Lae'vuraníe En Thae Jamíar Éllion
(The First Dream of the Kingdom of Jam)
Written in the memory of those who fled fire, shadow, and silence… and built something soft in its place.
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Lónthel ésh drel vúrien —
When the earth was iron, and the stars still bled…
The world then was not a home, but a beast. It devoured kindness and spat out only cruelty. Villages were raised not by hands, but by fire; lives were measured not in years, but in scars. And in this age of unmaking, three souls bled into legend.
The first was called Mavie, though her true name was long erased by ash and ruin.
She was born under the hollow banners of the Rucruthian Empire (Druin Var-Rucruthia) , the Iron Hunger. There, children were not swaddled. They were branded. The cradle was a barracks; lullabies were the screams of prisoners. Mavie's mother died in labor. Her father, a general, named her with a grunt and handed her to the forge-masters.
By the age of five, she could gut a man. By nine, she had led a march into the Ashbarrow Rebellion, stepping over corpses of those who spoke too softly.
They called her Vurel-Ashyan, The Blade Unweeping.
But her soul — her soul had no voice. Only silence.
Once, on the eve of her thirteenth winter, she stood above a ravine piled with the dead. A child had clutched her leg before dying — not in battle, but begging. She had not wept. She could not. So, in the night, she took her sword and broke it upon the empire's altar.
She fled without name, without shoes, without anything but breath.
She did not know peace yet. But her silence felt lighter.
Far to the west, beneath cliffs carved by the ocean's grief, there lived Aurelia, born of House Everette — though she may as well have been born of dust.
Her mother died giving her breath. Her father, the Duke, called her a cursed omen. He wed again, and his second wife bore sons. Strong, clever sons. Aurelia was locked in the eastern tower where the servants did not climb. Noone celebrated her name-day. No one taught her to dance.
But the walls of her tower whispered. They remembered songs older than kings. In the corners of the library, she found books bound in skin and sealed with weeping wax. Magic bled from the pages.
"You are not nothing," the ink told her.
"You are forgotten, which is holier."
She began to write — spells that silenced cruelty, hexes to bend shadow, words that softened the edge of memory. Her stepmother called her cursed. Her father ordered her silence. Her brothers laughed and tore her books.
So, on the night of the crimson tide — when the sea turned red and the wind stilled — she opened every door with a single word.
"Ish'larein."
(Forget me.)
She walked from the manor in silence. Behind her, the mirrors shattered. Her name was never spoken again.
She did not yet know joy. But her breath no longer trembled.
The third was not born in a manor, nor an empire, nor anything at all. He simply… arrived.
Theron Alaric Vexar — or so he called himself — came down from the high mountain passes one spring, barefoot, laughing at the thunder. He claimed he had been born from a joke the gods had told themselves and forgot.
People did not take him seriously. His hair was too wild, his cloak too patched. His mule looked half-dead and his crown was made of twigs.
But behind his eyes was something bottomless.
Some say he had been a prince once — of a kingdom swallowed by the sea. Others whispered he had lived a thousand lives and had chosen to forget all but the last.
He bore no wounds on his skin. But his heart was a shattered cup.
Wherever he went, misfortune followed. Fires. Collapsed bridges. Empty wells. He took the blame and smiled through it. Not because he was foolish — but because he believed he deserved it.
On the day he met the others, he had just been exiled from his fifth village for singing too loudly to a dying tree.
He bowed to them both, eyes hollow, heart wide open.
"I do not wish to rule," he said.
"I only wish to build a place that does not flinch."
Together, in a hidden valley swaddled in mist and shadowed by time, the three built nothing grand. No castles. No throne halls. No armies.
Only gardens. Stones. Shelters. A place where no one asked where you came from. Where the broken were not mended — only welcomed.
Mavie built with hands that once killed kings. Aurelia wrote enchantments that calmed the soil and erased old pain. And Theron — he made the children laugh again.
They called it Thae Jamíar Éllion. No one remembers why. Perhaps it was a word from an old dream. Or perhaps it meant nothing — which made it everything.
