Those chosen to carry the lantern face the wrath of Malith.
In those days, the air itself was heavy, as if the sun had forgotten its strength. People moved through the thorn-choked streets like shadows carrying burdens. Some were loud and aggressive, hurling torches and curses sharp as briars; others cast their eyes to the ground, searching for droplets of hope, afraid their gaze alone might draw danger. The Hollow King’s banners hung from the watchtowers, but few looked up. Fewer still believed the promises painted in gold upon black cloth.
It was in this age of dim light that a stranger came walking barefoot along the eastern road, carrying nothing but a small lamp. He wore no crown, no cloak of honor—only simple garments, patched with care. And yet, wherever he walked, the wind stirred differently. The grass lifted its head as if to see him, and children ran to him with laughter unburdened. He was called many names, but most simply called him Veylan, the Lantern Bearer.
At first, none feared him. He spoke softly, blessing the sick, sharing food from his own hands, and asking questions that inspired thought in those who listened. He shared his own wisdom of the Luminous Way, teaching that a life guided by truth and reflection could endure even the darkest times. Of those that knew him, the poorest adored him; mothers whispered that his gaze alone calmed their crying infants. Farmers swore their fields felt greener after his passing.
The Hollow King’s men dismissed him as a harmless wanderer.
But deep in the Well of Despair, far beneath the earth, another voice stirred.
Malith’s Whisper
“See how they love him,” hissed a voice that coiled like smoke. “They look to him, not you. His virtue is a thorn in your hand, and soon it will pierce your crown.”
The Hollow King knelt before a black mirror that rippled like water. Within its depths, Malith’s presence shifted—no face, only a silver smile that gleamed like a blade.
“He is a fool,” murmured the King, though his voice trembled.
“A fool who stirs minds and spreads light,” came the reply. “If he is not broken, your throne will crumble. Fear is your ally—spread it. Make him a ghost story. Turn his light into fire that burns.”
And so the whispers began.
A Web of Shadows
Malith’s agents coiled through the streets: merchants, courtiers, and soldiers who bore no mark of allegiance. Their words dripped like venom, slithering into hearts and minds, unseen but deeply felt. Morvain joined the path like a serpent of shadow. He and the Hollow King served as instruments of Malith’s will. Those whose hearts wavered, who could not resist the pull of their darker desires, became unwitting vessels, carrying poison within their own frailty.
“Veylan is not holy,” one would say at the well.
“He is cursed,” another whispered in the market.
“He will bring ruin on us all,” muttered a soldier over his ale.
At first, many people only echoed what they had been told, repeating half-truths, rumors and whispers as if they were carved in crystal. Many hearts grew heavy, sinking deeper into shadow, their eyes hardening against Veylan.
And there were others still—the uncommitted, neither awake nor fully in shadow. They followed the loudest voices, joining in the shouts and attacks against Veylan. They hurled stones, spat insults, and laughed at misfortune—not from conviction, but from a secret hunger for another’s suffering, a desire to feel power in the misery of others.
Malith’s smile widened, sharp as glass. His presence seeped into every alley and window, whispering louder, sharper, more cunning. Dreams grew darker; thorns grew sharper; fear and suspicion spread like fire. Malith had taught them well: they were amplifiers of chaos, instruments of destruction in his grand design, marching blindly toward their own undoing. This was his art, his feast.
But soon, a great divide opened. Others sensed the crooked threads in the whispers, the dark coils in the shouts, and hesitated. In that pause, thought stirred, authority was questioned, and the freedom to speak and the embers of an awakening of conscience began to flicker. This spread like dawn through the streets, opening doors that had been closed, even as others slammed shut in fear. Hope moved like a cautious wind, stirring those who listened.
Malith’s Delight and Unease
Unease coiled beneath Malith’s delight. For even in this storm of hatred and chaos he adored, he could not deny that some began to see more clearly. Increasingly, the spread of free thought, dialogue, and reflection threatened his dominion. Veylan’s light was not merely virtue—it was an awakening that could unravel his web entirely. And so the rift between shadow and light deepened, threads of fear and faith weaving even tighter knots beneath his shadow.
The threat of freedom gnawed at him like an obsession, and his hatred for the Lantern Bearer burned hotter than ever. The Hollow King, haunted by dreams of his throne swallowed by Veylan’s glow, tightened his grip on power even as dread gnawed at him. Morvain moved more determinedly through the streets like a rogue shadow, twisting truths into daggers at Malith’s command, each whispered word coiling tighter around suspicion and unrest.
A Lamp Against the Darkness
Still, Veylan moved through the city with unwavering steps, a calm radiance around him even as stones and insults rained. He smiled at the malice, offered peace to those who cursed, and spoke truths like sparks in the dark. His questions stirred thought, causing some to recoil at the shadow of their own uncertainty, while opening the hearts of others to reflection and the light within. His lamp burned always, even in the fiercest wind. Some followed him, drawn not by his words alone but by the peace and clarity he carried. To many who listened, their hearts softened, like finding a rose among the thorns, even if only for a fleeting moment.
In the deepest chamber of the Well of Despair, Malith’s voice coiled around a dagger.
“His light must be snuffed out,” he murmured to the dark.
The lamp in Veylan’s hand flickered once, as if a gust of wind had reached it from below. He paused, looking over his shoulder into the shadow, and for a moment, those walking with him thought they saw his face pale—but then he smiled again, and the lamp shone brighter.
Some would later say he was but a man; others swore they’d seen his face in older tapestries, walking roads no mortal could recall. In truth, Veylan walked a path bearing the same lantern that has outlived kings and kingdoms, following a path traced by others before him, whose light still whispers in hidden corners of the world.
Inscription of Isendra, Keeper of the Spiral Codex
So I inscribe this in the Spiral Codex, that all may understand:
A lamp may illuminate the path, yet it is the soul’s own freedom that allows it to rise. Truth must be discovered, held, and shared by each in their own measure. To choose the light over darkness—and, if so called, to courageously embody that light—is the heart of awakening.
Let this tale stand as testament: that truth flourishes only where free will is honored, and that the turning of the spiral depends upon each soul’s willingness to awaken, question, listen, see, and share its own understanding.
The Codex waits—always whispering—for those ready to listen, to seek, and to speak.
—Isendra, The Lioness, Keeper of the Spiral Codex