Gods of the Forgotten Realm

The wind carried the scent of ancient stone and forgotten prayers. Kaelen pulled his tattered cloak tighter around his shoulders as he crested the final dune. Below him, bathed in the pale glow of twin moons, lay the city that should not exist. Elarion.

The ruins stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of towering spires and shattered monuments. Obsidian statues of faceless deities lined the streets, their hollow eyes staring into the abyss of time. No birds circled above. No life stirred within. Yet the city was not dead.

Kaelen could feel it breathing.

He took a step forward, his boot sinking into the soft sand that encroached upon the forgotten streets. A voice whispered—faint, distant, curling around the edges of his mind. He turned sharply, hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Nothing. Just shadows, stretching long and restless beneath the moonlight.

Legends spoke of the city's curse. Those who entered would lose themselves—memories unraveling like threads caught in the wind. But Kaelen had prepared. He had etched his name into the inside of his wrist with a dagger's edge. A desperate measure, but necessary. If he forgot everything else, he would remember this: Kaelen. He was Kaelen.

With a steadying breath, he descended the dune.

And the city waited.

The silence pressed against Kaelen's ears like a held breath. Each step he took onto the stone-paved streets felt heavier than the last as if the city itself resisted his presence. The air was thick with an invisible weight—an ancient sorrow, lingering like the last embers of a long-dead fire.

He traced his fingers along the wall of a crumbling temple, the surface smooth and cold despite the desert's heat. Strange symbols, worn by centuries of wind and time, pulsed faintly under his touch. He frowned. Could the stone still hold magic after all these years?

A gust of wind spiraled through the city's corridors, carrying a whisper—a voice so faint he barely recognized it as sound. His pulse quickened.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice swallowed by the endless emptiness.

No response.

Kaelen exhaled sharply and forced himself to move forward. He had not crossed half a continent, and endured weeks of scorching days and freezing nights, just to let a few murmurs in the dark shake his resolve. The Heart of Elarion was here, hidden somewhere within the depths of this forsaken city. If the legends were true, it held the power to reshape fate itself.

And if the city wanted to stop him, it would have to try harder.

Kaelen moved deeper into the city, his steps slow and deliberate, his every breath measured. The silence wasn't natural—it wasn't the absence of sound but the presence of something unseen, something watching. He had previously traveled through ruins and wandered through fallen civilizations' hollow bones, but this place was different. Elarion was not dead. It was dreaming.

The moonlight pooled in silver puddles across the cracked stone paths, illuminating faded murals carved into the walls. He stopped, brushing the dust away with his gloved hand. The carvings told a story—a procession of figures, tall and robed, their hands raised toward a swirling mass above them. A sun? No, something else. A heart, burning with light.

The Heart of Elarion.

The very thing he sought.

The legend spoke of a relic, pulsing with divine energy, hidden within the city's depths. Some said it was the last gift of the gods before they vanished. Others claimed it was a prison, containing something far worse than death. Kaelen wasn't sure which version he believed.

His gaze traveled downward to the next carving. The robed figures were no longer standing in worship. They were kneeling. Their hands clutched their heads, mouths open in silent screams. The heart above them had changed. It was no longer light—it was shadow, tendrils stretching outward like grasping fingers.

A shiver crept down his spine.

He had spent years chasing myths, but now, standing before this forgotten warning, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

The wind shifted again, curling through the city's corridors, carrying whispers too fragmented to understand. Kaelen exhaled slowly. He had prepared for illusions, for the tricks of a place soaked in ancient magic. His mind was strong. Stronger than the city's attempts to unravel him.

He turned away from the mural and pressed forward.

The street opened into a vast courtyard, dominated by a towering archway that led into darkness. The entrance to the inner city. The point of no return.

Kaelen hesitated, his fingers drifting to the dagger at his hip. The sensation in his gut told him that once he stepped through, there would be no going back. He tightened his grip.

If the city wished to consume him, it would have to take him by force.

And so, he stepped into the dark.

 The darkness swallowed Kaelen whole. The moment he passed beneath the towering archway, the world behind him seemed to vanish. No wind, no whispers—just an oppressive, suffocating stillness. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, but he clenched his fists and kept walking.

His footsteps echoed against unseen walls, each step bouncing back at him from the abyss. He reached into his satchel and retrieved a small lantern, striking flint against steel. The flame sputtered to life, casting a weak glow that barely reached beyond his outstretched hand.

The passage before him was narrower than he expected, the walls pressing close with smooth, almost polished stone. Unlike the ruins outside, this place bore no signs of decay. No dust, no erosion—nothing to suggest centuries of abandonment.

As he moved forward, something caught his eye. Symbols. The same as those on the temple walls outside, but here, they glowed faintly, pulsating like embers buried beneath ash. He raised a cautious hand to touch one, expecting the coldness of stone.

Pain.

A searing heat lanced through his palm, and he jerked back with a curse. The glow flared briefly before fading, leaving only the deep, throbbing ache in his skin. He glanced at his palm—it was unburned. No marks, no wounds. But the pain lingered, buried somewhere beneath the flesh.

The city was testing him.

Gritting his teeth, Kaelen pressed forward.

The passage opened into a vast chamber, the ceiling lost in the shadows above. At the center stood a massive circular platform, surrounded by pillars carved with more of the glowing script. A shallow basin lay in its center, filled with liquid as dark as the void itself.

A whisper curled through the air, clearer than before.

"Do you remember?"

Kaelen's breath caught. The voice was not his own, but it spoke inside his mind, curling around his thoughts like a serpent. He drew his dagger instinctively, the cold steel steadying his grip.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The liquid in the basin rippled.

"Do you remember?"

A sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes, a sudden pressure as if something was clawing at the edges of his mind. Images flickered in his thoughts—sandstorms, blood, a temple buried beneath the dunes. A name. A promise.

Then, as quickly as it came, the pain vanished.

Kaelen staggered, breathing hard. He didn't know what the city wanted from him, but he knew one thing for certain:

It remembered him.

And it would not let him leave.