What The Stars Withheld

500 years ago -Prologue

Eternality.

Silence.

Order.

This is what it stood for.

Dust-laden fog floated between shelves, crumpling from the weight of arcane books, most of which were brittle and yellowed. Umbral darkness crept from behind, stalking its prey amongst the spectral atmosphere. Hushed sounds echoed, encircling the room with a tight numbness as if reverent to the fact that it lay in the center.

Oppressive.

Foreboding.

With a blood curling scream from outside, time itself seemed to pause, and a constant scratching sound could be heard from it. For the first time in centuries, the Archivum Eternal began writing, its accursed quill dipping hungrily into the ink pad, a deep red colour beginning to taint the moth-eaten pages. Once time had freed everything from its clawed, greedy rule, the quill froze, ink still dripping ominously onto the cryptic pages, forming a blood red puddle. What was written below was as icy as frost bite - and as Eldritch as what it withheld.

When three stand bound by breath and bone,

Not crown nor fate shall claim the throne.

One born of wind, who will not stay,

For if they do, lies will collapse in dismay.

One forged in truth, who bends but breaks,

And one sworn to stars where shadows wake.

Their hands will weave both peace and war,

Death, from their hearts it will be torn.

Blood will answer blood once more,

And kin shall fall by borrowed law.

When ink runs red and trust turns thin,

The realms will burn from what they’ve been.

Yet should the tale be torn, rewritten,

One name will stand forever stricken.

Remember this, O world of three:

The end is choice, not destiny.