The Soul that Haunts Me

Two hundred years ago, the Outlands were whole. Magic pulsed through every valley and riverbank—ancient, alive, and unbroken. The storm-song winds whistled through the high cliffs of Ithinar, where the Air-wrights rode the lightening like steeds. The golden cities of Ithesa, realm of the High Elves, gleamed like blades raised toward the Sun. In the emerald wilds of Finwele, the Earthborn Fey, tended to forests that were older than the Outlands themself. And Sivinte, the silver misted land of the shape shifters: wolves, panthers, bears and eagles all roamed freely under the moonlight. There were no borders then... there were no kingdoms and no war; only kinship and wonder. But peace is such a fragile thing...it only takes a little fear to kill it. The Queen of Ithesa—Kythaela the Radiant— was the first to fear; she dreamt of a child born in Finwele whose power would one day eclipse her own. The child would be sovereign born whose starlight could unite the realms, but Kythaela acted first. The Queen sent her assassins to s*******r the Fey Queen while she slept; but the blades never found their mark. Caught and unmasked, the assassins were executed at dawn; their blood soaking into the old soil. And it was that blood, those deaths, that split the Outlands. Ithesa marched. Finwele burned. The Outlands fractured... Old alliances broke like bones; ancient vows crumbled. Rivers ran red in the moonlight as the two realms collided and tore one another apart. Mercy died that night, as did hope... But even war cannot silence prophecy, for under the same full moon, the same breath of night two children were born... The first, Riven, son of the Wolf King, was born beneath the dilver tinted pines of Sivinte. His newborn cry—more like a howl; low, fierce, and bone-chilling. A howl so commanding that it made even the most seasoned warriors bow their heads and kneel. Marked by a star along his spine, the pup was destined to lead the shifters into a new age. The second child, Amariel, daughter of the Fey Queen. It was said when the child opened her eyes, they glowed like starlight, her pale hair floating weightlessly around her as though she were being held by the night sky itself. The child was Lightborne—the last of her kind. The moment the children drew their first breaths, the winds changed and the stars shifted and aligned as the Prophets whispered: When moonlight bleeds and stars ignite, the wolf wakes, and the Lightborne takes flight. Bound by love others condemn, their hearts shall break the world—or mend. One born of starlight and the other from shadow, their bond will crown—or curse—the meadow. And just like that, overnight, hope was reborn again throughout the Outlands. Rebel camps spoke their names in prayers before battle. Soldiers carved their names into their shields. Mothers sang their story as a lullaby... the world believed they would unite the Outlands once and for all, but the prophecy was never a promise and destiny is not always kind. On her sixteenth moon, while Amariel was still just a child crowned in stardust and laughter—she was murdered; slain before her magic could fully bloom. Riven raged, but he too was only a child. Not old or strong enough to avenge his fallen mate... And it was then that the cycle began. Rebirth. Return. Reaching out to one another... life after life—only to be torn apart time after time. Each new life fragmenting her soul between who she was and who she would become. Riven's heart darkened; learning the shape of grief before he ever really knew joy. Meanwhile, around him the war continued and the curse deepened until hope became myth. The story of Amariel and Riven was passed down as no more than a fable... a bedtime story. Something safe to tell their children to teach them of love and faith. "They're asleep." The man's voice was warm, quiet and somewhat worn by late work nights and loud workdays. His wife sat in the middle of their daughters' beds brushing hair from small foreheads, the old leather bound book still open in her lap. He reached out to grab the book, having to blink rapidly... as the pages shimmered faintly, as if touched by starlight. When he looked again, the book was normal. The man chuckled to himself quietly. "You read it again," the man teased. His wife smiled without looking up. "I always do, but tonight they asked." "Tonight they'll dream of fairies and werewolves," he murmured teasingly as he pulled her into his arms. "No, tonight they'll dream of starlight," she whispered as she lead him from the room with kisses.