Step into the world of Elyndor. Magic, intrigue, and hidden truths await you in this high fantasy tale.
An Invitation into the Shadows
The room was silent. Not the ordinary silence of empty halls, but one that watched—as if even the air itself decided what to reveal and what to conceal.
A uneasy feeling spread through your stomach and deepened as the heavy iron door closed behind you. Silent. Final.
Alone.
You didn’t know who had brought you here. You didn’t even know if you had been invited—or if you had simply… been taken.
A few steps ahead, the figure that had accompanied you paused. Or had they?
Dark clothing, no insignias. No face to remember—half hidden under fabric, only the eyes visible. Black eyes. Or empty ones.
“Wait here,” the figure said softly.
Then they vanished. Just as silently as they had appeared—as if they were nothing but a shadow, or part of the darkness itself.
A shiver ran down your spine.
You turn around—and only now does the room truly reveal itself.
Had it been this bright all along? Why had you looked toward the door when all of this lay behind you?
Tall walls of dark stone towered above, intersected by narrow lines of light. No torches, no open flames—just a muted, unnaturally calm glow.
And at the far end of the room, she sat.
Not on a throne. Not really. The seat was simple, almost unremarkable, and yet everything around it seemed staged to center on her.
Miriana.
You didn’t need anyone to tell you who she was. You simply knew. Her name felt as familiar as your own.
She did not move. Her gaze rested on the person before her.
Only now do you truly notice the scene.
A man sat before her. Well-dressed, clearly of noble birth. His posture tried to show pride—but his hands betrayed him.
They trembled.
It seemed he had been here for some time. As if you had missed the start of a conversation. And the thought lingered that you were meant to be here, right now, at this exact moment.
“You do not understand what you are rejecting,” the man said. His voice firm. Too firm—and yet calm, practiced.
“My house has stood over these lands for generations. I offer you influence, resources, access to—”
“To what exactly?” Miriana asked calmly.
Not loud. Not sharp. And yet her words cut through his as if they had never existed.
The man swallowed, regained his composure.
“Gold. Contacts. Access to circles even you cannot enter. You know how valuable an alliance with my family would be.”
A barely perceptible smile touched Miriana’s lips.
“In return, I ask nothing impossible,” he continued.
Her gaze barely lifted.
“The Golden Dawn is to decide more selectively in the future. To reject certain requests. And prioritize others.”
He stepped closer.
“My requests.”
Silence fell over the room. Heavy, almost tangible.
For a moment, it felt as if Miriana’s gaze was not on him, but on something behind him. Or perhaps… through him.
“So you want us to choose who deserves help,” she said calmly.
“I want you to choose wisely.”
Again, that barely-there smile. Not friendly. Not mocking. Simply knowing.
“The Golden Dawn exists so anyone may ask for help,” she replied softly. “Not so someone can decide who deserves it. We serve neither nobility nor common folk. We serve those willing to pay their price.”
The man laughed softly, though his voice turned colder.
“Naivety does not suit you. You have power. I offer you more of it.”
He stepped even closer.
“And all I ask is a little… influence.”
Silence.
“So you believe you understand what you speak of,” Miriana finally said. A brief pause. “What you speak with.”
The man lifted his chin, a final attempt to reclaim control.
“I believe you are wise enough not to decline such an offer.”
Silence again.
Power, Memory, and the Price of Influence
Then Miriana raised her hand slightly.
No threat. No visible force. Just a movement—and yet something changed. Not in the room, not tangibly, but in the meaning of things themselves.
The man frowned.
“What…” His voice faltered. “I…”
His words lost their hold, as if someone erased them before they could even be spoken.
He blinked, looked around, searching for something that had just slipped away.
“I… I am…”
His voice broke. For the first time, genuine fear was there.
“Who… am I?”
His gaze grew emptier—not consciously, but as if something was being removed. Layer by layer.
Miriana observed him motionlessly.
“Influence,” she repeated softly.
A faint flicker appeared in her hand. Not a flame—something raw, formless.
“You believe power can be traded. But you do not understand…”
A breath.
