The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the wooden slats of his room, Argolaith stirred from his sleep. His body ached, a familiar stiffness in his arms and legs from the relentless training the day before. Yet the ache did not bother him—it was a reminder of his progress, of the countless hours spent perfecting every swing of his blade.
Sitting up, he stretched, rolling his shoulders and flexing his hands. The calluses on his palms felt rough against his skin, but they were badges of his determination. He let out a deep breath, his thoughts already racing.
That was a good night's sleep, he muttered. But what should I do today? Should I continue training with my sword, or should I study instead?
His gaze drifted to the corner of the room, where a stack of books sat neatly on a wooden table. The spines bore titles he had read and reread, from histories of ancient kingdoms to the mysteries of magic he would one day wield. One title in particular caught his eye—The Chronicles of the First Age. He had always been fascinated by the tales of the old world, the creatures that once roamed Morgoth, and the gods who shaped its lands.
I think I'll study today, he decided. The creatures of old always intrigued me.
Argolaith rose, washed his face with the cold water from a basin near the window, and dressed quickly. He strapped his sword to his back out of habit—his weapon was as much a part of him as his own limbs—and headed for the library, a place he had come to know as well as the forest.
The library stood at the center of the town, a tall, imposing building of stone and oak. Inside, the scent of old parchment and polished wood filled the air, a fragrance that brought Argolaith a sense of peace. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched before him, each filled with knowledge waiting to be discovered.
As he wandered through the aisles, his fingers trailed along the spines of the books. Some were familiar, their covers well-worn from his repeated visits. Others were new to him, and he made a mental note to explore them another time. But today, something unusual caught his eye.
On a lower shelf, hidden behind a much larger tome, was a small, dusty book. Its cover was dark and cracked with age, and it seemed almost out of place among the neatly arranged volumes around it.
What's this? Argolaith murmured, crouching to pull it free. I've never seen this one before. Maybe it was tucked behind the others all this time.
He wiped the dust from the cover, revealing the title: The Legends of Morgoth.
Huh. I wonder what this is about, he said, turning the book over in his hands. It's old, that's for sure. It must have been here for years.
Settling into a chair by the window, Argolaith opened the book carefully. The pages were yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible. The words seemed to pull him in, each line weaving a tapestry of history and wonder.
In the beginning, there was a creature, and its name was Venencia. Massive beyond comprehension, it towered over mountains, its shadow stretching for miles. It drank entire lakes in mere moments and moved with a power that shook the very earth. Venencia was the first creation of the gods, their attempt at a perfect being. But Venencia was too violent. It destroyed everything in its path, sparing neither mountain nor meadow, caring for nothing—not even itself.
Frustrated by their failure, the gods sought to temper Venencia's destructive nature. They created another creature, one meant to live alongside it in harmony. But Venencia, true to its nature, destroyed this companion without hesitation, consuming it as if it were mere prey.
Desperate, the gods turned their attention to the dragons. Born of fire and stone, the dragons were mighty and numerous, their power second only to the gods themselves. But even the dragons were no match for Venencia in its prime. It took eons of struggle, countless battles fought across the continents, before the dragons finally brought Venencia to its knees.
When Venencia fell, the dragons paid a heavy price. Of the 10,000 created, only 100 remained. Exhausted, they retreated to the hidden places of the world—volcanoes, ocean depths, and distant peaks. There they slumbered, untouched by time. Whether they still live is unknown, for they have not stirred in millennia.
Argolaith leaned closer to the book, his mind racing with images of towering beasts and fiery battles. He turned the page, eager to read more.
With Venencia defeated, the gods turned their focus to new beings, ones with shorter lives who would take initiative to shape their world. Thus, they created the elves, beings born with innate magic and the curiosity to master it. Peaceful and long-lived, the elves thrived, building great cities and exploring the far reaches of Morgoth.
Yet among them, one elf sought more. Dissatisfied with the natural cycle of life and death, he pursued immortality, delving into forbidden magics. This elf, whose name has been lost to time, discovered a spell that kept him alive but not truly living—a state between life and death. He called this power Black Magic.
The elf's experiments grew darker as he sought to perfect his craft. He tested the spell on creatures with weak life forces, creating beings that were neither fully alive nor fully dead. Some disintegrated in sunlight, feeding on the blood of their own kind. Others became mindless husks, obeying only his commands. The most peculiar, however, became skeletons—soulless beings with only a glowing stone for a heart.
In time, the elf cast the spell on himself. But in doing so, he lost his reason, consumed by an endless hunger for knowledge. He became the first lich, Zolgrich, and disappeared into his laboratory. Legends say he was last seen 200 years ago, taking a sleeping dragon into the frozen wastes of Morgoth.
Argolaith's breath caught in his throat. The story felt almost too surreal to be true, yet the details were so vivid, so haunting. He turned the page again, finding a new chapter: The Birth of Humans.
It was 5,000 years after the elves were created that the gods brought humans into the world. Unlike elves, humans were short-lived, without magic, and fragile by comparison. Yet they were clever and resourceful. They learned to hunt, to craft weapons, and to build shelters in even the harshest conditions.
Their ingenuity drew the gods' attention. On a fateful day, the gods appeared, pricking their fingers and letting their blood fall onto five ancient trees. For years, the event went unnoticed—until a human felled one of the sacred trees. The sap that flowed from its trunk awakened something within him.
Drawn to the presence of four more trees, the man collected their sap and mixed it with his own blood. His body changed, his spirit awakening to the magic within. He became the first human to wield magic, igniting the Era of God's Judgment.
As Argolaith reached the end of the chapter, he closed the book gently, his thoughts swirling. The tales within its pages felt more like truth than legend, as if they were echoes of a forgotten past. He returned the book to its place on the shelf and made his way to the librarian's desk.
Excuse me, Argolaith said, do you know anything about that book? The Legends of Morgoth?
The librarian, an elderly man with a kind smile, looked up from his work. That old thing? he asked. It's been here as long as I can remember. I'm not sure where it came from.
Argolaith nodded thoughtfully. Strange. Well, thank you. By the way, what's your name?
Athos, the man replied, extending a hand.
It's nice to meet you, Athos. My name is Argolaith.
And it's nice to meet you too, Argolaith, Athos said. Good luck with your studies.
As Argolaith left the library and began the walk back to his house at the edge of the forest, his thoughts lingered on the book.
When was it written? he wondered aloud. But the question quickly faded as his focus shifted to the day ahead.
I still need to practice with my sword, he muttered, quickening his pace. The forest awaited, and so did the future he was determined to forge.