The world was not always as it is now.
Before kingdoms, before magic, before even the first written word, there was a Name. A word so vast, so absolute, that to speak it was to shape reality itself. It was neither whispered nor written—it simply was, the foundation upon which existence stood. It carried the weight of all things: creation and destruction, light and shadow, the very breath of the cosmos.
The ancients called it the First Name. A word without language, without limits. It was neither granted by the gods nor forged by mortal tongues. It simply existed, pulsing at the heart of reality, waiting to be spoken.
But names have power. And power invites ruin.
It began with a single voice.
No one remembers the name of the first speaker. No books record their existence, no statues bear their likeness. Some say they were a king, others a scholar, others still a god made flesh. Perhaps they were all of these, or none at all.
What is known is this: when the First Name was spoken, the world shattered.
Not in fire. Not in war. But in something far worse. Unraveling.
Time collapsed in on itself. Histories twisted, rewritten by the very word that had shaped them. Empires that had stood for a thousand years disappeared overnight. People awoke in lives that were not their own, bearing memories that no longer fit the world around them. Some forgot their own names entirely, their pasts erased as if they had never been born.
The old gods fell silent. The stars blinked, uncertain of their place in the sky.
And in the space where the First Name had been spoken, there was nothing but echoes.
The remnants of the old world—those who remembered the before—fled into silence. They became the first of the Silent Monks, men and women who took a vow to never speak again, lest they, too, unmake the fragile reality that remained. They devoted themselves to a single purpose: to ensure the First Name would never be spoken again. To erase all traces of it. To bury the past beneath silence.
For centuries, they succeeded.
The world settled into its new shape. Kingdoms rose, unaware that they had replaced something else. New languages formed, rewritten over the tongues of the old. Magic was tamed into the Whispering Arts, where even the softest word could shape reality—but only within the careful constraints of what was already known.
But silence is not eternal.
Somewhere, in the heart of the city of Vareth, a whisper stirs.
At first, it is barely noticed. A scribe finds his records slightly altered, a noblewoman wakes up beside a man she does not recognize as her husband. Small, fragmented inconsistencies that people brush away as dreams, mistakes, tricks of the mind.
But then the changes grow.
Memories contradict reality. History shifts beneath the weight of an unknown force. And worst of all, people start speaking words they do not remember learning. A single phrase, repeated over and over, slipping from lips like a forgotten melody:
"The one who spoke."
"The one who will speak again."
"The last voice before silence."
At first, no one understands what it means. But the monks know.
The Silent Order has spent centuries preparing for this moment. They have waited for the Name to stir, knowing that it could never be erased completely. They move swiftly, cutting out tongues, burning books, silencing the whispers before they can spread.
But it is already too late.
The Whisper has returned.
And at its center stands a single man.
A man who has spoken before.
A man who, whether he remembers or not, will speak again.
His name is Elias Vael.
The bells of Vareth will ring in discord. The Silent Monks will rise. And the world, once more, will stand at the edge of its own unraveling.
Because the Whisper is no accident. It is a warning. A plea. A reckoning.
And soon, Elias Vael will remember his Name.
Find out next time on Ancient Legends!