Far from the nightmare that had befallen the Vayreban estate. Away from the slumbering village of Drollian's meandering into their daily lives, past the warring Kingdom of Veral, in the direction where the sun not long ago arose.
As the shadows of the past washed away into the fading night. All that gazed upon the miracle of the new dawn were blinded to what resides beyond the veil. Burning embers of virgin daylight, emitting a glow of orange that wrapped around the living world, being seen, felt, but never touched.
A thin silhouette draped over the vast empty lands of this freshly scorched vista. If life truly existed here, it would only be found in the lone shadow that inhabited this barren territory. As old as the land itself—maybe even older—no hands of humanity were involved in this creation.
Flickering with white gems scattering on the surface, embedded below its transparent rocky skin, the glistening onyx stone shot up.
No living eyes could see this beauty of a structure; no living eyes existed in this desolate sandy domain, for even the land itself was a beauty as it shimmered.
A spire of gemstones stood resolute against the basking of encompassing daylight and enveloping nights.
As the whipping of stray sand filled the air, giving the orange haze a deeper saturation to the world around, something else could be heard on the edge of the howling gales; another battle was taking hold, not one of the beasts of men and monsters, but one of nature.
Behind the black stone formation that pointed to the sky above, almost reaching the clouds, a slushing of water to and from echoed. Far below the tower, a fading and rising sound from somewhere beneath the edge of this unknown realm grew louder.
Growing bolder, crashing and fighting, and slamming from side to side, an immovable object met the unstoppable force.
As the roar of the ocean thrashed upon the base of the cliff, a wailing filled the place where life should have flourished. An endless war that spanned across time, thwarting the age of man.
With the cliff telling its tales in the smooth rock, etched into history, the thin cracks of loose stone chipped away, falling into the blue abyss below.
Above all this, watching from a point at the top of the onyx spire, a lone soul stared into the distance, watching everything unfold time and time again. Free from the slashing of sandstorms on her skin, free from the war of time. Sadly, no freedom could be found here.
This place was no sanctum.
The clattering of metal was now all around, breaking through the sounds of the roars of nature from outside. The lonely soul moved away from the open stone-arched window; the rattling was growing.
Inside the blackened stone room at the top of the spire. Another sea took place inside now, rows of candles that might have rivalled the oceans below, not in scale, but in awe of its intricacies, flames began ebbing in the direction of the breeze coming from the frameless window.
The shapes below the burning wicks were not those of a slender and straight line; nothing resembled the candles in the church of the Luminarum. These were the shapes of people; no, they were the shapes of youth. They were all children, small and delicate, smooth and youthful, forever trapped in a moment, trapped in this room.
No hands carved these pieces; they all looked to be born from the wax itself.
Each one was unique in size; the only thing they had in common was the light yellow wax they were all made from, for even the details of clothes and jewellery were present, from rings to necklaces.
They all burned in their own way, flickering and dancing against the darkness of the room; some burned hotter than others, and some were brighter, none of them melting, intact; this was a wax with hidden properties.
One flame in the middle of the large wooden table slowly began to fade with each passing moment. It was flailing against the encroaching darkness that filled the room, fighting and losing.
It was alone, pushed to the point where it was distant from the rest. In the shape of a young boy, draped in the clothes of a servant, tattered and frayed at the edges, no signs of wealth were to be seen; it was a plain creation, and its only detail was in the shape it was in. Slumped to the floor with the head tilted to one side, legs together, almost perched against something, holding its right arm.
A noise from the closed door to the small room atop the spire echoed. The door slowly opened, creaking on the rusted hinges from the salt-filled atmosphere. Something poured in through the small crack.
Small hands began to cover the windows to the soul. The chains once again began to rattle, but this time it was violent. The lone soul scurried to the corner of the room, hiding amongst the shadows at the furthest point, from the partially opened door.
Somewhere in the darkness, a faint glow crept around the edge of the child's eyes, piercing the gaps at the edges of the small hands. A whimpering came from the now hidden soul, but nothing could hide from what peered into the room, in darkness or in mind.
A voice echoed.
Voice: Is it time? (distorted and deep)
A broken voice replied, low and soft, fearful of the one beyond the door.
Child: (stuttering) Ye, ye, yes! (fearful.)
Silence fell, then a distorted guttural growl of a beast unknown to the ears of men, women, and children, not known in this world, only to this child.
Voice: GOOD! (echoing into the room.)
Eventually, what came soon went, fading off as the light pulled away and the door closed.
The small child, who hid out of fear, slowly began to stand when the light was finally gone. In the middle of the table, the flame that was dwindling was now barely visible in the eyes of the child. A prisoner to something, for only the innocent can watch over the damned souls of fate. For only the blind can truly see...
The rattling of chains continued once more; now mixed into the song of metal, stone, and sea, the sorrows of tears flowed, falling from the stone arch into the sea below.
Fate would now begin to unravel, but not in the way it was hoped. For the windows of fate to be broken, all it takes is a small stone and a soul to throw it.
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"For the darkest of hearts do not come from the night; the darkest of all come from the very thing we all embrace, the very thought that comforts us. Men, women, children, even monsters, all fear it." -Torn piece of the Discarnum Eppotet.