Gallifreyan Writing Novels & Stories

The bone cup inhaled the air and came alive with slow hum. Seraphine called upon the old grammar the Court had buried. She did not speak the Crescent words; those were for the soft call. No—she opened the page that had been scraped from the Codex at the end of the last cataclysm, the page whose letters had once been forbidden to repeat. The old tongue is a tool for chiseling; she had no illusions about gentleness. She would carve.

The library was always my sanctuary, a place where I could escape reality and lose myself in the pages of a good book. As I wandered through the aisles, I came across a book that caught my eye. It was titled "The Mystics of Lycans". Intrigued, I pulled it off the shelf and flipped through the pages. The words were unfamiliar, and I struggled to make sense of them. They seemed to be in a language I had never seen before. "Zephyrion milarath velindreth, thalorion symphoria. Ancalima thranduil caladron."

Kael went on to explain everything he saw online the dream without missing anything out, he brought out his sketchbook from his bag and the sight of the drawing sent a shiver down my spine— it was horrifying. “This— killed— Thalia.” I stuttered in panic and he nodded affirmative. “And some creature wrote something on my window that I barely understand.” Kael showed me a picture of the writing on his window and I immediately translated it out of impulse. “Dig deeper—and fate shall call your name.” I said out loud. “How could you translate this strange writing.” Kael asked, with both surprise and confusion. “Honestly— I don’t—know.”

“Thank you, Ward. I think we can figure this out with your help.” “I’d do anything for Aaron,” he said, and I could hear the emotion in his voice even though I was just listening to his thoughts. “How is it that you happen to read ancient Scottish Gaelic?” I asked out of curiosity. I realized Tara was trying to get me through the IAC, and while I dreaded talking to her, I knew I needed to wrap it up with Ward. “Many of the Vampires’ texts were written in that language in the day. They dominated Ireland and Scotland for centuries, so it’s no surprise. I wanted to be able to read what the enemy was writing, so I learned.”

And tucked into the far corner, behind a low iron gate Knox unlocked for me with a key he keeps on his own ring, is the grandmother’s collection — crates and cases and shelves of books that don’t match anything else in the room, bound in materials I don’t recognize, written in scripts I can’t read, and a few, blessedly, in languages I can. I lose hours in there. Genuinely lose them. I read until my eyes ache and the light through the high windows goes from grey to gold to grey again, and most of it is useless to me: history I don’t have the context for, diagrams I can’t parse, references to places and bloodlines and rites that mean nothing yet. But I write down the words that recur. Caelora.

She held it out for me. I walked over and took it. Opened the first page. The writing looked ancient, older than anything the Elder archives had. The kind of script someone uses when they need to write everything they know into a space much too small. I read the first line. Everything, clearing, dawn, first wolves, Vael’s people, Rhydian at my shoulder, it all went unearthly quiet. I read it again. “Rhydian,” I said. He leaned in over my shoulder. I heard his breath catch.

Ronan’s POV Golden scales rippled across her body like armour made of sunlight. Her wings unfurled, magnificent, huge, glowing gold at the edges as if light itself obeyed them. Her body was leaner, stronger, more perfect in motion than the winged creatures that attacked us. And on her forehead, The writing. Ancient text glowing gold, stamped like a seal. That was the only reason I knew it was Nyra. Because everything else in her form looked like the creature that had carried her. Only… better. Higher. Like the Outlands had birthed monsters, but Nyra had become their nightmare.

“What language is that?” “Do you know the script of Elvish from those stories Tolkien wrote about? The ones the humans go crazy over.” “Vaguely. It’s odd how stupid humans can be about the oddest things.” “This, sir, is the real deal. The actual language of the highborn Fae. Our creators and what the humans named high elves or the shining ones. Whatever is in here putting out that power may be fae created.” “Gods, help us.”

Like the stars knew him. And resented him for it. --- Inside the Glyph-Chamber Light gathered again—not golden like Maen, not red like Serros, not blue like the Fold’s breath. This light was silver, sharp and shivering. It fell across the chamber in slices, casting glyphs into existence along the floor and walls. Not Fold glyphs. Not Serros’s patterns. Not Maen’s songs. These were older. Unformed. Raw. Velan took one look and backed away. “They’re unfinished. Glyphs that never chose a language. Pre-pattern.”

The black mirror of the ink-well rose up, wrapping around Xander and me until we were no longer standing on iron type-set, but floating in a zero-gravity void of pure text. Lines of dialogue from Volume 1, Volume 3, and Volume 9 drifted past us like glowing, neon eels. "Remember we are still writing a werewolf story." The phrase flash-fried the air between Xander and me, a direct citation from our earliest, unedited days in the schoolhouse. "You think you engineered the werewolf code to break the Spire, Seraphina?" the Author asked, her form appearing right in front of us, floating in the sea of ink without a ripple. "Look closer at the original entry."