1. In the Shadow of Galahad: Ashes of the Old Gods - Under the Light of Celestia

Chapter 1: Under the Light of Celestia

“Sometimes, I wonder if the stars are staring back, just as lost as I am.” — Arion

The celebration echoed around him, but Arion walked alone.

The Moonlit Festival had turned Solaris Isle into a living dream — lanterns drifted through the sky like forgotten wishes, and laughter spilled from every corner of the villages. But Arion felt detached, like a ghost passing through a world not meant for him.

He wasn’t chasing glory. He didn’t wear armor plated with ego or robes soaked in ambition. He had no guild, no banner, no home. What he carried were books — old, weathered tomes strapped to his side — and questions. Always questions.

Tonight, the moon Celestia hovered directly above, flooding the roads in silver light. It was said that during this rare alignment, the boundary between myths and reality thinned. Some claimed to hear the voices of the Old Gods. Others spoke of visions, dreams, or even divine callings.

Arion, however, heard only silence.

He sat by the edge of a mossy ridge overlooking the sea, notebook open, eyes scanning the horizon. “Why do I feel like something is missing?” he scribbled. “Why does this world, full of magic and miracles, still feel... hollow?”

A soft breeze brushed past him, carrying with it a whisper. Not a word, not a voice — something older. A pull.

His gaze drifted inland, toward the forested cliffs veiled in mist. Moonlight pooled over a narrow path leading into a grove he hadn’t noticed before. That’s when he saw it:

A flower.

Glowing faintly. Blooming only under the moon.

A Lunar Lily.

He had read about it — once believed to bloom only near sacred sites touched by celestial power. The last reported sighting was over a century ago.

He rose.

Something had changed.

He followed the light.

The grove welcomed him in silence.

Each step Arion took along the winding trail felt like descending into a place outside of time. The world behind him — the music, the fireworks, the warmth of celebration — faded with every footfall. Here, only the chorus of insects and the distant whisper of leaves remained.

The Lunar Lily guided him.

There were more now, scattered along the trail like stardust — pale blue petals glowing softly in the dark, pulsing in harmony with the rhythm of his breath. The air grew cooler. Thicker. Sacred.

Then he saw it:
A ruin, swallowed by the forest.

Ancient stone columns jutted from the earth like bones of a forgotten beast. Moss clung to their surface, but faint carvings still lingered beneath — symbols he didn’t recognize, yet felt familiar. In the center, a cracked circular platform bathed in moonlight.

Arion stepped forward, the silence pressing in around him.

Then — a sound.

It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t an animal.
It was a voice.
Faint. Distant. Neither male nor female.

“Not all who wander are lost... but some who rest are waiting.”

Arion froze. His eyes darted through the trees, his heart steady but alert.
He spoke aloud, unsure if he was addressing someone, or just the hollow within himself.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

The light of the moon shifted subtly, a single beam now focused on the center of the stone platform. The carvings glowed faintly, like embers beneath ash.

Arion stepped into the circle.

A sudden wind burst through the trees, spiraling leaves into the air. The flowers dimmed, as if holding their breath. Then the voice came again, this time within him — inside, not outside.

“You seek not riches, nor conquest. You seek truth.”

A flicker of warmth touched his chest — not emotion, but energy. His notebook trembled at his side.

“Who are you?” Arion whispered.

“A memory... long buried.”

“A name... once worshiped.”

“A gate... now ajar.”

Then silence again.

But something had shifted in the ruin. At the edge of the platform, hidden beneath overgrowth, a hatch of stone revealed itself — part of the ruin he hadn’t noticed. A spiral staircase, descending into the earth.

Arion hesitated only a moment.

Then he lit his lantern, and stepped down into the dark.

The stone beneath his boots was colder now — ancient, untouched by sun or flame for ages. As he descended the spiral steps, the light of his lantern seemed to stretch too far and illuminate too little, as if the darkness itself resisted being unveiled.

The air grew heavier. Older.

Etchings lined the walls in a language lost to time — or perhaps only to men. Spirals, eyes, stars, lilies… and a shape that echoed the moon, split in half.

The voice did not return.

But Arion felt it.
Watching.
Waiting.

The stairs ended in a vast chamber carved into the earth — its ceiling domed like the heavens above, and in its center, a mirror-like pool shimmered with impossible light. Floating above it, suspended in the stillness, was a single object:

A mask.

White as bone. Smooth. Empty. It pulsed with a rhythm that matched his breath… or his heart. He couldn’t tell.

He took a step closer — and the silence broke.

A heartbeat.
But not his.

thum-THUM

The pool rippled.

The lantern flickered.

Then, without warning, the voice returned — not a whisper this time, but a presence in his very soul:

“Remember me.”

Arion gasped — and in that instant, the lantern died.
Total darkness swallowed him.

And in the pitch black, one last whisper brushed the edges of his mind:

“The first key is knowing you are not alone.”

🌘 To be continued…