A lighter shade of Void
Elara stands at the precipice of the unknown, where existence is both everything and nothing. Reality does not break—it unspools, slowly, deliberately, like a single thread loosened from an ancient tapestry. It does not shatter in jagged edges, nor burn away in violent flashes. Instead, it dissolves, like ink bleeding into water, its essence spreading outward until all distinction vanishes.
She watches as the edges blur, the world around her shifting with an unsettling fluidity, as though space itself is being rewritten. The air pulls, rearranges, breathes—breathes with her. A rhythm not her own pulses through this place, slow and steady, a heartbeat embedded in the light. Each throb sends golden motes rippling outward, casting tiny, glimmering echoes that swirl and drift like dust caught in sunlight. They move with intent, like stars bound to an unseen gravity, their glow soft and haunting, as if they remember something long forgotten.
Above her, bookshelves hover in weightless suspension. Their edges shimmer, unbound by the laws of the physical world. The wood is impossibly smooth, untouched by age, the spines of the books whispering secrets in a language she does not know but somehow understands. The space around them shudders with a liquid stillness, neither solid nor empty, as though the shelves could vanish at any moment, slipping between realities with no more resistance than a sigh.
The room—or the suggestion of a room—holds an air of forgotten elegance. Furniture, carved with the patience of lost centuries, stands draped in velvet so deep it seems to drink the light. The unseen chandeliers above cast a glow that refracts through unseen prisms, scattering flecks of color like memories breaking apart. The walls—if they could be called walls—are veiled in curling mist, shifting in slow, endless motion. There is no beginning here, no end. Only the weight of something vast pressing against her skin, wrapping around her bones like a whisper she cannot quite hear.
Elara inhales, and the breath feels too loud, too real, in this place where reality itself seems uncertain. A thought stirs at the edges of her mind, an instinct beyond words. This place is not empty. It is waiting.
Somewhere in the distance, the soft ticking of clocks drifts through the air, but the rhythm is wrong. The hands move sluggishly, almost imperceptibly, as if time itself has lost its meaning here. The sound is not a countdown, not a measure of passing moments, but something else entirely—something outside of time, just as she is now.
Elara’s breath catches. A force tugs at her—not something she can see, not something she can name, but something she feels deep in her chest. It coils through her like an invisible thread, winding itself around her ribs, pulling her forward. The air thickens, pressing in, as if it, too, has noticed her presence. She should resist. Should question it. But she doesn’t. The pull isn’t just an urge—it’s a summons, ancient and undeniable, a whisper without sound. It does not demand. It entices. Promises.
Her first step is hesitant, but as the unseen force strengthens, resistance fades. Her feet move as if guided by something beyond herself. Not mere curiosity—no, this is deeper, older, something woven into the marrow of her bones. It speaks of forgotten ages, of distant stars, of truths buried beneath the weight of centuries.
The edges of her thoughts blur, her consciousness unraveling like the hem of a well-worn tapestry. The air hums with something just beyond her grasp, something waiting, watching. She is not simply stepping forward; she is crossing a threshold—not of space, but of understanding. And in that moment, she knows—without words, without reason—that what lies ahead is not just a place.
It is a revelation.
From the very heart of the ethereal, two figures appear, like shadows pulled from the forgotten corners of myths. Their presence shatters the stillness, sending ripples of energy through the air. They step into the room as though they belong here, moving with an eerie fluidity, as if time itself is bending to let them pass. The soft glow that had once cradled the silence trembles now, vibrating with the weight of their arrival. The room holds its breath, the peaceful calm tainted by the charge of their presence.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
The woman is the first to sit. She lowers herself gracefully into the chair, as if she is not merely sitting but merging with the space around her—becoming part of the very air. Her posture is regal, the kind that speaks of centuries of untold stories, woven into the fabric of this place. Her gown, dark as the midnight sky, flows around her in folds that shimmer faintly with every slight movement. The fabric seems alive, shifting with secrets and shadows, its edges embroidered in gold. The intricate lacework spirals in patterns that hint at forgotten kingdoms, lost courts, and long-gone histories. Her gown catches the light and folds like liquid darkness, the threads whispering softly, speaking a language only the cloth understands. Her eyes—sharp, penetrating—gleam with a fire that’s both ancient and ever-fresh. They have seen the rise and fall of empires, witnessed the slow turning of time. Her gaze meets Elara’s, cold with intellect and warm with something unspoken, as if she alone holds the answer to a riddle no one else dares solve. Beneath the chill, there’s a strange comfort in the way her presence wraps the room like a velvet cloak.
