Iff u're reaeading thees, eet's no0t a treeck, I juusstt wwaant too geet soomme

bocks. I wish that I had the time to pay for these books, but I will utilize
anything in my arsenal in order to obtain things for free. I am required to meet a
certain length requirement for this document to be considered 'useful'. One has to
ask, useful for who?

In truth, this document would have been well useful to me by its very existence as a
trade commodity with a website who is cold anmd unfeeling. Imagine, they dont even
truly care about the content. Look at what i'm doing right this moment, trading my
own words for the documents of others. And I'd do it again. You may be wondering
though, why are you doing this writer?

Simple. I am going to use the documents, these ill begotten manifestos, to obtain
several expansions for the greatest roleplaying game in the world, Dungeons and
Dragons. I run these games for money, in the hopes that I can dig myself out of
poverty. I have to make this work, and if I can't, then at least I tried. All I can
hope for is that in the event that my subterfuge is discovered, that I will be
looked on kindly by my peers.

If indeed, you have downloaded theis document hoping that it willl be helpful to
you, you are now my benefactor and simultasneously complicit in my trade. At least
Scribd will get their pound of flesh. I fully intend to upload this document at
least once more until I get trhe expansions I want. I'll keep doing it and adding to
it slightly each time until I've milked the platform for all its worth. So, in an
effort to give you something, I have a story written by a robot. Do with it what you
will!

I. THE WIZARD OF THE UNREMEMBERED TOWER

No map marked the tower, and no kingdom claimed it.

It stood at the edge of the world, where the night sky folded like a cloak over
jagged cliffs and the roaring sea. The tower was built of stone blackened by ages,
but it shimmered faintly with blue starlight even on moonless nights—a quiet,
constant reminder that it was older than memory.

Here lived Wysteral Thane, called Wys, wizard of lost pathways and keeper of
forgotten things.

Wys was not the sort of wizard whose beard curled to his feet or whose robes dragged
behind him like mist. His hair was silver, yes, but cropped short. His eyes, bright
as winter lightning, were always focused on something beyond the world—a star unseen
by others, or perhaps an idea that had not yet been born. He was tall, thin, and
carried a staff made from a tree that had never grown on earth. Its grain showed
constellations when held to the light.

He lived alone in the Unremembered Tower, by choice. Not because he disliked

company, but because the world had grown loud, and his magics were quiet. Too quiet
to be heard by those who sought spectacle over subtlety.

Wys had sworn an oath long ago to guard the ancient spells hidden in the tower’s
eight floors. These spells, born from remnants of the cosmos, kept the fabric of
reality from unraveling. They were not glamorous, but essential, like the stones in
a bridge so old no one remembered why it needed crossing.

It was a quiet life.

Quiet, and safe.

But the world beyond the cliffs was shifting, though Wys had not yet realized it.

In the Kingdom of Aurielle, far across forests and seas, a princess dreamed of fire.

And fire, once dreamt by a royal heart, is not so easily ignored.

II. PRINCESS EIRELLA OF AURIELLE

Princess Eirella Lys Aurielle was not a perfect princess, though everyone said she
should be.

Her mother, Queen Lyria, often reminded her:

“Your duty is grace, Eirella, even in uncertainty.”

Her tutors reminded her:

“Your duty is wisdom.”

Her guards reminded her:

“Your duty is safety.”

But Eirella felt her duty was something else. Something unnamed. A yearning in her
chest like a bird beating its wings against a gilded cage.

She was twenty years old, with auburn hair that curled when she was angry and eyes
the strange color of dawn right before the sun rose. She rode horses better than any
knight, read ancient histories by candlelight, and loved wandering the castle
gardens long after midnight.

And for several weeks now, every time she slept, she dreamed of flames.

Not destructive flames—no. These were blue-gold fires, swirling in patterns that
felt like language. A voice—neither male nor female—whispered:

Find the star-forged path, child of the dawn. Find what was unmade.

Each night she woke breathless, her hands glowing faintly with sparks that vanished
as soon as she blinked.

At first she told no one.

Then she told the court mage, Master Orlan.

Orlan had stared at her hands for a long moment, then sighed heavily.

“This is older magic than any practiced in Aurielle. Princess, forgive me, but I
must consult the High Circle.”

But the High Circle did not answer quickly. Magic across the realm had been twisting
lately—lights flickering oddly, birds migrating in strange patterns, wells running
warm even in winter. Dark rumors whispered of prophecies awakening, ancient
enchantments cracking.