The people came. Slowly, then in floods. Not heroes. Not saints. Just the weary.
And though the founders did not yet know it —
They had already begun to heal.
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The candle on Aurelia's desk burned low, its flame swaying gently as the evening winds whispered through the cracks of the old stone tower. The ink on the page had begun to dry, the words curling and fading just slightly at the edges — as though the parchment itself had grown weary.
She closed the worn leather-bound book with care, running her fingers along the spine. Beyond the window, the sky had begun to change — the golden light of day slipping into the deep bruises of dusk. The clouds turned to ash and violet, and the soft hush of the evening settled like dust on everything it touched.
Aurelia sighed, placing her quill aside. Her joints ached from writing too long, and her thoughts were beginning to drift. She stood slowly, stretching out her arms when—
A knock came at the door. Two soft raps.
It creaked open before she could answer. Mavie stepped into the room, the fading light behind her catching on her dark hair and the worn leather straps of her gear. She looked like she'd just come in from the edge of the world.
Mavie: "Aurelia. Wouldst thou walk with me to the market? I've need of good timber from Albagard's shop — for the new frame I've begun. A bit heavy for my shoulders alone."
Aurelia smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek as she moved to fetch her cloak.
Aurelia: "You've come just in time. My ink is spent, and the air grows too still for my liking. Let me tuck this away."
She carefully slid her book into the narrow space between two older tomes on the high shelf — one bound in dragonhide, the other sealed with wax runes — then turned and fastened her belt with practiced fingers.
Aurelia: "Come, then. Let us reach Albagard before he shuts his gates. He'll not wait for moonlight to bring coin."
Together, they stepped out into the cooling dusk, the sky now painted in shades of rust and plum. The bells of the western chapel tolled softly in the distance, calling the townsfolk home, though the market still clung to life in its last hour.
Aurelia and Mavie walked side by side through the old stone streets. The wind carried the smell of roasted nuts and kindling smoke. Horses were being led into stables, shutters pulled down, lanterns lit one by one along the path.
They spoke little as they passed through the heart of the square, their steps echoing gently beneath their cloaks.
The timber hall stood near the edge of the market, built low and wide, with heavy beams and a broad double door blackened by years of sun and rain. A painted sign hung overhead, swaying in the breeze — a carving of a tree split by axe and fire.
Mavie pushed the door open, and the scent of sawdust and fresh pine hit them at once. Inside, the heat of the forge fire still lingered.
Behind the worktable stood Albagard — broad-shouldered, hands thick with old scars, a leather apron tied around his middle. He looked up from his bench, setting down a mallet.
Albagard: "Evenin'. Thought I'd be seein' no soul past dusk. But here ye are, sword-hand and scholar both."
Mavie: nodding "I'm needin' good planks, Albagard. Strong grain, cut clean. This build's not for show — it needs to hold."
Aurelia: softly, with a half-smile "And if you've kindling to spare, I'll take it. My hearth's gone cold, and cold ink makes slow spells."
Albagard gave a short chuckle and waved them to the back of the shop.
Albagard: "Aye, I've just what you're lookin' for. Come, come. The grove's been generous, and my blade's been sharp."
The women followed him deeper into the shop, the light flickering off beams stacked like fallen giants. As Mavie began inspecting the timber with a practiced eye, Aurelia stood close by, the gold of the last light falling across her face.
The room was warm, and for the first time that day, quiet.
Outside, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the earth.
And inside, something gentle stirred — the kind of peace only found at the edge of work, beneath the weight of purpose, among those who had once known fire and blood… and now sought only shelter.
Mavie crouched beside one of the timber stacks, running her gloved hand down the length of a thick ash plank. The grain was clean, the cut straight. She gave a short nod.
Mavie: "This one here'll do. Not warped, not splintered. Got a good feel to it."
Albagard: "Aye. Cut that one m'self two days past. Came from the east grove — tree stood near forty winters 'fore it fell."
Mavie stood, brushing dust from her knees.
