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The Breaking of Virelance

Author: Tyson Roy
last update Last Updated: 2025-07-10 15:21:11

There are weapons that wait.

Not for hands, but for excuses.

Not all blades crave blood. Some hunger for silence, for the unsaid word, the undrawn line, the simmering resentment that can curdle unity into fear. In the long hush that followed the birth of peace in Eldoria, such a blade waited, patient and poisonous—a splinter in the soul of a realm trying to heal.

They called it Virelance, the Blade of Dominion.

Forged in the molten bones of the first gods and quenched in the tears of queens who lost everything for a throne. It had sliced kingdoms into maps, shattered vows into laws, and forced loyalty from love. More than a weapon, Virelance was a memory made metal—a threat of what could be if ever peace failed to hold.

And for a time, peace did hold.

But memory faded.

And Virelance waited.

Beneath the northern steppes, buried in a vault so old it had no doors, only riddles, only the sigil of a spiral branded by Elara’s own hand. It had been locked away not by spell, but by collective
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  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Eternal Garden

    The final battlefield had long been avoided.No banner had ever flown there.No monument was raised.It was sacred not by declaration, but by absence.By silence.It had no name on the maps—just a wide hollow nestled between the cliffs of Old Virelith and the River Olanth. A place most passed in quiet, eyes averted, breath held.Here, Elara had once stood beneath a blackened sky, her body bleeding, her hands wrapped around the fading warmth of her sister. Flames had licked her shoulders. Ash had choked the stars. And when the last cry of war echoed across the hollow—it had left a scar too deep to name.Nothing had grown there since.Until now.It began with a single vine.Soft. Silver-veined.Delicate and defiant.It curled out from a crack in the scorched stone like hope unburied.Its petals shimmered in the shades of dusk—violet, rose, ash, and deep ember.Then came a tree—tall and bone-pale. Its bark looked like pressed moonlight, its branches wide, reaching not up, but outward. It

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Lucien’s Flame

    Some flames are not meant to burn brightly.They are meant to endure, smoldering at the heart of memory, refusing to be extinguished.Lucien Drake’s final breath did not fade into darkness.It waited.Patient.Loyal.Unclaimed.It lingered not in shadow, but in promise. Like a candle sealed in a vault, knowing the world would one day need its light again.He had died long before the world was ready to understand him.Long before the Last Pact.Long before the Circle of Flame.Long before the statue of the two queens stood beneath stars that had once watched kingdoms fall.He had fallen in the final days of chaos, at the jagged edge between the last scream of war and the first breath of unity. His death had not been drenched in vengeance or rage. It had been quiet. A single step forward when others faltered. A choice made not out of glory, but of love.Of belief.He had taken the burden meant for Kael.And in doing so, Lucien Drake had become more than a vampire prince, more than a riv

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Kael’s Goodbye

    Some goodbyes are not spoken aloud.They are whispered in stillness, wrapped in silence, and carried by the moon.Kael Thorne was never meant to die in battle.He was not forged for final stands, nor sculpted for heroic deaths sung across taverns and temple halls. He was meant to rest—not as a reward, but as a return. A return to the quiet. To the earth. To the dream of peace, he had once called impossible.The night was quiet.Not in mourning.But in peace.The kind Kael had never known in his youth—the kind he had fought beside, bled beside, watched others die to protect.And now, for the first time, it came to him.Not as a battlefield won.But as a bed beneath the stars.He slept alone beneath the limbs of the Gathering Tree, curled in a patch of earth warmed by roots that had once embraced Elara’s fire. The bark above him was etched with runes and memory, every knot a name, every branch a vow.Above him, the moon waxed silver and slow, its light bathing him in serenity.Around hi

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Last Pact

    Laws can be broken.Promises, forgotten.But when peace is planted in the land’s soul, it blooms, even in shadow.This was not a treaty of parchment.This was no inked decree, sealed in wax and witnessed in halls of stone.This was the root of the root.Of breath.Of fire.The roots of the Gathering Tree had always stretched deep—some said to the very bones of the earth, where the old magics slumbered. For centuries, the druids had guarded it, the Ash Circle tending its bark like holy scripture. It had survived tempests and bloodshed, silence and siege. But only now, after all the wars had ceased and memory had begun to speak in new tongues, did the roots reveal their true shape.A spiral. Woven, intentional.Symbols threaded into the living wood, not grown at random but carved by purpose. The sigil of flame, fierce and untamed. The mark of the moon, soft and eternal. The arc of mercy, curving back upon itself.It was no accident.Elara had planted more than memory.She had planted th

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   The Unity No one Expected

    Not all stories end in stone.But some must be carved, not to glorify, but to remind.For unity cannot be inherited.It must be built, side by side, even in sorrow.They gathered beneath the Gathering Tree, not for judgment, not to bind themselves to a single fate, but to witness something that had taken decades to become possible.The day was a page between seasons, spring’s new green cresting into summer’s gold. Sunlight pooled like honey through the thick canopy, catching in the veins of each great leaf overhead. The ancient branches arched and sighed, whispering secrets to the wind, pulsing softly with the memory of every vow and every wound spoken here since the Circle of Flame was born.There were no war drums. No council oaths. No banners fluttered over the grass, and no single song rose above the others. The only constant was the pedestal, waiting. It had waited for years, through peace and grief, through feasts and funerals. Some said it was made from skyglass layered over du

  • The Forgotten Heiress: Rise of The Lycan Queen   Tales by Firelight

    Not all legacies are carved in stone.Some are whispered in laughter, carried in lullabies, or shared beside a flame.And when the last sword is broken, what remains is story.They gathered on the seventh night of the Peace Bloom.From the far snow-misted villages beyond the Wolfwilds, from the salt-tinged harbors of the west, from the moss-lit courts of the Hollow Wards and the cloud-kissed windows of Sanctum itself, the people of Eldoria came. Not as armies, not as exiles, but as neighbours, kin, and wanderers. They came not to argue, not to plot, but simply to sit.No law demanded it. No leader summoned them. But word had spread, and so they followed memory to the Gathering Tree, whose roots now pulsed softly with a silver glow, nourished by the buried heart of Virelance, and, some said, by the dreams of those who had come before.Lanterns swayed like stars shaken from their moorings. Shadow Blooms, thick as midnight and rimmed in faint light, opened with each shiver of the wind. I

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