Legend XLVIII – The Stone King of Dhor-Maleth

More about Legend XLVIII – The Stone King of Dhor-Maleth

In the deepest recesses of the Dhor-Maleth jungle, where light filters through the green canopy in broken shards, the elders tell of a king who once ruled a city whose towers were made of gold and whose walls sang in the evening light. His name is forgotten, for the years have washed it from every mouth, but his title remains: the Stone King. No one knows if he was born of flesh, or if the flesh was merely a whim of the world that decided to breathe life into a rock. All that is certain is that he sat upon a throne made of faces—not masks, as merchants claim, but those of people who had once defied his counsel. They said he loved the truth, but any truth that was not his turned to stone. And so his throne became a collection of voices that never spoke again. The city of Dhor-Maleth grew around him like a longing too great to be named. Its inhabitants built temples, towers, echoing halls, all so their king could see his reflection. But the more grandiose their construction, the less that radiance that once pierced the night shone in his eyes. Then came the Year of Stillness, a year of which nothing is recorded except the ruins that still lie in the jungle like gutted stomachs. Some believe the king heard a word that should never have existed. Others say he spoke the true name of time. Whatever happened, the city fell silent. Its inhabitants vanished as if swallowed by the morning mist. And the king became one with his throne, his body merging with the stone forms that wound beneath him like rivers of frozen souls. The trees returned and reclaimed what was once theirs. Roots crept over his shoulders, entwined his crown, and drank the stone like water. The throne sank slowly deeper into the ground, as if the earth itself wanted to swallow it. But it never succeeded. Some travelers who lose their way report seeing movement in the twilight—a faint, almost imperceptible rise of the stone king's chest. One swore he saw a finger curl, as if listening for a distant sound. And it is said that anyone who falls asleep near the throne awakens with a name on their tongue. Not their own. Not a friend's. But a name heavy as stone, instantly forgotten, as if it slipped from the mind like a drop from a broken bowl. The few priests who still dare to enter the place believe that the stone king is not dead, but waiting. For what, no one knows. Perhaps he looks to the one who can speak the name that even time has lost. Perhaps to the end of all paths. Or to the world finally granting him a new truth—one that doesn't turn him to stone, but redeems him. But until then, he sits there, motionless yet watchful, while the jungle whispers around him and his towers reach for the sky like fingers groping for a forgotten dream. And those who come too close say they feel a breath, cool and ancient, emanating from within the throne, as if the faces beneath him were still trying to speak.