Mavie: "She'll be strong, then. Old trees make the best beams. They know how to stand."
Albagard chuckled, low in his throat.
Albagard: "Aye, same can be said for folk. Those who've weathered storm and fire… they don't fall easy."
He moved to fetch rope to bind the planks, and Aurelia wandered a few paces down the shop, her fingers trailing along the edge of a half-carved beam.
Aurelia: "Do you think trees mourn when they're felled, Albagard?"
Albagard: raising a brow "Can't say I know, milady. But I reckon if they do, the ones who become hearths and homes find peace enough."
Aurelia gave a faint smile, one corner of her mouth lifting.
Aurelia: "A fair answer."
Mavie joined her, carrying two narrow boards under her arm.
Mavie: "This'll be enough for the frame. I've got nails and pitch already. Just needed strong wood."
Aurelia: "You've not told me yet—what is it you're building?"
Mavie: glancing away, then answering softly "A resting place. For wanderers. For the sort that pass through and have nowhere to go. I thought… maybe if I build a place that holds, they'll stay awhile."
Aurelia looked at her friend, the flickering lamplight casting soft shadows across her face.
Aurelia: "You always carry more weight than you let show."
Mavie: shrugging "Someone has to."
Albagard returned and began tying the planks into a tight bundle. He slid them toward the cart at the door, then stepped back, wiping his hands.
Albagard: "There you are. Should hold steady for the walk back. Watch your step on the hill — last rain left the path slick."
Mavie: "Thank you, Albagard. I owe you coin and a cup of mulled cider next market day."
Albagard: "I'll hold you to both."
They shared a nod — the kind passed between those who'd known work and war and the weight of time. Then Mavie and Aurelia turned, the cart in tow, and stepped back into the evening air.
The sun had nearly set now, the sky washed in dusky violet and smoldering red. One star had blinked to life above the chapel spire. The wind had grown cooler, tugging gently at their cloaks as they made their way through the quieting streets.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then, as they neared the hill that led back to the outer lane of the keep, Aurelia said softly—
Aurelia: "I'm glad you asked me to come."
Mavie: without looking "Aye… I'm glad you said yes."
And the cart rolled on behind them, creaking in time with their steps — steady, quiet, and full of the makings of something new.
As they turned down the old path toward the outer lane, the cart groaning behind them, a sharp cry cut through the cooling air.
It wasn't loud — not at first — but it was enough to stop them both in their tracks.
Aurelia: frowning "Did you hear—?"
Mavie: "Aye."
Another cry followed. Then shouts. Then the low rumble of feet — many feet — moving toward the eastern square.
They exchanged a glance. No words needed. Mavie dropped the cart's handle and reached for the blade slung across her back. Aurelia's hands hovered near the folds of her cloak where old magic slept.
They followed the sound, weaving through winding alleys and across the darkening street. Ahead, torches were being lit, voices rising — not in joy, but panic.
The crowd gathered fast at the outer wall — dozens, then more, drawn by fear.
Mavie gritted her teeth and pushed forward.
Mavie: "Move! Let us through!"
They slipped through bodies and gasping mouths until they reached the front — and there it was.
A crack.
Not a small one. A great, yawning split in the eastern wall — stone shattered, as if by some massive blow from within. Dust still hung in the air. Parts of the stone trembled like the wall itself was breathing.
Aurelia: in disbelief "Saints above…"
But that wasn't the worst of it.
The sun had dropped past the hills. And now, from beyond the trees — from that dark place outside the gates where light never reached — came the distant, bone-deep sound of howling.
Not wolves.
Not men.
Something else.
Mavie: grimly "Night's upon us. And the veil's grown thin."
She stepped back from the wall, hand tightening on her sword hilt.
Aurelia: "We must warn the watch. The gates won't hold with that breach."
And just as the stars began to blink into place, as the last line of sunlight vanished from the world—
A foul wind swept through the crack.
And with it came the stench of ash… and the first sound of claws upon stone.
(TO BE CONTINUED)