The Great Nation of Matrabhumi Ayoga, once hailed as the ancient land of kings. A human domain that lay in the middle hearth-lands of Terra Proper. A domain blessed with rivers that never dried and soil that never slept. At its heart stood the capital, Mataram Prana, the ancestral capital. Where within, rising like a stone spine against the sky, stood the Temple of Radiant Memory, a theocratic scholarly order dedicated to preserving and controlling all ancient knowledge.
Evening sunlight glided across the spires of the Temple of Radiant Memory, bathing them in a golden haze as scholars and scribes hurried through the marble colonnades with scrolls clutched beneath tired arms or books pressed tightly to their chests. Their eyes were glazed with devotion or fatigue—it was difficult to tell which—bearing the bleary look of those who had not slept in days.
Among them walked Eryndor Keth, a scribe moving with slow, but measured steps. He had served the temple for more than a decade, as was seen from his fingers that had been roughened by years of copying, translating, and occasionally annotating texts from past eras.
He muttered under his breath when he passed the statues of past Scribes of Radiance, with their faces frozen in eternal reverence,
"All sacred, all useless… and all suspiciously silent on the important bits."
The Temple of Radiant Memory was an empire of thought, where every word was weighed by creed and faith, which means every discovery measured by the obedience to the doctrine. To the Order, the ancient knowledge within the temple was sacred, and the one who question it was seen as a 'sinner'. They believed their temple to be the only true source of ancient knowledge and wisdom.
Eryndor's curiosity—his insistence on questioning whether ancient knowledge might exist beyond the sacred texts of the temple was met with misunderstanding and harsh persecution. It earned him scorn, and over time, the title of outcast. Many even openly called him a heretic.
It was not as though he intended to stop. To Eryndor, curiosity and doubt were the foundations of true scholarship.
"Questioning our faith—only a heretic would do that!"
The voice came from behind him, loud and sharp. Eryndor did not turn. He kept walking. He had grown used to it. It was not one or two voices, it almost felt like nearly everyone in the temple had said that.
"Actually, that's not what I meant exactly," he muttered to himself. "Well, whatever. Why bother explaining? It's not like he'd listen."
He shook his head and continued on toward his chamber.
Nighttime in the Temple was silent and serene. Though figures still wandered the halls, the only sounds were paper was scratched by pen and the soft rustle of pages being turned. Eryndor was no exception. In the small chamber allotted to him, he busied himself with books and scrolls deep into the night. More often than not, he fell asleep at his desk, cheek pressed against the paper and cold table, only to wake the next day with a stiff neck and aching back.
But, tonight was different.
As the dim light of his reading lamp faintly illuminated the chamber, and Eryndor slept once more at his desk, something shifted within him.
And the air trembled.
A faint golden shimmer spread across his skin—soft at first, like sunlight reflected on water—then brighter, as if a quiet flame blossomed from within his flesh. It hummed and danced in silence, wreathing his body in living like light.
And then he dreamed.
"Where am I?"
His voice was swallowed by darkness. He could see nothing—no hands, no ground beneath him. Panic rose in his chest, cold and breathless.
Then without warning, a whisper came. Not quite a voice, but more like a sensation, a feeling, like wind stirring in the marrow of his bones.
The void rippled, and suddenly he stood upon a plain of light.
The world was vast and formless, a sea of pale gold and shadow. In the distance, mountains burned like candles, their peaks crowned with halos of fire. Between them walked towering figures, radiant and veiled in dawn. Their armor shone with the luster of forgotten suns.
A voice—neither sound like man nor woman, but clear and gentle—spoke through the silence.
"You bear their flame."
Eryndor turned. Before him stood a figure of light, its eyes bright with sorrow. From its brow rose a crown, wrought not of gold, but of living flame.
"The blood of kings runs thin," the voice continued, echoing as though spoken across a thousand years.
"But it still remembers."
The plain rippled like water as visions unfolded: a throne carved from sunlight, a city of marble with towers piercing the clouds, a blade forged in the heart of a dying star. At the center of it all stood a man—eyes the color of morning, voice carrying a command strong enough to still the heavens.
"The High King of Mortals," the voice whispered.
"Sanctified by struggle. Crowned by grief."
Eryndor tried to reached toward the vision.
But it shattered.
The light folded inward, collapsing into a single droplet of crimson. It fell into his palm, glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. Within that pulse, he heard it—faint, distant, but unmistakable—the echo of war drums, sounding from beneath the world.
"Your line was broken," the voice murmured, fading.
"But not ended."
The world fell away. And the vision collapsed.
Eryndor awoke with a gasp.
His collar was damp with sweat, his head throbbing and his breath shallow. He stared at the window and saw the sky still dark. After a moment, he yawned and rubbed his neck, then sat in silence. Eventually, he rose from the chair, stumbled to his bed, then collapsed into sleep with his waist and neck aching.
When Morning sunlight slipped through the window and nudged his eyes open. Eryndor blinked awake and groaned, after stretched a little he slowly sat up, afraid he would fall back asleep if he remained lying down.
The dream returned to him immediately.
"What an odd dream," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
He sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes, staring at empty air, trying to make sense of the dream. When no meaningful answer came, he sighed, shook off the lingering unease, and went to wash himself.
Halfway to the bathing chamber, he froze.
The soreness that usually plagued his neck and back—the inevitable toll of long nights hunched over the books and scrolls—was gone. He flexed his hands. They felt strong. Steady. Alive.
"Weird… I feel stronger?" he muttered.
The thought unsettled him, but when he noticed the time, he pushed it aside. Today, he had already planned to visit the library. His research awaited, and there were books and scrolls he needed to find. For now, the dream could wait.