#starforgetales

Hidden beyond the northern glaciers was a valley no map recorded.

Dragons came there alone.

Old dragons. Wounded dragons. Dragons missing wings, horns, kingdoms.

They crossed the frozen mountains and vanished into the garden of black flowers.

No one knew why.

When Liora followed a dying dragon through the ice, she expected bones.

Instead, she found hundreds of dragons sleeping beneath enormous flowering trees.

Waiting.

Clockwork beasts. Steam cathedrals. Machine citizens. Forgotten engines. Industrial wonders.

My newest Starforge Tales art pack is now live.

Inside:

• 12 original steampunk and industrial fantasy artworks • clockwork creatures and industrial-fauna • giant engines and impossible machinery • railway halls, festivals, and industrial cities • vintage poster / gouache visual style

Explore a world where engineering, myth, and wonder have become inseparable.

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Beneath the oldest university in the kingdom lay a chamber that appeared on no map.

Students discovered it only by accident.

A loose stone. A forgotten stair. A door hidden behind shelves that had not been moved in generations.

Those who found the chamber never spoke much about it afterward.

Only that it contained a lantern.

It was not an impressive thing.

Its bronze frame was tarnished. Its glass was cloudy with age. No oil fed its flame.

Yet it burned.

For centuries.

The librarians called it the First Light.

No one knew who had lit it.

No one knew how it remained alive.

Every year, the most promising scholar was invited to descend into the hidden chamber and spend a single hour beside the lantern.

Most expected revelations.

Ancient secrets.

Forbidden knowledge.

Instead, they found silence.

When Alaric's turn arrived, he sat before the lantern in disappointment.

Minutes passed.

Nothing happened.

Then he noticed the walls.

Names covered the stone.

Thousands of them.

Students.

Professors.

Archivists.

Researchers.

Every generation of the university.

Each name accompanied by a single sentence.

A discovery.

A lesson.

A mistake.

A truth worth preserving.

Some entries were profound.

Others surprisingly simple.

"Ask better questions."

"Do not mistake certainty for wisdom."

"Every answer creates another mystery."

Alaric spent the hour reading.

When the bell above finally rang, he understood.

The lantern was not magical because it granted knowledge.

It was magical because it gathered it.

Each visitor left one truth behind for the next.

A chain of learning stretching across centuries.

Before leaving, Alaric knelt beside the wall and added his own sentence beneath the countless others.

The flame brightened slightly.

His words joined the collection.

Knowledge survives when it is shared.

The lantern burned on.

The oldest rule of Blackthorn Athenaeum was simple:

Never check out a book that checks you out first.

Most students laughed when they heard it.

Then they noticed the ledger.

Every book borrowed from the library was recorded in a massive volume chained behind the circulation desk. Names, dates, titles—centuries of careful records.

Except sometimes the ledger listed a student before they had entered the building.

A week before her final examinations, Liora found her name written on a fresh page.

Below it was a title she had never seen.

The Last Reader.

Curiosity defeated caution.

After hours, she followed the catalog number through forgotten stairwells and locked archives until she found a thin black volume resting alone on a shelf.

When she opened it, she froze.

The first page described her arrival.

The second described her reading.

The third described her fear.

Every page ahead contained moments from her future.

She turned pages desperately, searching for exams, careers, triumphs, failures.

Instead she found only one recurring detail.

Every future ended with her returning to the library.

Again and again.

Older each time.

Professor.

Scholar.

Archivist.

Keeper.

Finally she reached the last page.

The final entry read:

"When the library is forgotten, she will remember it."

Nothing more.

The book closed itself.

The lights flickered.

Dust drifted through ancient beams of moonlight.

For the first time, Liora understood the purpose of the strange place.

The library did not collect books.

It collected people willing to protect stories.

The next morning her name had vanished from the ledger.

But on a distant page, written in ink that seemed centuries old, she found a new title.

Future Librarian.

The Margin Folk have a saying that confuses nearly every traveler.

"If your words arrive before your heart, let the tea speak first."

Many laugh when they hear it.

Until they witness it.

When two old friends meet after months—or even years—apart, no one rushes forward with stories.

No one asks where the other has been.

No one speaks of hardship or triumph.

Instead, one quietly prepares tea.

The cups are filled.

The bread is broken.

The fire crackles.

And together they sit in complete silence while the first cup grows empty.

Visitors often think the friends must be angry.

Or perhaps they have forgotten what to say.

The Margin Folk simply smile.

Long ago, so the elders tell it, two path-builders wandered the world for many seasons before finally finding one another again.

Each had gathered countless stories.

Each had rehearsed what they wished to say.

But when they finally met, neither could decide which words mattered most.

An old grandmother watching from her doorway poured them each a cup of mountain tea.

"Drink first," she said.

"The road has spoken to you all this time."

"So let your heart remember where it has been before your mouth decides where to begin."

They sat together until the cups were empty.

Only then did one of them smile.

"You've grown kinder."

The other laughed.

"So have you."

The rest of their stories lasted until sunrise.

Since that day, every reunion begins with silence.

For the Margin Folk believe that silence is not the absence of conversation.

It is the place where friendship catches up with time.

And they say that if two friends cannot comfortably share the first cup in silence...

they have not truly come home to one another.

Among the Margin Folk, no path is ever truly finished.

Children notice it first.