The kingdom grew restless.

And Eirella’s dreams grew worse.

One night, she dreamed the castle walls melting like wax, the sky tearing open, and
a shadow stepping through. A shadow that spoke her name.

She woke screaming.

The next morning she saddled her horse, disguised herself as a traveler, and slipped
out of the castle before dawn.

She didn’t know exactly where she was going.

Only that something was calling her.

Something old.
Something powerful.
Something that waited at the edge of the world.

III. A WIZARD INTERRUPTED

Wys was halfway through translating a spell older than the kingdom of Aurielle when
the wards around his tower pulsed.

Someone was approaching.

Not a merchant, not a lost fisherman, not a wandering scholar—those the wards
ignored. This presence was bright, urgent, warm like a sunbeam striking frost.

“Ah,” Wys murmured, running a hand through his silver hair. “So the world has
finally remembered me.”

He set down the crystalline quill he’d been writing with and descended the spiral
staircase. The tower’s lanterns flickered awake as he passed, recognizing his
footsteps.

At the door he paused, pressing his palm to the stone. The wards shimmered open with
a sigh.
Standing at the threshold was a young woman in travel-worn clothes, her hood pulled
low, strands of auburn hair escaping in the wind. Her horse stood behind her,
exhausted but loyal.

She lifted her head.

Their eyes met.

Her dawn-colored gaze widened slightly, and Wys felt every old spell in the tower
stir as though greeting an old friend.

“Are you the wizard they call Wysteral Thane?” she asked.

“I am,” he replied. “And you are far from home, Princess Eirella.”

Her disguise had fooled the world, but not him. The tower recognized bloodlines and
threads of fate.

She exhaled shakily. “Then you know why I’ve come.”

“I might,” Wys said, stepping aside and gesturing for her to enter. “But I would
rather hear it from you.”

Eirella hesitated—just for a heartbeat—then stepped into the Unremembered Tower.

And the door closed behind her with a soft, inevitable thud.

IV. THE DREAMFIRE PROPHECY

The tower’s second floor was a library that spiraled infinitely upward—literally.
Magic thickened the air, making the space far larger than the tower’s outline should
allow. Eirella stared around her in wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” Wys said. “It keeps me honest. Books are better company than kings.”

He motioned her to sit at a table carved from a luminous single piece of moonwood.

“Tell me everything.”

So she did. The dreams. The fires. The voice. The visions of the sky tearing open.

Wys listened without interruption, his fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.

When she finished, the silence felt heavy.

Finally, he said, “You are dreaming of what we call the Dreamfire—the first flame
that existed before creation, before time. It is neither good nor evil. It simply
is. The language you saw is its memory—a record of the universe when it was young.”

Eirella swallowed. “Why me?”

“Because your blood carries an echo,” Wys said softly. “Your lineage is tied to the
Guardians of the Star-Forge. Perhaps without knowing.”

“My mother is from a long line of queens,” Eirella said. “But we have no magic.”

“Not anymore,” Wys murmured.

Her breath caught. “What do you mean?”

He rose without answering and crossed to a shelf near the far wall. After a moment
he selected a book old enough that its binding could have preceded the kingdom
itself.

He opened it to a page showing a sigil—an intricate spiral of gold, blue, and

dawn-color.

“This,” Wys said, showing it to her, “is the Sigil of the Dawnbearing Line. Those
who bear this mark once protected the boundary between worlds.”

Eirella stared at it, her throat tightening. “It looks like… like a shape I’ve seen
in my dreams.”

“As it should.”

“So what does the prophecy want from me?”

Wys closed the book gently. “To awaken something that has slept too long. And to
stop something that has woken too soon.”

Before she could ask more, the tower shook.

Dust spilled from the ceiling.

Then a deep, vibrating voice echoed through the stone:

“WYSTERAL THANE… THE WORLD UNMAKES ITSELF. IT BEGINS.”

Eirella froze. “What was that?”

Wys’s face paled. “A shadow I had hoped would stay asleep.”

V. THE SHADOW OF UNMAKING

The shaking lasted only seconds, but the dread it left hung like a storm in the
tower’s air.
Wys moved quickly now, pulling books from shelves, gathering relics, muttering
spells that glowed and vanished.

