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Legendstorm Duskward Shadow echo
The night sky was not supposed to sound like this.
Storms had always been known for their roar—the crack of lightning splitting heavens, the roll of thunder shaking mountains, and the relentless beat of rain striking roofs and soil. But tonight, above the silent town of Caelwick, no thunder rolled. No lightning streaked across the blackened sky. No rain fell. Instead, the heavens whispered.
It was a sound that could not be explained in simple thousands of voices speaking at once, low as the rustle of leaves yet vast as the sea. They spoke in tongues too old for human memory, syllables that slithered and folded like smoke through the ear. To some, it was unbearable. To others, it was strangely inviting. And to one boy in particular, it was destiny.
The Wanderer of Caelwick
Eryndor had never been the kind to stay in one place. At seventeen, with hair the color of tarnished copper and eyes gray as early morning frost, he was known in Caelwick less for his family—who had long since gone—and more for his constant wandering. He would leave before dawn with a satchel of bread and a sketchbook, following forgotten trails through the forest or climbing ruined watchtowers that dotted the hillsides. His sketches were filled with spirals, knots, circles fractured into shards. None of them made much sense, yet he drew them compulsively, as though his hands remembered something his mind did not.
That evening, as twilight melted into a starless dark, he had been sitting by the edge of the Blackmere Marsh. Frogs croaked lazily, and the water mirrored nothing but the void of the sky. He should have returned home earlier, but something in the air held him there. A taste, faint and metallic, like iron and thunder.
And then the whispers began.
At first, Eryndor thought it was the marsh—wind through reeds, insects buzzing in strange harmony. But when he pressed his palms to his ears, the whispers grew louder. They were inside him, threading through his thoughts, tugging at the knots of his memory. He stumbled to his feet, his sketchbook dropping to the mud.
“Duskward,” the storm hissed. “Duskward… shadow… echo back.”
He froze. The words etched themselves into his skull like carvings on stone. He did not know the meaning, yet his body shivered as though he had always known them. His legs moved before his mind caught up, carrying him toward Caelwick’s lantern-lit streets.
The Village Awakens
Storms had always been known for their roar—the crack of lightning splitting heavens, the roll of thunder shaking mountains, and the relentless beat of rain striking roofs and soil. But tonight, above the silent town of Caelwick, no thunder rolled. No lightning streaked across the blackened sky. No rain fell. Instead, the heavens whispered.
It was a sound that could not be explained in simple thousands of voices speaking at once, low as the rustle of leaves yet vast as the sea. They spoke in tongues too old for human memory, syllables that slithered and folded like smoke through the ear. To some, it was unbearable. To others, it was strangely inviting. And to one boy in particular, it was destiny.
The Wanderer of Caelwick
Eryndor had never been the kind to stay in one place. At seventeen, with hair the color of tarnished copper and eyes gray as early morning frost, he was known in Caelwick less for his family—who had long since gone—and more for his constant wandering. He would leave before dawn with a satchel of bread and a sketchbook, following forgotten trails through the forest or climbing ruined watchtowers that dotted the hillsides. His sketches were filled with spirals, knots, circles fractured into shards. None of them made much sense, yet he drew them compulsively, as though his hands remembered something his mind did not.
That evening, as twilight melted into a starless dark, he had been sitting by the edge of the Blackmere Marsh. Frogs croaked lazily, and the water mirrored nothing but the void of the sky. He should have returned home earlier, but something in the air held him there. A taste, faint and metallic, like iron and thunder.
And then the whispers began.
At first, Eryndor thought it was the marsh—wind through reeds, insects buzzing in strange harmony. But when he pressed his palms to his ears, the whispers grew louder. They were inside him, threading through his thoughts, tugging at the knots of his memory. He stumbled to his feet, his sketchbook dropping to the mud.
“Duskward,” the storm hissed. “Duskward… shadow… echo back.”
He froze. The words etched themselves into his skull like carvings on stone. He did not know the meaning, yet his body shivered as though he had always known them. His legs moved before his mind caught up, carrying him toward Caelwick’s lantern-lit streets.
The Village Awakens
51 pages, Kindle Edition
Published October 29, 2025
About the author
Sarah Long
43 books22 followersSarah Long worked in publishing before giving it all up to move to Paris with her husband and three children. She is the author of And What Do You Do? and The Next Best Thing. Following several years of the Parisian experience, she now lives in London.
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