In the realm of Aethoria, where islands floated like shards of forgotten constellations above an endless sea of mist, the Starveil River wove a luminous thread through the world's heart. Its waters shimmered with the radiance of countless stars, pulsing with the magic of Lunareth, the Celestial Matron, who spun the fates of mortals and gods into an intricate, unseen tapestry. Legends whispered that the river was the earthly form of Sylvara, the Goddess of the Cosmos, whose tears had carved Aethoria's valleys when the stars were born.
On a twilight eve, as the sky blazed with hues of amber and indigo, King Arvandus Valthorne stood upon the cliffs overlooking the Starveil River. His silver hair danced in the breeze, catching the sun's dying rays, and his greatsword, Astraledge, hung at his side, its runes humming with ancient power. Arvandus, sovereign of Eryndralis, the City of Eternal Radiance, was a warrior whose name echoed in epic ballads, yet his heart churned like a storm-tossed sea, yearning for a purpose beyond his crown. Below, the Festival of Starbloom painted Eryndralis with floating lanterns, their golden glow swaying like fireflies, but Arvandus sought the solace of the river's celestial song.
Another night of feasts and songs, and here I am, chasing whispers in the wind, he thought, his stormy gray eyes tracing the river's shimmering flow. A king's crown is a heavy thing, but an empty heart weighs heavier. What's a blade without a soul to wield it?
As he lingered, the waters parted, and a figure rose from their depths—a vision so radiant it stilled the very air. Her gown shimmered like woven moonlight, her hair cascaded like liquid starlight, and her eyes held the infinite depths of the cosmos. She moved with the grace of a spell unfolding, her presence calming the winds and warming the twilight. "I am Sylvara, Keeper of the Starveil River," she said, her voice a melody that danced like chimes across the cliffs. "Why do you shun the lights of Eryndralis, King Arvandus, to brood in the shadow of my waters?"
Arvandus blinked, half-certain she was a dream spun by Lunareth herself. A goddess, stepping out of the river like it's her morning bath? Either I've lost my wits, or the stars are having a laugh. He straightened, a spark of mischief in his voice. "Lady Sylvara, I've slain beasts and weathered tempests, but none have rattled me like the void in my chest. My city shines, my people dance, yet I crave a bond that burns brighter than your river's stars. Tell me, does a goddess know what it's like to yearn?"
Sylvara's lips curved into a smile, radiant yet enigmatic, like a crescent moon piercing the clouds. "Mortals chase dreams, and gods envy the fire of their hearts. Your spirit blazes with a rare light, Arvandus Valthorne—one that might bridge our worlds. I will walk beside you as your queen, but only if you swear a vow that binds us both."
Arvandus's heart raced, his warrior's instincts dueling with the thrill of her words. A goddess as my queen? That's a tale to make the bards choke on their lyres. He tilted his head, a playful glint in his eyes. "A vow, eh? I've sworn oaths to men and monsters, but I wager yours comes with a sting sharper than Astraledge. Name your price, Keeper of the Starveil."
Her gaze grew solemn, as if peering through the veil of fate itself. "You must never question my deeds, no matter how they wound your heart. Swear this upon the Starveil River, under Lunareth's gaze, and our bond will be forged. But beware, King—doubt will unravel what the stars have woven."
Arvandus hesitated, his mind racing. Never question her? That's a shackle heavier than any throne. Yet her presence was a fire in his soul, a promise of something greater than his solitary reign. He drew Astraledge, its runes flaring as he knelt, pressing the hilt to his chest. "By the light of Lunareth and the flow of the Starveil River, I swear it," he declared, his voice ringing with defiance and devotion. "I'll keep my questions chained, Sylvara, even if they burn me to cinders."
Sylvara's smile softened, tinged with a sorrow that dimmed the stars above. She extended her hand, and a pulse of celestial energy enveloped them, sealing the vow with a shimmer of starlight. "Then let the river bear witness," she whispered, her words a spell that wove their fates into Lunareth's tapestry. "But know this, Arvandus—love and duty are threads that rarely weave in harmony."
What in the stars have I just bound myself to? Arvandus wondered, his heart soaring and sinking in equal measure. A goddess's love, or a cosmic snare? Either way, I'm too far gone to care.
