//------------------------------// // Chapter R1: What Little is Left // Story: The Final Account of the Dark Arts (Anniversary Edition) // by JinxTJL //------------------------------// In the year following our patron Mistress’ banishment, sworn through hushed breaths by the surviving few as the Anathematic Eclipse, the Solar Tyrant, in all Her brutality, saw fit to further extend our suffering. Her displeasure with what some would call unsavory arts, as some may further befit, was never so evident as in the time after the thrones were divided. Sol Invictus, so named for Her unflinching cowl of cruelty even in the face of the many impossible woes laid at Her hooves, made the following decree: that any school of magic or spell of harmful effect that infringes upon the rights of sanctity, the self, and the soul are henceforth outlawed to varying extents. Her farcical agenda was soon after made clear, her lies exposed for their revolting truth as Her dogged order of justiciars spread across the lands from Her seat of ill-gotten power, razing the existence of our arts wherever their soiled hooves met ground. No institution devoted to the other side of magic, large or small, was spared. The Willful Sinners were all but annihilated; their discreet temple of mindfully forbidden knowledge hidden in the Hollow Valley was collapsed on top of them, burying lives and irreplaceable tomes alike. Their solemn statute to watch over the light from the dark was betrayed, and all they fought to protect was forgotten. May She grant them peace. The Precipice in the depths of the Smoky Mountains was torn asunder; its latent connection to the Underworld was disrupted by the Holy Archmagus, leaving its patrons on the other side with no tribute to offer. None hold hope for their return; there will be no pity for those who cannot pay the toll. May She grant them peace. They Who Opened The Door were ambushed in the night, their throats slit, and their minds lost to unconsciousness within the Dream Realm. If there is peace to be found in the formless expanse with the Dream Mistress, then may they find it, if only to spare Her the sorrow. May She grant them peace. The Thestrals in their entirety were driven from their homes and into the deepest hiding, though some whisper that their very race has been taken hostage. There is no price that would pay their bail; this persecution is a sole toll taken in hatred of our Lunar Patron, and there is little hope for a return to equality. May She grant them peace. We are now few and far between; the once merely reviled—now hated and hunted—scholars who survived have only done so by squirreling themselves away in impossible places, sworn never to let the tainted light of day touch their fur for whatever empty time they may yet eke out. I write this with no small amount of bitter irony, as it must surely be a mockery of fate that I alone would escape the attack that destroyed my cabal and stole the lives of my friends and family. May She grant us all peace. I am Sun Shadow, he who hid in the shadow of the burning sun that touched those unworthy, who was left to pass on what history has deemed fit to blot. To what little may be saved, I will dedicate what is left of my withering life. Dark magic is not a mistake. It is hardly even a sin. May She find peace.