Legend LV – The Guardian of Hell's Gate

More about Legend LV – The Guardian of Hell's Gate

Deep beneath the roots of the world, where no light has ever been born and even the shadows whisper, lies a place the ancients spoke of only in trembling voices: the Black Gate of Arazhul. It is not a gate in the ordinary sense; it is a tear in the fabric of reality, an ancient maw that has hungered since the beginning of time. The air there is heavy as stifled breath, and the stones themselves seem to murmur the names of the lost. Those who seek the path there will find it only if death itself takes an interest in them. But those who find the way will see him—the Guardian. He bears no name, for names are chains, and a being like him knows freedom only in darkness. Humans later called him Mor'Khal, the Bone Lord, but he did not respond. His body is made of the remains of a forgotten ancient race, bound by a magic older than the word fear. His ribs gleam like polished elven bone, his hands grasp staves forged from metal that never cooled in the sun. A cloak of night hangs heavy over his shoulders, and in his empty eye sockets glow sparks of the fire the gods kindled in the world before departing. It is said that Mor'Khal was not created, but left over. When the worlds were separated—that of the living and that of the damned—he is said to have stood on the threshold, neither dead nor alive, lost between breath and silence. The gods recoiled from him, for he was the only one who did not fit into their order. So they gave him a role no soul desires: to watch. To watch over a gate that was never to be opened—and for those who nevertheless stood before it, to decide whether they would be allowed to enter or whether they would vanish like sparks in a storm. Generations passed, kingdoms rose and fell, and Mor'Khal stood unmoved in the halls of bloodstone. But one day, as the world began to crackle at its edges and the nights grew longer, a wanderer approached the gate. He was a warrior whose soul was consumed by guilt, and his heart had ceased to distinguish between right and wrong. His name was Tharon, and he sought the Hellgate not out of lust for power, but to answer one final question: whether a broken mind could still find redemption, or if only damnation remained. When he saw the burning skulls lining the path and the flames licking at the walls like living tongues, he trembled. Yet he pressed on until Mor'Khal stepped out of the darkness, silent as a thought one would rather not think. The Keeper raised his staff, and time seemed to stand still. No fire stirred, no breath stirred. Only Tharon's heart beat like a drum of fate. "Why do you seek Hell?" Mor'Khal asked not with a voice, but with the clang of his bones that sliced through the room. Tharon fell to his knees. He spoke of his mistakes, the lives he had destroyed, and the hope that had turned to ash within him. He did not ask for salvation—he asked for truth. For a breath, there was silence.