Eirella followed him. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Wys didn’t answer immediately. He reached the observatory on the tower’s upper
floor, where glass windows opened to the horizon. Eirella gasped.

A fracture had appeared in the sky—thin as a spider’s thread, bright as lightning

frozen mid-strike. It pulsed like a heartbeat.

“That,” Wys said, “is the beginning of the Unmaking.”

Eirella shivered. “But… what is the Unmaking?”

“Long ago,” Wys said, “before kingdoms, before maps, before you or I or the stars
themselves, there was a force of pure destruction—a void that sought to return
everything to nothing. We call it the Unmaker.”

“Like a… a god?”

“A fallen one, perhaps. A concept. A hunger. No one knows. What matters is that it
was sealed away by the Guardians of the Star-Forge using the Dreamfire. They
sacrificed most of themselves to do so.”

Eirella felt her heart pound. “And now it’s breaking free?”

“Yes. Slowly. But once the fracture widens, reality will unravel like thread.”

“And you?” she asked, voice hushed. “What is your place in all this?”

Wys looked out the window, his expression old—older than the tower, older than the
sea.

“I am the last of the Watchers. It was my duty to ensure this never happened.”

He turned to her.

“But the Dreamfire has chosen you. And that changes everything.”

VI. A PATH WRITTEN IN STARS

Wys led Eirella down the staircase to the tower’s lowest chamber. The air grew
colder as they descended, humming with latent power.

The chamber at the base was circular, lit by floating orbs of pale fire. In the
center stood a stone pedestal etched with constellations.

Wys touched the stone.

It flared.

A swirling pattern of stars burst upward, forming a map suspended in the

air—galaxies, planes, realms, threads of magic connecting them.

Eirella stepped closer, awed. “This is beautiful.”

“This,” Wys said quietly, “is the Star-Forged Path.”

The map shifted until a single point glowed brighter than all others—a crystalline
island floating in nothingness.

“That island,” Wys said, “contains the Heart of Dreamfire. If the Unmaker reaches it
first, all is lost.”

“And you think I’m meant to go there?”

“I don’t think,” Wys said. “I know.”

“But why me?” she whispered.

“Because only someone of the Dawnbearing bloodline can open the gate to the Heart.
And only someone chosen by the Dreamfire can survive crossing the path.”

Eirella’s voice shook. “I’m not a warrior. I’m not a mage. I’m just—”

“A princess,” Wys said softly. “A daughter. A dreamer. And sometimes, those are
exactly what the world needs.”

She stared at him.

“Will you come with me?”

He hesitated.

“I swore an oath to protect the tower and the ancient spells within it. If I leave,
the wards may fail.”

Eirella swallowed hard. “So I go alone.”

“No.” Wys stepped closer. “I will not send you to the edge of creation without
protection.”

He touched his staff to the pedestal.

A doorway formed—an arch of swirling light.

“But once we pass through,” Wys warned, “there is no return until the task is done.”

Eirella straightened her back.

She thought of her mother.
Her kingdom.
Her dreams.

“I’m ready.”

Wys nodded, though concern shadowed his features. “Then stay close.”

Together, they stepped through the doorway.

The world dissolved into starlight.

VII. THE REALM BETWEEN REALMS

They emerged onto a crystalline plain that stretched infinitely in every direction.
The sky was not sky—it was a shifting tapestry of colors, galaxies blooming and
fading like flowers.

Eirella inhaled sharply. “Is this… the Star-Forged Path?”

“Yes,” Wys said. “A realm outside time. Beautiful, but dangerous.”

As if on cue, the ground beneath them cracked. Strange creatures formed from shards
of starlight scuttled toward them—crystal serpents, winged beasts with glowing
veins, shimmering wolves whose eyes burned with cosmic fire.

Eirella stumbled back. “What are those?”

“Guardians,” Wys said grimly. “The Path tests all who walk it. Stand behind me.”

He lifted his staff. Constellations spiraled outward, forming a protective barrier.

The creatures snarled and struck, but the magic held.

For now.

“We cannot fight them all,” Wys warned. “We must reach the first gate.”

“Where is it?” Eirella gasped.

He pointed.

In the distance rose a massive archway made of rotating rings of stone and light. A
flame flickered at its center—blue-gold, like her dreams.

They ran.

The beasts chased, claws glinting in the starry dust.

The ground fell away in places, revealing endless void. Eirella nearly slipped, but
Wys grabbed her arm, steadying her.

