Eleventh Cycle (Mistland, #1)

by Kian N. Ardalan

Minethria was born from mist, shaped and moulded by the Elder King himself. Many cultures have different names for it. The Bayrish language calls it the Haar, yet the higher beings name it Nif.

The mist trailed an unmade land, a land so white it was like a virgin canvas waiting to be painted. There was no floor to tread, nor way to discern between up or down. This was a place of things that could be, but weren’t. But it wasn’t entirely without form. Here, a great egg stood. Perhaps an egg which was yet to be, or one that already was. Not big. Not small. For there was nothing to compare it to. It cracked, a fractured line running through it. Next it echoed, a brittle thing which filled the void. And when the egg split, it bore no chick or babe, but rather a single scion. The scion grew into a powerful sage tree, its roots dug deep into the lapping mists as the branches spread themselves into a great, protective canopy.

The sage tree waited. It waited endlessly in resigned acquiescence and such stoic silence that it pierced the quiet in a way a scream never could.

“Thou art b’rn, Seed of King, Blood of King, to delivereth Minethria from festering Evil like Seeds before thee; all so that land be birth’d from mist and the Eleventh Cycle may finally end.”

What has happened to the lands since the enclosing Haar? Thickwood burgeoned like a welt upon the world and the beasts turned mad. Cultures and cities such as Heimur or the Eternal Library of Deglut are presumed lost to mankind. The Asamanian kingdom and its desert has been equally swallowed up. How long before the rest of it goes?

“The Elder King created more Elders along the way; great, immortal beings of such awesome power that they could sunder mountains and drain seas! Even the Elder King’s eyes became our moon and sun!”

“But along with it came the rising evil in man’s heart. We brought about decay and tyranny despite the King’s generous gift and thus he created time.”

Two ailments in particular threaten our world. The first being the rot. It is indiscriminate who it affects and eats away with its touch. It is an ailment so black as if it had dripped from the night-sky itself. The second is that of the forgotten. Those who disappear from sight and from memory without any trace. How do we know, then, that the forgotten are even a thing? Because the hole they leave behind is unmistakable.

The Grand Archon, first of the angels, rules over this heavenly domain and guards the Contract of Time,

Dreamwood is known to be a catalyst of inspiration. Though unlikely, some say that making your bed within its domain will grant you with transcendent understanding.

“The Haar is the mist, it is what encircles the lands. The Elder King could fashion more space out of it. So it goes that some of us can do the same. From Bolton you have carriers who gather and transport the mists in special containers for mistmages to control.”

“Colour-magic is drawn from special flowers, each colour having a certain strength to it. Red can instil rage or love or passion but it can also invoke flame. They all have properties here and there.

Upon the ruin of the Elder King’s left eye, night was born. What remained of its glow turned into the moon, and the scattered remains of its broken surface became the stars high above. Yet the question is if anything lingers between these points in the truest abyss. —Scholarly musings of a Clerian mage.

The number of Elders are unknown and many of their definitions unimaginable, but that isn’t the case for all of them. Some are representations of ideas. The Soprano is known from her constant lament, turning her voice into an instrument of death. The Inspired of Museya look to her for inspiration. Yet there are others, such as Aneiso, who sports three heads and three pairs of hands. They cover the eyes of one head, the mouth of another, and the ears of the last. For if these senses are unleashed, their nightmare can be seen. —Speculative tales of the Elders and the works, by Thiago Ganme.

Kaelu the Silent’s word changes reality. Once, Kaelu whispered of death. Immediately, the ushered word began eating away at everything. The Puzzler created a container for this word. It is said that the container is hidden in one of the deepest and most unreachable dreams of Mount Morniar. —A collection of Elder Tales, by Drumy. Circa 6C154

What happens to those who venture beyond the Haar? Some stories say that you become unravelled. The very fibre of one’s being is unmade and returns to its lapping mists. What will happen once the Haar returns to devour us all? —A scholar’s musings before the birth of the Eleventh Seed.

Seven artefacts are said to exist, imbibed with the primordial colours which painted Minethria. Each weapon exhibits its own unique properties. If these artefacts do exist, none know where they have gone. —Heretical scripture of the Exiled Scholar, by Bricius Livvery.