“… that it can be rewritten.”
The man stepped back.
“No—”
But even this word no longer fully belonged to him.
“Your name,” Miriana said calmly, “exists only as long as it is remembered. Your house exists only as long as someone remembers it.”
He staggered.
“That is impossible—” he gasped.
“Is it?” Miriana asked, her voice bittersweet.
A trace of warmth suddenly filled the air. No fire—just a faint play of light. Raw. Untethered. And yet perfectly controlled.
“Our lives are only stories,” she continued. “And stories can be rewritten.”
Something inside him broke.
His posture lost all firmness. His clothing suddenly felt foreign—too fine, too significant for someone he no longer was.
“My family—”
Miriana raised her hand slightly.
An image formed in the middle of the room.
A woman sat at a table. Children played in the afternoon light. A man stepped through the door. She smiled. “You’re late, darling.” He kissed her, stroked a girl’s head. A father. A husband. Not him.
The image faded.
The nobleman inhaled sharply.
“No…”
“Your family is only your family if it remembers you,” Miriana said softly. “But they remember a loving husband. A kind father.”
A brief moment.
“Not a noble blinded by imagined power. Not you.” Miriana paused. “Who are you?”
He collapsed.
His clothes were now plain, worn. His hands rough.
“You sought influence,” Miriana said calmly. “Now look at it.”
“Who… am I…?” he repeated, lost, broken.
She did not answer. The question no longer mattered.
His pride fell from him like something that had never truly been part of him.
“Please…” he whispered. He didn’t even know what for.
Miriana slowly lowered her hand.
And with it, everything he had been disappeared. Not with a bang, not with a scream, but quietly—as if he had never existed.
As if he had never been noble.
He smiled.
Thanked her for the meal he now held in his hands like a precious treasure. Tears filled his eyes.
“You are too kind… My family will enjoy this feast.”
Then he vanished into the darkness.
An Invitation
Miriana wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and sat back down.
Silence returned.
“The Golden Dawn,” a voice beside you said, “is what the world is allowed to see.” You flinched slightly.
The figure from the beginning had returned. You hadn’t seen when they came.
“An order that acts, mediates, protects. A face.”
A brief glance at Miriana.
“But behind this face exist the Silent Needles.”
The figure stepped closer.
“Decisions are made there that no one may see.”
A breath.
“And beneath… begins what even many within the Needles do not understand.”
A barely noticeable smile appeared under the mask.
Miriana’s gaze lifted. And met yours.
“Beneath them work the Shadowblades,” she said calmly.
Direct.
You wanted to speak, to ask—but your voice failed.
“You have seen how easily reality can be shaped,” Miriana said, and the figure beside you stepped closer. So close you could feel their breath on your face.
“You have seen something you were not meant to see.”
The figure hesitated. “And therefore—”
“Yes,” Miriana interrupted. A single word—and everything changed.
“Thalon was meant to see this.”
Silence.
Then Miriana rose. Slowly, deliberately. Every movement carried weight. Not physical. But in meaning.
“Most people live their lives without understanding that they are guided,” she said calmly as she approached you. “By hands they never see. By decisions they never hear.”
She stopped. Close enough for you to feel her presence. Your skin tingled slightly.
“You now stand at a point where you can decide whether to continue believing… or to begin seeing,” Miriana continued.
A faint flicker of light danced in her hand.
“The question is not whether you are part of it.”
Her gaze left no room for doubt.
“The question is only…”
A trace of a smile.
“… whether you are ready to accept it.”
Silence.
Then she turned slightly away.
“If you leave, you will forget what you have seen.”
One look back.
“If you stay… you will become part of the Shadowblades.”
Her gaze was calm. Inescapable.
“So the question is…”
Whether you are ready.
That was a high fantasy story from Elyndor
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I, Raven Morrigan Hawke, create Elyndor, a world full of hidden paths, whispering forests, and ancient secrets. Every illustration and story draws you deeper—toward brave adventurers, glowing crystals, and places where light and shadow dance together. Join me on the journey through this poetic fantasy world and discover what waits behind every hill, every tree, and every artifact.