Dispatches from the Archive · No. 2
There's one rule in the Voidhammer world that never bends: every kind of magic costs something. Not mana. Not a cooldown. Something you can't get back.
Once, the Gate joined nine Realms. Each had its own magic, and each paid its own price.
Law, judgment and light that burns away lies. Lightforge built the Concord that held the Realms together, and in the end it wrote the law that broke them.
Secrets, silence and knives in the dark. Shadowdeep children are taught to keep their hands busy so nobody sees them think. Its magic slowly erodes who you are.
Storm, sky and speed. The freest Realm, and the first to refuse to kneel. Every charge of a Stormreach rider ages them.
Time, ice and prophecy. Frostgrave seers see short futures, and each vision leaves them feeling a little less.
Gravity, stone and endurance. Stonehold's warriors are nearly impossible to move, and their limbs slowly turn to stone.
Fire, rebellion and a refusal to bow. Flameborne magic burns hot and burns away self-control.
Memory, ghostlight and the Lantern Paths. The Spiritveil folk live for centuries and keep the memories everyone else can't bear to lose. Every walk along the Paths takes one of your own memories as its toll.
Machines, engines and sparks made instead of born. Metalcrown was mocked, kept out of the Council, and quietly preparing. The price of its magic is your humanity.
The ninth Realm collapsed the moment it was born. Reality never held there. Nobody agrees on what it was meant to be.
Eight of the Realms are gone. Emberhold, the last city, is built from their wreckage: black basalt, Stonehold granite, salvaged Lightforge marble that still catches the dawn as if it remembers being holy. And the Gate in the middle of it has been dark for 109 years.
Until this morning.
Read Chapter One free → · Chapters Two to Four on Patreon · Explore the world
— John