Some mortals challenge the Elders despite better counsel. Hegir the Guile was one such man. He made a bet that should the Blacksmith craft an indestructible shield, then Hegir would admit the Blacksmith to be the greatest forgemaster. Blacksmith obliged. Hegir knew full well that the Blacksmith would succeed and when he took the shield, he did so with glee. What Hegir did not know was that all attacks phased right through it. He never did get to deliver his praise. —Tales of the Mountain, by Black Summer.

The veracity of certain gods is questionable. It is undoubtable that the Elder King and the other Elders do exist. By extension, it leaves little doubt for the existence of the Creator. However, other gods such as Oxular leave greater questions. Is this the manifestation of people’s imagination or does Oxular truly decide to not reveal himself to the people? A bigger question yet is how an unseen figure can become the deity for those who believe in the power of witnessing. —A study on the creation of the Witness church, by John Mauro.

The Creator did not understand. “Why my child? Why create a being unbound by us, why grant it free will and instil into it individuality?” The King would argue thus: “It is precisely because they are unbound, because they are not tied to me or you or the other Elders, that they deserve such freedom. You created me because the world was formless. What form is there to something that is preordained? Is it not better to watch what path the world takes on its own? To not tangle the bend of the tree, but to let it thrive?” Alas, the Creator obliged his son’s wishes and brought mankind to the world: us. Bound by lock and key, he gave us gender so we may flourish untethered to the will of the Haar and the Elders. When he saw us foolish and clueless to the nature of the world, eating upon poisoned berries and unable to see the truth of it all, he permitted us to share in the shine of his burning eyes and created colour. So did the first sun rise up into the sky and reveal the beauty of the seven shades and their servants. We were left to our devices and were the harbingers of war and hate, but also love and hope. When the King wanted to give his subjects another chance, he created the first angel: the Grand Archon. It is said they are a great body of wheels spinning upon a central body of light. The wheels are covered in endless eyes. And within their golden spire, they formed the Contract of Time to bind us mortals to its ticking clock. Then there came more, the Elder King formed...

“It’s always love, always a story about love that makes us do what we need to do, that invites tragedy.”

“Yes, in a sense. The truth is that Igura was swift as if the winds themselves blessed him, always lending themselves to whichever direction Igura moved. His aim so true that he could shoot an arrow upon an airborne needle, meet its eye and pierce the target behind. “But there was one thing Igura suffered from—his emotions. Bound by fears that played tricks on his mind and turned his quiet nights into fitful nightmares. His passion for things was uncontrollable. Always he would bound upon things and be distracted, and whenever he was faced with the same lesson, the alluring promise of deceptive hope made him repeat it all again. “Fear, passion, hope, benevolence and will: these were the five aspects that made Igura who he was. Yet four of those things warred with each other, fed into one another, and made all of Igura’s talents useless. “So instead, he absolved himself of those emotions, expelled them into mortal coils to wander off and suffer alone. But as Igura travelled the world facing monsters, he realised the more difficult the challenges, the more foolish he was. Pure will: that was all he had. He had no fear to teach him wisdom when entering the lair of a beast, no passion to compel him forward when will was not enough, no hope to have him search in darkness what he could not find in light, and no compassion to mend the scars when the dirt settled and just a land of death surrounded him. “So Igura set out on a quest to regain his emotions.” Father Maurice went sile...

The Haar, for arguments sake, is akin to dough. It can be moulded and shaped to whatever is desired. It is unique to colour magic in that it can only create an object, it can never thus influence someone. It does bring up an interesting question about why untampered Haar forms into monstrous bodies with a desire to live rather than something inactive. Or perhaps the connotations are too horrifying to further entertain. —Scholarly musings on Haar and its properties, by E.L Venster.

There are mentions of a relic known as the Purple Crown. If it ever did exist, no one knows for sure except for perhaps the Lorekeeper. It is said that the wearer can bend subjects to their will. Further research references other variations of this crown. A question arises. Is the wearer in control or the crown? —Fact or myth? Old tales of Minethria, by Lay C. Konovan.