“You must feel the Dreamfire,” he urged. “Let it guide your steps.”

“I don’t know how!”

“Yes, you do. Trust yourself.”

She closed her eyes briefly as they ran.

And the path lit beneath her feet.

Wys’s eyebrows rose. “Well done.”

They reached the first gate seconds before the beasts.

“Touch the flame!” Wys shouted.

Eirella pressed her hand to the blue-gold fire. It did not burn—instead it wrapped
around her fingers like silk.

The gate flared open. Light swallowed them.

Behind them, the guardians roared in fury as the gate sealed shut.

VIII. THE THREE TRIALS OF THE DREAMFIRE

The Star-Forged Path was not one place but many.

Each time they passed through a gate, they emerged in a new realm—each stranger and
more dangerous than the last.

And each held a trial.

1. The Trial of Mirrors

The first realm was a forest made of crystal trees. Every branch, every leaf, every
pebble reflected their images infinitely.

Eirella walked carefully. “What do we do?”

“Find your true self,” Wys said. “Or be trapped in reflections forever.”

The reflections whispered, taunted, tempted. Some showed her crowned and adored.
Others showed her broken, powerless, forgotten.

Wys faced his own mirrors silently—images of him as a boy, as a warrior, as a sage,
as a man who had failed more than he had succeeded.

Eirella reached for one mirror—but Wys stopped her.

“Not that one.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it flatters you.”

She exhaled shakily, then looked inward.

After hours—or minutes, time twisted here—she found it.

A mirror with no reflection at all.

Her true self—unwritten, unshaped, free.

She stepped toward it.

Light flared.

The mirror dissolved.

The path opened.

And Wys whispered, “You passed.”

2. The Trial of Shadow

The second realm was darkness. Pure, suffocating, absolute.

Wys conjured a faint orb of light—but shadows swarmed around it ravenously,

consuming the edges.

“Stay close,” he warned.

A voice drifted from the dark.

Why do you fight fate, princess? Why run from the crown you were born to wear? Kings
and queens are made to fall. All things end. Why delay the inevitable?

Eirella trembled. “It knows my fears.”

“It knows mine as well,” Wys said grimly.

Because another voice whispered to him:

You failed your brothers. You failed your teachers. You failed the last Guardian.
You will fail her too.

Eirella reached for his hand.

“We pass together,” she said firmly.

Their light grew stronger where their fingers intertwined.

And the shadows retreated.

A doorway emerged.

They stepped through, both exhausted but unbroken.

3. The Trial of Fire

The final realm was a sun.

Or rather, the inside of one.

They stood on a platform of molten glass suspended above a sea of roaring flame. The
air burned. The heat was unbearable.

Eirella nearly collapsed. “I can’t breathe—”

Wys caught her.

“You must use the Dreamfire. Only its flame can protect you here.”

“I don’t know how!”

“Yes,” he said, “you do.”

She closed her eyes.

The flames roared, reaching hungrily for them.

Eirella reached inward—past fear, past doubt, past every chain she’d carried her
whole life.

And found it.

A spark.
A warmth.
A gentle fire that pulsed with memories of stars being born.

She opened her eyes.

Blue-gold fire swirled around her, forming a shield.

Wys stared in awe. “Eirella…”

She extended her protection to him.

Together, they crossed the sea of fire.

At the center lay a final gate.

Its flame was dying.

“Quickly!” Wys urged. “Before the Unmaker reaches the Heart!”

Eirella touched the flame.

The gate burst open.

They stepped through—

And entered the place where creation began.

IX. THE HEART OF DREAMFIRE

The Chamber of Dreamfire was a vast space where stars floated like petals in the
air. In the center burned a sphere of pure fire—blue, gold, and white—large as a
palace, powerful enough to remake worlds.

But a shadow loomed before it.

Tall. Formless. Endless.

The Unmaker.

It turned toward them.

And spoke.

“Little spark. Little wizard. You are too late.”

The fracture in the sky above the Heart widened.

Reality trembled.

Wys stepped forward, unflinching. “I banished you once. I can do it again.”

The Unmaker laughed—a sound like collapsing mountains.

“You are weaker now, watcher. And the girl is untempered flame. She cannot hold the
Heart.”

Eirella’s pulse thundered.

The Dreamfire whispered within her:

Do not fear the darkness. Darkness fears becoming light.

She raised her hand.

Wys hissed softly, “Eirella, wait—”

But she stepped toward the Unmaker.