A beautiful stone walkway may wind through a meadow.

It may cross streams on smooth stepping stones.

It may climb hills where every rock seems carefully placed.

Yet somewhere along the trail, there will always be one stone left lying exactly as it was found.

Travelers often think the builders simply forgot.

The Margin Folk smile and let them think so.

For the truth belongs to an old story.

Long before the Elders carried living maps upon their skin, the Stones kept maps of their own.

Every pebble remembered the footsteps that crossed it.

Every boulder remembered the rains that shaped it.

Every cliff remembered the names of the birds that nested in its shadow.

When the first Margin Folk began building paths, they proudly turned every stone until the roads were perfectly smooth.

The paths were beautiful.

But the forests grew strangely quiet.

The streams forgot where they wished to wander.

Even the moss seemed uncertain where to grow.

An old child—because the Margin Folk say wisdom sometimes arrives before age—picked up the final stone that remained beside a half-finished trail.

Before placing it, she heard something.

Not a voice.

A memory.

The stone remembered where the spring floods liked to travel.

So she laid it back exactly where she had found it.

The following spring, the floodwaters curved gently around the new path without washing it away.

From that day forward, every path builder left one stone untouched.

Not because the road was unfinished.

But because the land deserved the final word.

Even now, when a Margin child asks why that lonely stone was never moved, the eldest among them smile.

"If every voice has been heard," they say, "who are we to silence the oldest one?"

And if you walk a Margin path with careful feet, you may notice that last untouched stone.

Some travelers step over it.

Some step around it.

The wisest pause for just a moment.

As though greeting an old friend who has been patiently waiting to be remembered.

Among the Margin Folk, every child knows that mountains can hear one another.

Whether they choose to listen is another matter.

The oldest tale begins long before roads, before kingdoms, before anyone thought to draw the world upon paper.

In those days, three young mountains stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the eastern sky.

The tallest wished to touch the stars.

The broadest wished to shelter every valley.

The sharpest wished to see beyond every horizon.

Each believed their dream was the most important.

So they argued.

For one hundred years.

The rivers asked them to be quiet.

The birds flew somewhere else.

Even the clouds grew tired of choosing which peak deserved the first rain.

Still the mountains argued.

One spring, an old Margin grandmother climbed as high as her knees would allow.

She sat upon a stone.

Opened her lunch.

And waited.

Eventually the mountains noticed the tiny woman.

"Aren't you going to tell us which of us is right?" rumbled the tallest.

The old grandmother took another bite of bread.

"No."

The broad mountain frowned.

"Then why did you climb all this way?"

She smiled.

"To hear all three sides."

The sharp mountain laughed.

"But we've been arguing for a century."

"I know."

"You'll never hear the end."

"I wasn't planning to."

The mountains fell silent.

For the first time in a hundred years, each listened—not to answer, but to discover what the others had been trying to say.

The tallest admitted that stars were beautiful...

...but valleys needed shelter.

The broadest admitted that shelter meant little if no one could find the way home.

The sharpest admitted that distant horizons were only worth seeing if someone waited to welcome you back.

The argument ended.

Not because anyone won.

Because every mountain had become a little larger after hearing the others.

The Margin Folk say the three peaks still murmur to one another on windy evenings.

Travelers who camp nearby sometimes swear they can hear deep voices drifting through the clouds.

No one worries.

The mountains are still arguing.

They've simply learned how to disagree kindly.

And if you ever meet an Elder whose living map shows three mountains leaning toward one another, remember this tale.

The world itself has never forgotten the lesson.

The oldest book in the Library of Ashbrook had never been borrowed.

Not once.

Its leather cover was cracked.

Its pages had yellowed with age.

Its spine leaned gently to one side after centuries upon the shelf.

Visitors often asked why it remained there.

"Is it too fragile?"

"No."

"Too valuable?"

"Not particularly."

"Then why doesn't anyone take it home?"

The head librarian smiled.

"Because it belongs exactly where it has always been."

The puzzled visitors usually walked away no wiser than before.

One rainy afternoon, a boy no older than ten approached the great reading table.

He carried a bundle of papers tied with blue string.

"My grandmother says I should copy the first page."

The librarian nodded.

"Then choose a seat."

The boy carefully opened the old volume.

The first page contained no story.

Only names.

Hundreds of them.

Some written in dark ink.

Others in faded brown.

Some elegant.

Some clumsy.

Each followed by the same short sentence.

I learned to read here.

The boy looked up.

"That's all?"

"For the first page."

"What comes after it?"

"The rest of the library."

The boy frowned.

"I don't understand."

The librarian folded her hands.

"Every child who learns their letters copies that page."

"Why?"

"So that no one forgets who taught them."

The boy dipped his pen into the ink.

He slowly added his own name beneath the last entry.

The letters wobbled.

A drop of ink spread across the parchment.

"I'm sorry."

The librarian laughed softly.

"One day someone will see that blot and know a child was nervous."

Years later, scholars traveled from distant kingdoms to study Ashbrook's great collection.

Many admired the rare maps.

Others sought forgotten histories.

But nearly every visitor paused before the first book.

Not because it was famous.

Not because it was ancient.

Because every generation had quietly left a promise inside it.

Knowledge was never meant to belong to one person.

It was something each reader borrowed from yesterday and carried into tomorrow.