The Magic of Minethria comes in three parts: That of Ink, scrolled onto a surface to evoke a miracle relevant with its colour. Red births fire as much as it instils rage, while blue heals like the sustaining gift of water. Haar is the mist, it is potential, it is a weave to be spun into what one wishes to create. But the arts; they require submission, finesse. It is an unteachable talent which uses music to bend hearts, performs dance to sway armies, and recites poetry to instil courage. —So you want to be an inspired? Museya textbook on Inspired Magic Theory.

I sighed. “How can I be okay, Mother Merilda? Look at me,” I urged. “What life is there for a cripple? Her brows furrowed and she looked deeply into my eyes. “Listen to me, your life isn’t over, there is yet still much you can do.” I scoffed. “Like what?” “That is for you to discover.”

It is said that there are seven archangels, with the Grand Archon being the first of them. Of the seven, one angel was born deformed and without eyes. Thus, the Grand Archon gifted one of his wheels to this child so that he may see. —Stories of Higher Beings, by Michaela Duritz.

It is currently unknown where the rot comes from. Some theorise that it originates from far below Minethria. I shudder at what its source might be. —Medical record from the first appearance of the rot. 3C212

“Just—give me some time, okay?” Yasmin got up to leave. My hand reacted on its own and grabbed her arm. She stopped, looking down at me.

Within the realm of the Elders, there are three trees of import. The first being the tree of Knighthood, where one either becomes an Elder Guard or Elder Knight. The second tree is that of parturiency, from where those mortal women rife with dormant magic are turned into surrogates for Seeds or Yungbloods. Upon the surrogate’s demise, new-borns will suckle sap from a branch. The final tree is that of ascension so rarely harvested from. The White Lady is the most recent receiver of this gift and now embodies the winter storm. —Excerpt from the “The Elder Wisdom.” Taught in the Sisterhood of the Faithful.

Ievarus blinked listlessly. “I assume that this feeling is… frustration. I do not understand this world, given a quest I am not allowed to fulfil. Am I not allowed to feel frustration?” Ievarus asked plainly. “Quite the opposite; that is a warranted emotion, albeit very human. Elders do not have those kinds of emotions.” “Why?” “Time. When one lives for so long, such things can become wasted. Hate, love, those are such fleeting things to a timeless Elder. Why spend energy on a transient flicker? But they still have purpose; conviction that transcends beyond emotion.”

Curses are more than just magic. They are contracts. No curse is unbreakable for each is written in the ink of condition. Find the condition and you can break the curse. —Introduction to Curses. Introductory study to magecraft in Cleria.

If colour-magic comes from ink and mistmages use the Haar, it begs the question where the Inspired get their magic from? It is suggested that any accomplished creative taps into an untouchable pool of creativity which is shared between all the people. They bring back from this ‘beyond’ their art. I, personally, think this is all a bunch of rubbish. —Spoken by mistmage Gurick during a lecture.

Ludwig the Battle-Inspired followed the example of Heyru of Dusk and found inspiration in war. He flourished his weapons and developed forms to bring art into blades. His dance controlled the flow of conflict and even provided a keener edge to his attacks. The school of Ludwig is said to still exist beyond in Thickwood. —Esoteric histories, by Branlis Norf. 8C304

Over Minethria’s extensive history, there have been some creatures whose veracity is difficult to prove. The Simurgh is one of them. All we know about it is that at the advent of every cycle, this colourful bird bursts into flame and is reborn again. A more scientific lens would suggest that this legend is a representation of the beginning and end of each cycle. —Monsters: The lies and the truths, by Balaby Phox, 6C902.

“Perhaps there is a happy end,” we convinced ourselves. “Perhaps it does show that a good king brings progress.” The land started to bear crops, and the people began to prosper again as the king’s own coffers grew. How easy it proved to crush the audience’s hopes as again, we were reminded of the title of the play: “The Futile Resistance of Mellezi.”

“Would you like to tell me what it was like? Finding their bodies?” I tread cautiously. “It was like opening one of those pop-up books for children. But instead of something loving, I was greeted with wrath.”

Suffering can be beautiful. It brings despair and melancholia, but there is a purity to it that bears unmarred authenticity. The kind that motivates you to help others. Your suffering urges you on, powers your need to help. There is a maudlin beauty to that.”

