Blancslieth: Prologue to The Demise of Mourndream - XxLastOfMyKindxX - Wattpad

Story cover for Blancslieth: Prologue to The Demise of Mourndream by XxLastOfMyKindxX

Blancslieth: Prologue to The Demise of Mourndream

XxLastOfMyKindxX

LECTURES 182
Votes 41
Parties 7
Durée 1h 5m

LECTURES 182
Votes 41
Parties 7
Durée 1h 5m

XxLastOfMyKindxX

In the thawed tundra of Bāranok, Durven and Maffe hope for news of the brewing storm of black magic. The Mountains of Dusk to the north harbor the entrance to Jovandur, tunnels of the Witch-folk, who are planning something sinister. However, when Maffe disappears in the night, it is up to Durven to determine what the demons of Jovandur want with his friend. Can he endure the beginning of the end and return to his king unscathed?

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Sallmunik sighed again, then stepped back to peer down into Maffe's eyes. His hand came to rest upon the dwarf's shoulder. "There are limits, love, to even the mightiest of empires, but I rejoice to inform you that this day is not one that we must fear. No mortal horse can outrun Jovandur's wolves, if indeed this human has a horse." He paused, but the belittled form before him remained wordless. The crimson demon lord continued, "Nevermind; he is already dead. Now, my dear, are you ready to join our brethren within the Void? Can you sense Blancslieth's mightiness stirring beneath your feet? Are you prepared to be consumed by the beast of yore?"

'Blancslieth,' Durven demanded mentally. 'What is this Blancslieth...?'

"Yes."

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Cover, story, characters, and world all created by me.Tous Droits Réservés

Table des matières

7 chapitres

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Slide 1 of 10

𝗕𝗲𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝗼𝗼𝘁𝘀 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 cover

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𝗕𝗲𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝗼𝗼𝘁𝘀 | 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Beneath the roots lies a realm unspoken, where shadows breathe and rivers run black. A single step too far unravels the veil between worlds, turning play into curse, and innocence into exile. Beyond the roots, the air itself conspires, forests whisper of forgotten kings, and demons walk as both beasts and men. Yet above that abyss rises a kingdom of warmth, a fragile jewel cradled in sunlight. Its streets awaken each dawn in a riot of color: banners ripple, stalls spill with fruit and cloth, and fountains laugh with crystal spray. Children dart through blooming gardens, their laughter ringing louder than bells, while elders sit beneath arching roots, telling stories of brighter days. Here, joy is stitched into life itself. The baker greets with sugared bread, the blacksmith's hammer sings with the town musicians, and couples dance when lanterns glow like fallen stars. Festivals turn nights into oceans of song, where drums thunder and torches paint the sky in fire and gold. In this place, hope does not hide-it parades, it feasts, it laughs. The people call their home a sanctuary, untouched by sorrow, where each day begins with promise and ends in peace. To live here is to believe, if only for a moment, that darkness is nothing more than a distant dream. But beneath their feet, the roots stretch into silence. For every blossom hides its shadow, and every feast masks a silence that waits. The kingdom may be a cradle of joy, but its foundation drinks from the same soil where nightmares stir. Here, survival is no gift. Every choice is a bargain, every path a trial. What seems human may wear another face, and what seems monstrous may hold a broken heart. Secrets buried for centuries stir in the soil, twisting destiny tighter with every breath. This is not a tale of crowns or kingdoms, but of a world where light is fragile, where hope withers, and where even the roots that bind the earth tremble before what waits below.