Legend LX – Avar Noctis, the Priest of Bound Eternity

More about Legend LX – Avar Noctis, the Priest of Bound Eternity

Deep beneath the crumbling heart of the ancient imperial city lies a vault untouched by a ray of sunlight. There, the air smells of cold stone, of iron, of time turned to dust. Drops glide from the ceiling arches like the languid heartbeat of a world long since ceased to live. Here once wandered not a demon, not a creature from Alb, but a human—a priest whose faith was stronger than kingdoms. His name was Avar Noctis. And though centuries have passed, he still stands in this crypt, arms outstretched like a gate—neither dead nor alive, but trapped in the rhythm of eternity. Avar was not always a guardian of death. In his youth, he healed the sick, offered comfort, and spoke words that planted hope like seeds in despairing hearts. People said his hands were warm as spring water, and his voice touched even those who had given up believing. But one night the plague came, silent as a whispered prayer. Children fell silent, mothers whispered farewells into empty cradles, and even the priests fell—one by one. Avar pleaded with the heavens, but received only silence. And from that silence grew despair, heavy as lead. When he finally stood in the hearts of the dying, he promised the gods everything—time, soul, name—if only the world would not have to die any longer. But it was not the gods who heard him. Something deeper listened, something ancient that knew more hunger than mercy. It offered salvation, but not through life—but through stillness. Avar accepted the offer, blinded by the desire to save even one more child. In the same breath, the plague ended, not through healing, but because no one else died. A victory without joy, a miracle without jubilation. The world stood still—in silence. And Avar remained, alone among bones, voices, and prayers that were never answered. His skin aged, but it did not decay. His eyes deepened, gleaming like wax flames that refuse to die. Pain, guilt, memory were visible in them. Not a monster—but a man who had paid and lost. Skulls piled up around him like bright moons, each a name he knew, each a promise he couldn't break. The air was filled with whispers, like the breaths of those suspended between worlds. Some find him, driven by guilt, greed, or the hope for a miracle. Those who seek only power lose themselves—not in death, but in oblivion. Their voices flow into Avar's endless burden, and their bones become more silent stones in the sea of white. But those who come with something true—a pain, a name, a loss—can receive something: peace. Not easy, not free, yet bright as a drop of light in a tomb. Avar demands no blood, only one thing: memory. Those who sacrifice their darkest self lose a piece of themselves—but gain silence.