Legend XXX – The Night Well

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Beneath the dying twilight, when the world still shimmered like a sick eye, an old stargazer named Serandor wandered down the limestone path into the valley of Veyrun. It was said there stood a well, as old as the first thought of night, and whoever drew from it drew not water, but heaven. Serandor had long since carried the smoke of the stars in his hair and the weariness of ages in his bones, yet his gaze was alert, sharp as the moon's grip on an edge. For weeks he had watched the night stars as they pulsed and grew weaker, as if the firmament were slowly losing its breath. One morning, morning failed to come, and a pale, shimmering twilight settled over the world. Then Serandor knew he had to go, for only a legend can prevail against a legend. And the Night Well was the darkest of all. As he reached the valley, he saw it: the stony rim, cracked like old skin, overgrown with black moss, shimmering like the cold mantle of a new moon. From the depths rose not a mist of water, but a sweet, strange scent that reminded Serandor of that moment when a star burns out and the night briefly holds its breath. He leaned forward. A thin, almost imperceptible movement. A pull. The sky itself seemed to flow into the well, as if it were liquid silver, dripping, dreaming, dying, losing its place. Serandor recoiled in alarm. He looked up. And he saw the truth: stars were being pulled, silently, as if plucked by invisible fingers. Each one that fell left a hole, black as a wound that the light could no longer heal. But Serandor had not come to flee. He had come to understand. And to decide. Legends spoke of a being that lived in the well: a figure who had once been the guardian of the stars, but who, out of loneliness, had begun to devour them like memories one no longer wishes to feel. Serandor spoke into the depths, and his word echoed like a burning thread through the darkness. "Why do you steal the world's light?" A long silence. Then a soft, sorrowful glow. A silvery hand, not truly physical, but spun from night dust, rose from the shaft. A voice, fragile as an old melody, spoke: "Because I am weary. I have borne it since time was young. And now I wish to sleep. In darkness." Serandor closed his eyes. He understood. And he knew that all dreams must end, even those of the stars. "Then," he said, "I will share your burden." He laid his hands on the cold stone. A light that was no light enveloped him. His heart, heavy with years, began to flicker like a dying star. And the night embraced him. When the world awoke the next morning, it beheld a miracle: the stars stood clearer than ever before. For each one now rested in the hands of two guardians: one who had grown weary—and one who had finally found peace, in the midst of the darkness he had never feared. Thus, the Night Well was no longer a well of devouring, but a well of waiting, in which two beings guarded the light of the world until heaven needed them again one day.