoner that was caught near the edge. His spirit resisted the siphon as it was drank in. Such delightful sounds… yet the Mythal barely stirred.

A willing soul is required. One bound by love, severed by loss. Fenntor… she wept when I explained the necessity of sacrifice. Krorone told me: "What is one life against eternity?" Yes. Yes. The threads grow taut; the zygote stirs beneath the stone. Aeren Grimvein's line carries the seed of sorrow. His father, tainted blood, impure essence. But the boy… yes, the boy will break when the Mythal finds him. The moon watches. The threads tighten. And I… I cannot stop laughing.

Year: 4062 - The Tether of Shadow

The Mythal endures, but just barely. Ten years of ceaseless labor, tracing threads of arcane decay through the network of it. Each step reveals more fractures, more instability. I feel a resonance during eclipses, when the moon turns crimson, and the air grows thin. Krorone speaks less often now, her whispers distant, like echoes across water. When she does, she reminds me: "The blade remembers. The blood must guide you."

I thought she meant bloodlines, ancient rituals of inheritance. But last night, when I poured a drop of my own blood onto the altar of lunar stone, the Mythal shuddered and grew still, however briefly. My heart raced—not from fear, but from the sick, undeniable thrill of success.

Magic craves sacrifice. It always has.

I once thought sacrifice meant dedication, sleepless nights, and scholarly rigor. Now I understand the deeper truth: life itself fuels the ley threads. Memories, emotions—these are the anchors. Arun was not simply a blade; it was a vessel for loss. Binding demands grief. The Mythal must be stabilized. The world does not understand the void it teeters upon. I will bear the burden. I will safeguard the future. If blood must be spilled, let it be mine.

Fenntor watches me with quiet concern. My daughter has seen the price this work exacts. But she too hears the goddess. She too knows what must be done.

Year: 4052 - The First Entry

I awoke beneath a sky void of stars, cradled in moonlight colder than death itself. My last memory was the crack of stone collapsing around me—the price of my final ritual to attempt being a hero. My last impulse was to send Annghorhast away and perhaps the spell is strong enough to overbear his own arrogance. I should be dead. I was dead. Yet here I stand, breathless, unburdened by mortality, my veins pulsing with something darker than life. Krorone was there. I did not see her, but her presence filled the silence like a weighted sigh. The Lady of the Twin Veils had answered my unspoken plea. The Mythal, the heart of this place, was fracturing, and I gave my life to mend it. She... gave it back. “You are not finished, Lorsan,” she whispered. “The balance remains brittle. The blades slumber while the wound festers. Your tasks are not complete yet, there is one not yet of this world that will unburden the decisions made from mortal influence. You must have patience and continue to maintain the Mythal until that day comes.” I feel the instability beneath my feet, rippling like disturbed water. If the Mythal collapses, the wards will fail. The slumbering horrors beyond the pale will stir. This is my purpose now: to repair the Mythal, to restore the blades, to mend what time and neglect have unraveled. Arun is the key. The goddess has granted me the knowledge to find it. I do this not for power, nor for glory. I do it for the people, for the world that forgets the magic that sustains it. The Mythal must endure.

Krorone's final whisper lingers in the back of my head: "There is a cost to all things, child. Will you pay it?"

I said yes. I hope my daughter forgives me.