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m not tempered. I’m not perfect. I’m not a warrior or a
mage or a legend.”

Her fire glowed brighter.

“But I know one thing.”

The Heart answered her call.

And its flame surged toward her.

Wys! she cried silently.

He didn’t try to stop her.

He only whispered: “I believe in you.”

The Dreamfire engulfed her—

And she became something new.

X. THE DAWNBEARING ASCENT

Eirella rose into the air, her body made of flame and starlight. Her hair streamed
like a comet’s tail. Her eyes burned with creation’s first fire.

The Unmaker recoiled.

“IMPOSSIBLE.”

“No,” Eirella said. “I am the Dawnbearing Flame. And I choose creation.”

The Heart pulsed.

Reality shivered.
And battle began.
The Unmaker unleashed waves of darkness that devoured stars. Eirella countered with
arcs of blue-gold fire that forged new ones. They clashed, each blow shaking entire
planes.

Wys watched, shielding himself with ancient spells. But he felt his strength waning.
If Eirella fell, he would die—everyone would.

The Unmaker struck Eirella with a blow that extinguished galaxies. She faltered,
stumbling in the air, her fire flickering.

Wys shouted, “Eirella!”

The Unmaker hissed triumphantly.

“You are small. You are mortal. You cannot hold the Heart.”

Eirella gasped, dropping to her knees midair.

Maybe it was right.

Maybe she wasn’t enough.

But then—she heard a voice.

Her mother’s.

Your duty is grace, Eirella, even in uncertainty.

Her father’s.

Your duty is courage.

And Wys’s.

Sometimes a princess is exactly what the world needs.

She rose.

Her fire blazed brighter than ever.

“No,” she said. “I’m not alone.”

The Heart flared.

And Wys stepped beside her, lending his magic to hers.

Together, they unleashed a storm of pure creation.

Light engulfed the Unmaker.

Darkness screamed—

And then was no more.

The fracture sealed.

The Heart dimmed, safe once more.

Eirella floated gently to the ground.

Wys caught her before she fell.

“You did it,” he whispered.

She smiled weakly. “We did.”

And then she collapsed into his arms, unconscious but alive.

XI. RETURN TO THE WORLD

When Eirella opened her eyes, she lay in a bed made of starlight.

Wys sat beside her, exhausted but smiling.

“You’ve been asleep for… well, time doesn’t work here,” he said.

“Did we win?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

She relaxed.

Then frowned. “Will I… stay like this? Connected to the Dreamfire?”

Wys hesitated. “It has changed you. But you are still you.”

“Good.”

He offered his hand. “Ready to go home?”

She nodded.

Together they walked to the edge of the chamber. A doorway formed, shimmering and
warm.

“Wys,” she said softly. “What will become of you?”

He looked at the Heart. “My oath is fulfilled. I am free to choose my own path now.”

“Then choose one with me,” she whispered.

He blinked, startled. Then smiled—truly smiled—for the first time in centuries.

“I would like that.”

They stepped through the doorway.

And the world welcomed them back.

XII. A KINGDOM AWAKENS

The Kingdom of Aurielle rejoiced when Princess Eirella returned.

Her parents embraced her. The court celebrated her bravery. Songs were sung, stories
told.

But Eirella told only what the world needed to know.

Not the Dreamfire.

Not the Unmaker.
Not the price she had paid.

Those secrets belonged to her and Wys.

Wys became royal advisor, though he spent much of his time in the castle observatory
with Eirella, charting new stars that appeared after their victory.

The people loved him.

And in time, the world forgot the fear of the Unmaking.

Life moved forward.

Peace returned.

But some nights, Eirella would dream—not of fire, but of stars—and wake with a
smile.

Wys would be waiting beside her.

“Another dream?” he’d ask.

“Yes,” she’d say. “But a good one.”

XIII. THE END… AND THE BEGINNING

Years later, when Eirella ascended the throne, Wys stood beside her—not as a wizard
bound by old oaths, but as her partner, her ally, her equal.

Together they ruled with wisdom forged in starlight and tempered in fire.

And though the world never knew the true story of how reality had been saved, they
knew this:

Aurielle prospered.
Magic flourished.
And the sky above the kingdom shimmered with new constellations—constellations
shaped like a princess and a wizard standing together.

Legends were born.

Songs were written.

And life went on.

Because this was not the end.

It was only the beginning.