Beside her, the old man settles into his chair with careful precision. Every movement is deliberate, as though even sitting carries the weight of countless years. His burgundy scholar’s robe falls over him like the remnants of a forgotten age, its edges frayed with time but still dignified, still commanding respect. His face is a map of history—lined and creased, each wrinkle a testament to the decades, perhaps centuries, he’s spent unearthing secrets buried by time. His eyes, clouded by age, still gleam with a clarity that’s unsettling, as if they’ve seen too much—truths too dangerous to name. The silver beard that tumbles from his chin is wild, untamed, like a river of thoughts that refuses to be contained. His hands, calloused and weathered from years of labor, hold a delicate porcelain cup with a reverence that contradicts their roughness. Steam rises from the cup in synchronized spirals, curling and fading into the air, disappearing as quietly as unspoken secrets.
Their presence fills the room, seeping into every corner with an invisible weight. It’s not oppressive, though—more magnetic, pulling Elara’s attention, her thoughts, as though they are the center of a storm she cannot escape. The air itself vibrates with the pulse of their being, a rhythm she can feel in her bones. The steam from their cups rises in a shared dance, an unspoken ritual more meaningful than words could ever express. It drifts through the air, fading into the vast emptiness around them, leaving only silence in its wake. But this silence is not empty. It’s thick, heavy with secrets, with the promise of truths lingering just out of reach. The tea they sip is a mask—a simple ritual for what lies beneath: a conversation far more intricate, wrapped in the language of the unspoken.
Elara, Selene, and Lyra stand frozen, their breath caught in the thick, heavy air. Before them, two figures appear—not as they had pictured them, not like the radiant heroes from ancient legends, but as ordinary beings. Excalibur and Rhongomyniad—alive, standing in front of them, yet more real and more unsettling because of it. They are not the towering icons from the stories. No, they are human. Mortal. Even fragile, yet there’s something about them that feels far older, something beyond the reach of time.
The woman’s presence is commanding and graceful all at once. She lifts a delicate teacup to her lips. The porcelain gleams, pale as moonlight, its edges trimmed with gold that catches the room’s faint glow. She sips slowly, deliberately, never once breaking eye contact. Her gaze is sharp, knowing, slicing through the silence like a blade. It’s as though she can see through their confusion, through their hesitation, reading them without a word. The smile that plays on her lips doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Those eyes—cold, calculating—are magnetic, pulling them in with an unsettling ease. It’s the kind of look that promises no answers, only more questions.
Beside her, the old man watches them with a smile too, though it’s different. His smile is knowing—too knowing—as if he’s seen the truth of the world, accepted its mysteries, and moved on. His face is a map of time, lines deep and worn, each wrinkle telling a story of years, maybe centuries, spent in pursuit of hidden knowledge. His eyes gleam with unsettling clarity, sharp despite his age. When he smiles at Elara, Selene, and Lyra, it’s not the warmth of kindness that touches his lips. No, it’s understanding—a quiet recognition, as if he already knows what they’re thinking, what they’re about to say. And in that smile, there is no comfort, only the cold acknowledgment of something long anticipated. The air around him hums, thick with ancient knowledge, and it hangs heavy between them like a burden that can never be shaken.
The room feels colder, even with the fire crackling nearby. The flames flicker, bowing under the weight of the moment, casting long shadows that stretch across the floor like fingers, reaching toward the figures sitting before them. Every subtle movement of the woman’s hand, every shift of the old man’s gaze, sends ripples through the stillness. The air itself trembles, as if the world is holding its breath, waiting. The silence presses down on them, thick with unspoken words, but even in the quiet, there is something compelling, something pulling at them. An invitation to ask the questions that are pressing against their minds, begging to be spoken.
Elara’s heart beats in rhythm with the silence, her mind racing as her body remains still, trapped by the force of their presence. Excalibur and Rhongomyniad, in the flesh, yet they are not what she expected. They are something more. Something beyond the legends, far beyond what any of them could have imagined.