The snow spotted her and me—it was like a scene from an abstract painting with no story, just emotion. Me, a strange being with white feathers sprouting from scalp and hair of pure white; her, a human broken and dismembered with a gossamer white gown hugging her wilting form and draped over her dismembered limbs; the road before us, a carpet of laden snow made to bring us away from this place of pain. The blanched flakes drifted from above like mourning petals. The crowd watched with impartial gazes, a valley of souls watching me depart from their religious haven. Taking with me proof of suffering as it had no place within their lives.

Rumours can sometimes be harbingers of truth. It is well known that Cleria is not just that which is seen above ground. Some are thoroughly convinced that ancient tunnels and aqueducts run throughout the bowels of Cleria. These constructs hint at a lost culture. Though if any of this merits truth is still questionable. —A study on Cleria’s rise and what came before, by Herman Falls

The fastest way to cripple the work of an Inspired, is to reveal their secrets to admirers and show exactly why the art works. Even more dangerous is to reveal these secrets to every promising student and watch them cripple their own work into derivative nonsense. —Dangers of Teaching, by Joshua Shuh.

There is a sect of shavinu who upon receiving their vision, abandon all connections with their friends and head out into the unchartered woods. Wherever it is that these shavinu head is unknown, but it is suggested that they share in some unknown future of Minethria only they are aware of. Even now, they wait, for the day of their collective deaths. —Thickwood and Its Unknowns, by Linen Frich.

There once were two men who played a game. The first told the other that it would be played to completion and no one could leave the challenge. With a hefted axe, the challenged would strike a single blow upon the challenger. Once done, the challenged would return the blow. Both were divorced from their heads. —Tales of the Broken Knights.

Xelxidon did not originally wield just a sword, but also a shield. It was imbued with the power of the Elder King’s eye and as such, the golden plate with its shut rendition of an eye was called the Sun Shield. When opened, it would sear through all in its gaze with blinding radiance. Where the shield is gone or why Xelxidon abandoned it, no one knows. —Theory and speculations, by Monyr the Scholar.

The Sword of Bone was said to have been made by the remains of an Estrian undead. The bone still lives and its cutting edge is said to be the only way to permanently sever the connection between an undead and the stars. —Weaponry lost to the ages, by Cornyth Abenhaur.

Some insist that the fabled dragon city of Krem absolutely does exist. From this city came the first of the fabled dragon warriors. They drank from the blood of dragons and took upon dark rituals to transform into DragonKin. —Tales of Lost Cities, by Father Lancet.

My heart was removed, the frail thing as crimson as a beet in the large hands of that creature. Even removed from my chest, it beat with a certain desperation. The momentary glimpse I had of it awoke something maternal within me; how small my heart seemed, how intrepid and stubborn for such a small thing. It felt apt to call that thing my heart; a scared little girl hiding in the skeleton of an imposter. The gaping hole in my chest was like a distant ache. Something I was supposed to panic about, but the sensation never came. There was a certain terror from being in such a state. The world of Bravnicka was permanent, and it had rules and foundations that could be relied on. Yet here, I felt as if even my own mind and emotions were unconstrained, distorted and left to roil.

“Thy new heart hast been born from sacred tree. It feedeth off thy will, and shall sustain thee through it. It shalt turn thy form into a worthy vessel for its swollen gloat. Yet, I prithee; a word of caution. Feed its ravenous hunger with all thine ambition, and behold as thy fruit explodeth, spreading its seed in a glorious scatter of flame. Shalt it blossom, the fruit will turn thee and all else into ash.” There was a reserved calmness to the Blacksmith’s poetics, a sense of reverent beauty to the bomb that filled my chest. Be it due to the nature of this frenetic realm or because of my own, I wholly accepted the heart which beat in my chest.

There aren’t many who are known from the kingdom of the Chitons. But Kyelisier, the Vesper Knight, is renowned across Minethria as one of the fiercest fighters. In the form of a humanoid wasp, Kyelisier strikes forward with his rapier. His ferocity is matched by his visage. —Tales of Duran.

It is a rather clandestine part of Elder history, but not all Elders have aligned themselves with the Elder King. What sources I can find suggest that the Blacksmith was once a most noble Elder who forged the weapons of the gods. Now, the Blacksmith lays imprisoned; forced to forge the very chains which bind him, he continues to labour for his king. —Heretical discussions on forgotten history.