The Runebound Guardian
Deep within the ancient woods of Sylvara, where mist clung to the earth like a living shroud, stood Liraeth, an elven warrior of the Aetherial Guard. Her silver hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the faint golden rays that pierced the canopy above. Her armor, forged from an alloy older than the trees themselves, shimmered with cyan runes that pulsed like the heartbeat of the forest. Each glyph was a vow, a binding to protect Sylvara from the darkness that gnawed at its edges.
Centuries ago, the elves had thrived here, their cities woven into the branches and roots of the great oaks. But a blight had come—a creeping shadow born of forgotten sorcery—devouring the land and twisting its creatures into hollow, ravenous things. The Aetherial Guard had been formed to hold the line, their runes granting them strength beyond mortal limits. Liraeth was the last of them.
She stood now at the edge of the Veilwood, where the mist thickened and the air grew cold. In her hand, she gripped a longsword, its hilt shaped like twisted vines, its blade whispering with the echoes of ancient songs. The forest was silent, save for the soft hum of her runes, a beacon in the gloom. She had come to face the source of the blight—a being the elders called the Hollow King, a once-noble elf corrupted by his own ambition.
The ground trembled as it approached. From the mist emerged a towering figure, its form a mockery of elven grace: skeletal limbs draped in tattered robes, eyes burning with a sickly green light. The Hollow King’s voice rasped like dry leaves. “You cannot stop what has already begun, Runebound. Join me, and we will remake this world.”
Liraeth raised her sword, the runes on her armor flaring brighter. “Sylvara will not fall to your rot,” she said, her voice steady as the roots beneath her feet. “I am its shield.”
The battle was swift and fierce. The Hollow King lashed out with tendrils of shadow, each strike met by the arc of Liraeth’s blade. Her runes burned, channeling the forest’s fading life into her strikes. The mist swirled around them, alive with the clash of light and darkness. At last, she drove her sword into the Hollow King’s chest, the runes along its edge exploding in a burst of cyan fire. The creature shrieked, its form dissolving into ash that scattered on the wind.
As silence returned, Liraeth sank to one knee, her breathing ragged. The runes dimmed, their power spent. Around her, the mist began to lift, and the first green shoots broke through the blackened earth. The forest stirred, whispering its gratitude in the rustle of leaves.
Liraeth rose, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The blight was not gone—its roots ran deep—but she had bought Sylvara time. She sheathed her sword and stepped deeper into the woods, her armor’s faint glow a promise that the last of the Aetherial Guard would never falter.