Legend XXIX – The Whispering Altar of Veylun

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In the swamps of Veylun, where the air smells of metal and decay, stands a temple no one wants to have built. Its walls are made of black stone, smooth as mirrors, and no prayer echoes in its halls—only the murmur of water and the crackling of wax that never fades. People avoid this place, but sometimes, when mist lies like skin over the ponds, a whisper can be heard coming from there. It is quiet, almost human, and those who hear it say it is the voice of the altar, which has begun to pray for itself. Long ago, Veylun was a city of statues. Every citizen had themselves immortalized in stone, for they believed memory was stronger than blood. In the center of the city stood the great Altar of Remembrance, carved from a single block of gray basalt. The priests said it could receive words whispered into the stone—and keep the prayers there until they were answered. And so they filled it with supplications, laments, confessions. With each century, it grew heavier, denser, darker. One night, as the rain fell from the sky like ash, the altar shattered. A crack ran through its heart, and from it came a sound like breath. The priests fled. In the morning, they found the temple empty—only the altar stood there, and black water dripped from its crack. The prayers, the elders said, had mingled, words intertwined, until they had formed a consciousness of their own. The altar began to speak for itself. At first, it murmured the old pleas—for mercy, for rain, for love. But soon it whispered things no one had ever said. Words that tasted of longing, of fear. “I remember you,” it breathed, “but do you remember me?” The monks sealed the doors, poured pitch over the threshold, and fled Veylun. Only one remained—a sculptor named Orain, who believed he could redeem the altar by completing it. For weeks he worked by torchlight, chiseling from the crack a face that prayed but could not see. And as he struck, he heard the stone whisper. First names, then songs, then—his own breathing. When he finished the work, the stone figure opened its mouth and said, "Thank you for giving me my voice." Orain shouted, dropped his chisel, and ran out into the marshes. No one saw him again. But ever since, a murmuring prayer has echoed from within the temple, never ending. Sometimes it seems as if the altar is begging for redemption; sometimes as if it is praying for those who cursed it. And sometimes it sounds as if it is laughing. On still nights, when the wind cuts through the mists over the waters, this laughter can be heard as far away as the villages.