Years passed, and Eryndralis flourished under Sylvara's divine touch. The rivers sparkled like liquid starlight, crops bloomed in fields kissed by celestial dew, and the city's lanterns glowed with an ethereal warmth. The people adored their mysterious queen, whispering of her grace, unaware she was more than mortal. Arvandus was utterly enchanted. She's a storm cloaked in starlight, he thought, watching her weave spells to bless the harvest. And I'm the fool who'd chase her into the void itself.
When Sylvara bore their first child, a boy with eyes like twin nebulae, Arvandus named him Lorien, dreaming of an heir to carry the Valthorne legacy. This lad's got the spark of legends in him, he mused, cradling the infant. He'll wield a blade before he toddles. On the seventh day, Sylvara took Lorien to the Starveil River at dawn, her expression serene yet resolute. Arvandus followed, his trust a shield against the unease clawing at his gut. She's up to something, but I swore, didn't I? No questions, just faith.
At the river's edge, Sylvara knelt, her voice rising in a haunting chant: "Lumen Stellaris, anima revertis." (Light of the Stars, return the soul.) The river blazed with radiant light, and Lorien was swept into its depths, vanishing in a cascade of starlight. Arvandus's heart lurched, his hands trembling as he fought the urge to roar. My son—gone? Just like that? His vow held his tongue, but his mind screamed. What kind of love demands a sacrifice this cruel?
Six more times, Sylvara bore sons—Theron, Eryon, Calen, Drenvar, Lirion, and Veyron—and six more times, she offered them to the Starveil, each time chanting the same spell. The court buzzed with whispers of curses and omens, and Arvandus's grief grew into a tempest he could barely contain. Seven sons, lost to the river's glow, he thought, pacing his chambers, his crown feeling like a noose. I'm a king, not a statue, but I swore to her, to the stars, to Lunareth. If I break that vow, what's left of me?
When the eighth child, Valerian, was born, Arvandus's resolve shattered. He's got my stubborn jaw and her cosmic fire, he thought, gazing at the infant's starlit eyes. I can't lose him too—not after everything. As Sylvara approached the river, her chant beginning anew, Arvandus seized her arm, his voice raw with desperation. "Sylvara, stop! Why do you drown our sons in starlight? Seven times I've held my tongue, but this—this is a wound no king, no father, can bear! Tell me, or I'll tear this vow apart and let the stars judge me!"
Sylvara's eyes shimmered with tears, her divine form glowing like the river's surface. "You've broken the pact, Arvandus Valthorne," she said, her voice a blend of sorrow and celestial steel. "So be it. Hear the truth, then. I am Sylvara, Keeper of the Starveil River, bound by Lunareth to free the Eight Luminaries—celestial spirits cursed by the Shadow Sovereign Nocthrall to languish as mortals. Your sons were their vessels, and by returning them to the river, I restored them to the Eternal Vault. Seven have been freed, but Valerian, the eighth, was to bear the heaviest fate. Your doubt has broken our bond, and now I must take him to fulfill his destiny under the stars."
Arvandus sank to his knees, guilt and anguish crashing over him like waves. My sons… celestial spirits? His mind reeled. I thought I was losing them, but they were never truly mine to keep. And now Valerian, too? "I broke your trust," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I couldn't watch another piece of my heart vanish. Take me instead, Sylvara—leave him to live!"
Sylvara cradled Valerian, her touch cool as moonlight, her eyes soft with a goddess's mercy. "Your love is your strength and your undoing, Arvandus. I cannot stay in a world where doubt has severed our pact. Valerian will be raised in the Eternal Vault, trained in the ways of the stars, and returned when his time comes. His destiny will reshape Aethoria's tapestry, but you must bear the weight of this parting."
With a final incantation—"Lunareth Lux, dux mea via" (Lunareth's Light, guide my path)—Sylvara stepped into the river, holding Valerian close. Her form dissolved into a radiant mist that merged with the Starveil's glow, the infant vanishing with her in a cascade of starlight. The waters flared, then stilled, leaving Arvandus alone on the cliffs, his heart a hollow echo of the river's song.
She's gone, and she took my last son with her, he thought, staring at the silent river, his hands empty and his crown heavier than ever. What kind of king kneels to fate and loses everything? Yet, deep within, a flicker of hope stirred. Valerian, born of a goddess and a broken vow, would return one day—later known as Valtharion, he would become the cornerstone of the Valthorne dynasty and the spark of a conflict that would set Aethoria ablaze.