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  Hear now, children, the tale of Ervand the White, the greatest of mages, and how he became Ervand the Mad, whose folly cost him all.

  Long ago, in an age of conquest, when Velmora, Empress of Blackthorn stretched her iron grasp across the lands, there stood a city of unmatched beauty and splendor. It was a place of tall spires and golden domes, of shining streets and wise rulers, a city where scholars and artisans lived in harmony. This was the Jeweled City, and its ruler was King Sylvester the Ever-Wise.

  For many years, Sylvester ruled with cunning and fairness, and his people flourished. But the Blackthorn Empire was ever hungry, and soon, word reached the Jeweled City that Velmora the Merciless was marching, her legions a black tide rolling over the world.

  No walls had withstood the empire’s might. No fortress had held against its war engines. And the King, ever-wise, grew afraid.

  First, he summoned his astrologers, those who studied the stars and read omens in the heavens. They cast their runes, peered into the night sky, and consulted their ancient scrolls. Their advice was solemn:

  “Make prayers and sacrifices, beseech the gods for their favor, and they may turn the Blackthorn Empire aside.”

  And so, King Sylvester did as they advised. He emptied the temple coffers, burned fragrant offerings upon the altars, and sent forth his most pious priests to pray day and night.

  Yet, the stars did not shift, and the heavens did not answer.

  The Blackthorn legions marched ever closer.

  Next, he summoned his consulars and diplomats, the wisest tongues in the realm. They counseled him to speak with the conqueror, to send envoys with gold and silver, offering tribute in exchange for peace.

  So the King obeyed, sending his finest ambassadors with chests of coin and rare treasures. They bowed low before Velmora the Merciless, offering gifts beyond measure, and pleaded for mercy.

  But Velmora did not believe in mercy.

  And so, the envoys returned—or rather, their heads did, packed neatly in crates of cedarwood, the scent of their perfume failing to mask the stench of death.

  The King despaired. The walls would not hold. The gods would not intervene. Diplomacy had failed.

  And the Blackthorn banners darkened the horizon.

  Finally, in his desperation, he summoned his court mages, the wisest in the land, and bade them find a way to save the city.

  The mages convened, their robes whispering as they gathered, speaking in hushed voices long into the night. Some suggested illusions, to hide the city from view. Others proposed enchantments, to shatter the weapons of their foes.

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  But none knew a spell that could truly turn aside the storm.

  None but one.

  Ervand the White, the King’s most trusted mage, stepped forward. His face was grim, his voice like steel.

  “There is a way,” he said, “but the cost will be great.”

  And so, while the city prepared for war, Ervand prepared for his spell.

  For a month, he did not sleep.

  For a month, he did not rest.

  By candlelight and starlight, he worked, scrawling runes of power, whispering incantations older than the mountains. He did not stop to eat nor drink, and when he walked, his steps faltered, for he leaned ever heavier upon his staff.

  The other mages begged him to stop.

  “Magic is not endless,” they warned. “A mage is not a god.”

  But Ervand did not listen.

  And then, at last, the day came.

  The Blackthorn army camped at the base of the mountain, their banners standing like a forest of spears, their campfires stretching out like stars fallen to earth.

  The night air carried the clang of armor, the neighing of warhorses, and the distant, haunting beat of war drums that pounded like the heartbeat of doom.

  Within the city, no one slept.

  And in the tallest tower of the palace, Ervand the White stood at his worktable, hands trembling over his scrolls.

  Then came the sound of hurried footsteps.

  The great doors to his chamber burst open, and King Sylvester himself entered, his royal cloak trailing behind him. But tonight, there was no regal composure—his crown sat askew, his face pale, his eyes wide with desperate hope.

  “Hurry, Ervand!” the King pleaded. “The enemy is at our gates!”

  Ervand did not lift his gaze from his work. The runes upon the parchment before him glowed a dim blue, flickering like dying embers. His voice, hoarse from chanting, was barely above a whisper.

  “Tomorrow, your city will be safe.”

  The sun broke over the mountains, gilding the Jeweled City in gold.

  But to the west, the sky was dark with storm clouds of war—the banners of the Blackthorn Empire.

  The enemy advanced.

  And then—light.

  A single blinding ray of radiance flared from the highest tower, piercing the morning sky.

  There, at the very peak of the palace, stood Ervand the White.

  His staff of ivory and gold rose high, his voice thundering across the battlefield.

  “Let no blade strike this city.”

  The wind howled.

  “Let no fire burn its stones.”

  The earth trembled.

  “Let no force break its walls.”

  The sky cracked with power.

  And then, the chanting began.

  In a language not meant for mortal ears a voice echoed through the heavens. The air itself shuddered. The world bent beneath his will.

  And then—a blinding flash.

  A great barrier had risen around the city—a crystalline dome, as clear as glass yet harder than the strongest steel.

  The Blackthorn soldiers struck the barrier—and their blades shattered.

  They launched catapults—but the stones rebounded and crushed them instead.

  The Jeweled City was safe.

  The people cheered.

  The King wept with joy and rushed to thank the man who had saved them all.

  But when he arrived, he found only a husk.

  The spell had drained Ervand—not just of mana, but of life itself.

  And the King, in his sorrow, did not yet realize the greatest tragedy of all.

  For no one could leave the city.

  No doors to the outside world could open. No gates could swing wide. The people of the Jeweled City, safe from their enemies, were now prisoners of their own salvation.

  And so, the Blackthorn army left, for what use was a city they could never enter? The war moved on, and the Jeweled City remained behind, untouched, untaken… lost in time.

  To this day, travelers speak of it, shimmering on the horizon like a mirage, a glistening jewel atop a mountain. Some say the wind that sweeps across its walls carries the voices of ghosts, crying from within—begging for release, or at least the freedom to die.

  But all who hear the tale know the lesson it carries:

  “Magic is not endless.”

  “A mage is not a god.”

  “And those who forget this lesson will pay the price.”

  “In much more than silver or gold.”

  Thus ended the tale of Ervand the White, and so began the legend of Ervand the Mad Mage and the Jeweled City.

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