The Ashen Gate
I saw the Ashen Gate rise from the salt like a wound that would not heal. Once it burned with passage; now it stands hollow, a scar left on the land by a war no living tongue recalls.
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Each year the trees whisper as I turn the glass and watch another season fall away. The light remembers what I cannot...every leaf, every name. I once thought I served time. Now I know I only keep it company.
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By morning the ruin breathed again. The air was soft with gold, and lanterns long dead burned anew. Strangers gathered, drawn by warmth they could not name. The Wilderlight remembers through us... through all who carry it onward.
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The light reached for me, not as mercy, but memory. It asked nothing, only shared its warmth until I could no longer tell where it ended or I began. Something ancient merged into me, and the silence feels less alone. Who was I now? Not just me.
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They said the Wilderlight devours the faithless. I went anyway, aimless after her loss. Inside the ruin, the gold hung in the air, whispering. I felt her hand again...warm, forgiven, gone. The light does not heal. It remembers.
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@Witchmaster The Wilderlight is an expansive, immense forest in the heart of Tharion. It is perilous. Yet those seeking a closeness to the Light, the source of magic in this world, venture deep within. Here the Light runs wild & deep. Pilgrims come seeking knowledge, power...some forgiveness
I found the shrine by accident, while in the Wilderlight. The lanterns still burned, though no hands had tended them in an age.
I asked no questions...only stood in the light, and for a moment, it almost answered.
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I’d heard of storms that erase cities, but not ones that remember them.
The air burned copper and light; the dunes shifted like they were searching for what they’d lost. I followed, not out of courage...just curiosity that refused to die.
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The storm kept its promise: to fall on all of us all the same. I saw them gather around the light admist the deluge.
I stayed at the edge, letting their warmth find me without asking why. For the first time, the Light didn’t demand...it shared.
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I don’t look for shelter anymore. The roofs are enough...the rain, the height, the hum of a city that forgot to need me. I hesitate for a moment. Is there something else out there?
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The higher I climb, the smaller the Light becomes. Maybe that’s the only way to love it; from far enough that it can’t see me.
From up here the city glows like a memory trying to be forgiven. The bells don’t ring anymore. I think they’re tired too.
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I came to Solhaven to forget. The Light is everywhere in this city...in its towers, its hymns, its rituals...and it’s only in the rain that it stops demanding things from me. Others run for warmth, but to me, the cold and wet are honesty incarnate.
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Sometimes I forget to speak at all. The stars say what I cannot...that peace is not found in distance or in power, but in the stillness between breaths.
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Each day I rest my hand upon the tree, and in its quiet strength I feel the Light stir. Its roots remind me that even silence is alive, if only one learns to listen.
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