3. In the Shadow of Galahad: Ashes of the Old Gods - Shadows of a Fading Moon

Chapter 3: Shadows of a Fading Moon

“Why do the stars shine so brightly, yet leave us in darkness?” — Arion

The Moonlit Festival was drawing to a close, but its final hours carried a weight far heavier than the joy that had marked its beginning. Moonlit Valley, once a beacon of celebration under Celestia’s glow, now thrummed with a restless energy.

Travelers from across Valaron had poured into Solaris Isle, drawn by tales of ancient dungeons and the fabled Meteor Guardian, Noctarok. The streets overflowed with adventurers, merchants, and wanderers; their voices rose into a chaotic hum that drowned out the festival’s melodies. Yet, the air was thick with disappointment.

The festival had promised wonders — relics, visions, divine encounters — but for many, it had delivered only fleeting glimpses of glory and the bitter aftertaste of unmet expectations.

Arion stood at the edge of the valley, watching the crowd move like a restless tide. The mask at his hip thrummed softly, a quiet reminder of the questions gnawing at him. He cared nothing for the festival’s treasures; his search was for meaning — something to fill the hollow ache that had followed him for as long as he could remember.

Yet the mask — and the voice within it — seemed to pull him toward a path he wasn’t ready to walk.

The valley still glimmered with the festival’s final sparks, but whispers of discord cut through the noise. Word spread like wildfire: the Ironblood guild, once a pillar of strength in Valaron, had crumbled. A bitter feud among its leaders had torn it apart, scattering its members and reducing its legacy to ash.

Arion overheard snatches of conversation as he passed a group of travelers:

— “They fought over power, as always,” one said with a shake of his head. “Ironblood was mighty, but pride broke them.”

He paid little mind. Guilds rose and fell; their dramas meant nothing to him. He was a wanderer, unbound by allegiance — open to all, whether Banished, Cursed, Forsaken, or otherwise. Still, the news stirred something faint within him… an echo of the chaos brewing beneath the festival’s glittering surface.

As he moved through the crowd, Arion noticed a stir near the central plaza. A woman stood atop a makeshift stage, her armor gleaming in the fading moonlight. Vero, a renowned adventurer, held aloft a magnificent creature — the celestial beast Thunderhoof, its mane alive with crackling arcs of lightning.

The crowd murmured in awe, though envy threaded through their admiration. Vero had claimed the festival’s greatest prize, a beast said to embody the fury of the storm… while most would leave empty-handed.

Arion watched from a distance. Thunderhoof was a marvel, but not what he sought. His hand brushed against the mask, and for a moment, the world stilled. A warmth flared in his chest — a quiet urging that felt both alien and familiar. He pushed it down. The mask was nothing more than an enigma… yet its pull was growing harder to ignore.

Turning away from the plaza, Arion wandered into the quieter fringes of the valley, where lantern light barely reached. The air grew heavy with damp earth and fading embers. Here, the disappointment was palpable — adventurers slumped against carts, muttering about Silverleaf Enclave and Stone Hollow, dungeons that had promised celestial relics but offered only peril and frustration.

Noctarok, too, had remained elusive, its meteorite claimed by few and coveted by many.

Arion slowed as he neared a small campfire. There, sitting alone, was the Banished woman from the alley — her scarred face flickering in the firelight. She looked up as he approached, her expression a mix of weariness and recognition.

— “You’re back,” she said quietly. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

— “The festival’s ending,” Arion replied. “I thought you might know more about… things left unsaid.”

She raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the ground beside her. — “Sit, wanderer. You’ve got a knack for asking questions most avoid.”

Arion sat, the mask’s weight pressing at his side. — “The stories of Galahad,” he began. “You spoke of artifacts. Have you heard of anything… specific? Something that might speak to its bearer?”

Her gaze flicked toward his satchel. — “You’re still carrying that thing, aren’t you?”

He gave a short nod.

She leaned in, lowering her voice. — “There’s an old tale among the Banished. They say Galahad’s relics don’t just hold power — they choose who carries them. Masks, amulets, blades… they’re not for glory-seekers. They find those who question. Those who search for what lies beyond.”

Arion’s heartbeat quickened. — “And what do they do, these relics?”

— “They guide,” she answered simply. “Or they destroy. Depends on the heart holding them.”

A chill slid through him. — “And if someone doesn’t believe in Galahad?”

She smiled faintly. — “Doesn’t matter what you believe. The relics don’t care. They’ll pull you along anyway, until you face what’s true.”

Silence fell between them. Arion’s fingers brushed the mask’s outline through the satchel, feeling its warmth grow — as if the artifact itself had heard her words.

Before he could speak again, a shout rang across the valley. The crowd swelled toward the central bonfire; the closing ceremony was beginning. The woman’s expression soured.

— “They’ll sing and dance, but most are leaving empty-handed. This festival promised miracles, but it’s left more broken hopes than blessings.”

Arion followed her gaze, seeing the slumped shoulders and hushed complaints. The Moonlit Festival had drawn thousands, yet it ended like a fading echo, its magic dulled by disappointment.

He rose. — “Thank you. For the words… and the truth.”

She shrugged. — “Don’t thank me yet, wanderer. You’re chasing something bigger than you know.”

As Arion walked away, the mask seemed to hum softly, matching the rhythm of his steps. He didn’t believe in divine plans or chosen destinies — not yet. But the seed of doubt had been planted.

The final lanterns winked out as Celestia’s light waned. The valley bustled with travelers preparing to leave, their voices a mix of exhaustion and frustration. Yet Arion felt a strange clarity — as if the mask were sharpening his senses, urging him to see what others overlooked.

He paused at the valley’s edge, eyes set on the distant shadows of Silverleaf Enclave and Stone Hollow. Somewhere beyond lay Noctarok’s lair, and the storm-born Thunderhoof was proof of what could be claimed by those bold enough to try.

But Arion’s path was different. The mask was his guide, whether he wanted it or not — its warmth a quiet promise of answers, if only he could find the courage to follow.

🌘 To be continued…