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7th of Hagan, 126 Year of the Tree

The Primordial Storm inside

by Luke Thomas

Dear Diary,
 
We cannot just wait for the storm to hit. If Amarra wants the Elemental Hearts, she will come for them, and she knows exactly where we are. We have to take the fight to her, or at least control the battlefield.
 
Our first clue that her threats were real came when Ileas tried to send a magical message to the Foxant. It failed. The spell simply didn't connect, which almost certainly means Amarra killed the poor creature to steal its eggs for her ring.
But when I cast a divination spell to track the **Elemental Heart of Air**, the truth unraveled.
 
My magic showed me its essence: movement, freedom, a fragment of something vastly greater, extracted by ancient mortal wizards to tame the Feywild's chaotic energies. But more importantly, it showed me its location. It was still powering the flying fortress of the giants.
Amarra hadn't destroyed the keep. She had lied to me in that dream to break my spirit and force my surrender.
 
Ileas immediately sent a message to the Giant King, Vespera. To our relief, we received an invitation to use their teleportation circle. We stepped through and were greeted by Ven. The fortress was unmistakably still airborne. I swept the area with my arcane senses, looking for illusions, but the stone beneath our feet was real, and the clouds outside the windows were rushing by.
 
We were led to the throne room to meet King Vespera. We negotiated access to the Heart of Air, and I warned them that my former mentor was coming to steal it. We proposed to seemingly continue with the ritual as we had originally planned: if they landed their fortress in Tarn, we could bolster their security and I would perform a *fake* ritual to draw Amarra out. They agreed.
We spent the next few days in the fortress. The only human-sized accommodations were painfully stiff barracks, but it gave me the quiet I needed to meticulously construct a ritual that looked incredibly powerful but did absolutely nothing.
 
Landing a flying castle next to a refugee village naturally draws a crowd. The people of Tarn gathered in awe. Amidst the commotion, Myrrdin approached us.
 
When we explained our trap, he nodded grimly, warning us that Amarra is a devious foe who will exploit the smallest crack in our defenses. But he had not come just to wish us luck; he had finished his research into King Ulther’s grand design.
 
The scope of what we are facing is terrifying. Myrrdin broke it down for us clearly: Ulther has performed an ancient, profound magical pact that binds a ruler's life force directly to the land they govern. His power and the land's power are now a closed, symbiotic loop.
Because of this pledge, territory equals raw power. If Ulther successfully merges Neverhold, Immerglade, and Keralon, the sheer volume of magical geography bound to his soul will elevate him to the level of an Archfey—effectively a god. He doesn't care about ruling the Material Plane; he just wants the landmass to fuel his ascension.
Since Keralon is currently caught in his magical grip, our best chance is to disrupt his power base in the Feywild. We need to restore Immerglade.
Immerglade isn't entirely dead. A sliver remains because the personification of its royal lineage—the soul of the realm—still exists somewhere.
 
Myrrdin’s proposition is madness, but it might be the only way: he suggests we magically move the entire village of Tarn into the remaining sliver of Immerglade to protect it from Ulther.
 
But before we could save the world, we had to save ourselves.
While the village threw a makeshift festival to welcome the giants and aarakocra, we took a quick teleportation detour to Rosebloom. Lady Inkheart, the imprisoned Arch-hag, was still feeding off Liliana’s and my life force. It was a constant, dull agony that drained our strength.
 
Hayley had a plan. She approached the hag and invoked their deal, offering her an "alternative prison." Inkheart accepted in exchange for information and Hayley turned her to solid stone. Inkheart's parting threat echoed in our minds—she demanded to be changed back before Hayley dies, or she will resurrect my sister just to exact vengeance.
But the moment the stone set, the parasitic thorns burrowed in my magical aura withered and died. Liliana and I gasped as weeks of accumulated, slumbering pain simply vanished. We were finally at full strength.
 
The next day, we took our positions in the giant fortress. I began the fake ritual, letting my magic flare brightly to signal anyone watching. I brought the four Elemental Hearts together, preparing to feign their attunement.
 
But as my magic brushed against them, something went wrong.
The ritual was fake, but the Hearts were real. As I held them, I heard a faint, ancient voice echoing from the absolute bottom of the world. Something deep inside the gems awakened.
 
It asked for my name.
 
Foolishly, instinctively, I opened my mind to listen. An aura of pure, raw elements exploded around me—a violent maelstrom of dust clouds, blinding snow, torrential rain, and roaring fire.
 
I closed my eyes against the glare and found myself standing on a pitch-black island in the center of my own mind.
The voice surrounded me. It had forgotten its own name, but as we spoke, the memory returned.
**Malfias.** A Primordial.
 
It demanded to be released. I refused, realizing with horror that the mortal wizards hadn't just extracted elemental energy to make these hearts; they had carved up a Primordial entity.
 
Suddenly, a second voice pierced the mental darkness. Amarra. She had taken the bait, but she was bypassing the physical trap, contacting me telepathically. She demanded I use the connection to perform the full sealing ritual immediately. She pressed me with her magic.
I refused her, too.
 
Denial sent Malfias into a rage. The storm above my mental island coalesced into a colossal, four-headed monstrosity—a dragon of fire, water, earth, and air. A true Primordial, furious and awake.
 
I am trapped. I am fighting a war inside my own head against a fragmented god, while through the roaring wind of my trance, I can hear the physical sounds of steel clashing and spells detonating in the fortress chamber around my helpless body. The trap was sprung, but I think we are the ones caught in it.
 
— Luke

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by 3 Armored Kittens · Prodromos v.1.1 - World Anvil 0.9.15.050 © 2017-2025 [] | Anvil Time: 04:22, Jul 5 2026