Darkshadow's Dream

Olryn knelt upon stones that had never known the sun. His hands, once radiant as molten gold, trembled as they ground the final precious grains - remnants of the sacred salve that had once made his people gods among mortals.

The darkness pressed against him, hungry and patient. It had followed him here, down through leagues of stone and sorrow, past the broken gates of his fallen city, beyond the reach of memory itself. Here, in this tomb of living rock, he had thought to preserve what remained of the Golden’s glory. Here, he had thought to kindle again the light that the creator’s wrath had sought to extinguish.

But the darkness was patient, and time was its ally.

His skin, once brilliant as the gilded dawn, had begun its slow surrender. Where gold had gleamed, now only the faintest amber lingered, like sunset bleeding into dusk. Along his arms, creeping upward from his fingertips, the ashen grey of the Tarnished had begun its inexorable march. Each day brought new shadows to his flesh, new territories claimed by the corruption that had devoured his people’s souls.

Olryn had been the finest of their alchemists, a master of the arts whose knowledge had once clad buildings in rainbow hues. But here, in the suffocating embrace of the deep earth, that knowledge felt more distant than the starlight over the mountains. The sacred formulae now swam before his vision like hazy dreams. His hands, steady enough to weave light from shadow, shook as they measured and mixed, corrupted by the very grief that drove them.

Day after day, he labored in the amber glow of his failing radiance. The salve’s components lay scattered before him—crystalline tears, essence of lightweave, shards of the Making. Each ingredient was precious beyond measure, each attempt a gamble with eternity itself. Yet every mixture curdled, every formula failed, every hope withered like flowers in an endless winter.

The last of the true salve had been consumed weeks ago, its golden warmth fading from his skin like a lover’s final kiss. Now only his own failing light illuminated the cavern, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock his efforts. The walls pressed closer with each passing hour, their charcoal surfaces drinking in what little radiance remained to him.

Still, he persevered. His mind, brilliant even in its corruption, turned to lesser arts. If he could not recreate the sacred salve, perhaps he might craft something else - a balm to ease the burning transformation, a poultice to slow the advancing grey. Night after night, he worked with ingredients less pure, methods less perfect, hope measured not in restoration but merely in delay.

And in his desperation, he found success, of a sort.

The balm he created was nothing like the sacred salve - it held no golden fire, promised no eternal radiance. But it was something. When spread upon his greying skin, it brought a moment’s peace, a slowing of the inexorable tide. The ashen creep paused, uncertain, like death itself given cause to hesitate. For days, sometimes weeks, the grey would halt its advance, and Olryn could pretend that he might yet find salvation in the darkness.

But it was only pretense, and the darkness knew it.

Each new batch of balm grew weaker than the last. The ingredients he could gather in these depths were poor substitutes for the treasures of the high places, and his corrupted hands made even simple alchemy treacherous. The grey crept higher with each failure—past his elbows, across his shoulders, reaching with cold fingers toward his heart.

On the final night, as his last stores of balm ran thin as hope itself, Olryn felt the change begin in earnest. The light that had burned in his core for countless centuries - the last true remnant of what the Golden had been - flickered like a candle in a hurricane. He pressed his hands to his chest, trying to hold it within, but it slipped between his fingers like water, like time, like everything beautiful he had ever known.

The light pooled briefly in his palms, warm and perfect as summer’s first dawn. For a moment, he was what he had always been - radiant, eternal, blessed with the very fire of creation. Then it faded, seeping into the hungry stone, leaving only memory and ash.

Olryn watched his hands crumble, the grey corruption completing its long journey at last. His body scattered like smoke… ashes flowing in all directions, as if propelled by one last breath. The cavern grew darker still, its charcoal walls closing around the space where light had made its final stand.

In the silence that followed, even the stones seemed to mourn. And somewhere in the depths, patient and eternal, the darkness settled back to wait for the next seeker of the Golden’s lost glory, knowing that desperation would bring them here, to this tomb of light and hope and beautiful, inevitable failure.

The Umber Halls fell silent. The last of the Golden was no more.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​