THE CHRONICLES OF THE RXANDAPHAEL

Book of Shavethar : The One Who Cannot Die Young

Chapter I: The Breaking of the Seal

In the days when men still ate from wooden plates carved by their grandfathers' hands, when the smoke of cooking fires rose through thatched roofs like prayers to forgotten gods, there existed a kingdom called Rxandaphael. It was a land of red clay and ancient forests, where the earth itself seemed to remember things that men had long forgotten.

(Varlumiel means King in Rxandaphael language, Thazurmek is the Kings real name which means - My voice is upheld by God; when I speak, justice and peace follow. )

The kingdom had known peace under Varlumiel Thazurmek the Wise, a ruler whose strength lay not in his sword arm but in his counsel. At his right hand stood Zepherion, the greatest sorcerer the world had ever known - a man who could bend the very air to his will, who could read the language written in lightning and speak commands to the rain.

But there were others who wielded power in those days, beings who had walked the earth before the first stones of Rxandaphael were laid. They called themselves the Khar'nethian Order, seven sorcerers who had discovered the terrible secret of drawing strength from human suffering. Their magic was fueled by fear, nourished by despair, and they had grown arrogant in their might. They saw themselves as gods among insects, and they treated the people of the kingdom accordingly.

For three generations, the Khar'nethians had terrorized the villages of Rxandaphael. Children disappeared in the night. Crops withered under whispered curses. Wells turned to blood. The people lived in constant dread, never knowing when the shadow of a Khar'nethian sorcerer might fall across their doorstep.

It was Varlumiel Thazurmek who finally said: Enough.

He summoned Zepherion to his throne room on a night when the moon hung red and swollen in the sky. "These demons in human form must be stopped," Varlumiel Thazurmek declared, his voice trembling with righteous fury. "Can it be done?"

Zepherion was silent for a long time, his ancient eyes reflecting the torchlight like pools of amber. "It can be done," he said at last. "But the cost will be great, my lord. To bind such power requires a binding equally strong. It will take all that I am, and all that I have. And even then, the seal will only hold as long as certain conditions remain unbroken."

"Name your conditions," Varlumiel Thazurmek said. "Whatever they are, we will honor them until the sun grows cold."

And so Zepherion set to work. For twenty-one days and twenty-one nights, he labored, inscribing circles of power into the living rock of Mount Karesh, weaving spells that had not been spoken since the world was young. He forged chains from starlight and moonbeams, locks from the essence of oaths and promises. And when all was ready, he confronted the seven Khar'nethians in battle.

The earth shook with the fury of their conflict. Rivers changed their courses. The sky itself seemed to crack and bleed. But Zepherion's power, drawn from the pure wellspring of protective love for his people, proved stronger than the Khar'nethians' stolen might. One by one, he drove them before him, forcing them back toward the cave he had prepared on Mount Karesh.

As he sealed them within, binding them with words of power that burned like white fire, the eldest of the Khar'nethians - a creature called Molurthazad - screamed a prophecy that would echo through the centuries:

"We may be bound, but we are not ended! When the king falls and the guardian dies, when the seal is broken by ignorant hands, we shall return! And our vengeance shall be terrible beyond measure!"

The great doors of worked stone ground shut, and seven locks of pure light clicked into place. Zepherion carved warnings into the mountain itself, in every language known to man: LET WHAT SLEEPS REMAIN SLEEPING. TO BREAK THIS SEAL IS TO INVITE RUIN.

Three days later, Zepherion was found in his tower, his hair turned white as winter snow, his face aged beyond recognition. The binding had taken everything from him. He had just enough strength left to instruct the king on maintaining the seal - rituals that must be performed, offerings that must be made, and above all, the absolute prohibition against approaching the cave.

"As long as you live, my king," Zepherion whispered with his last breath, "and as long as I draw breath, the seal will hold. But warn your descendants: should both our lives end, the seal will weaken. Guard it well."

For forty years, Varlumiel Thazurmek ruled wisely and well. The kingdom flourished. The memory of the Khar'nethians faded into legend, then into myth, then into half-remembered nightmares that mothers used to frighten disobedient children.

And then, in one terrible month, both Zepherion and Varlumiel Thazurmek died.

The new Varlumiel, Varlumiel Thazurmek's son known as Tenivzaruk, was young and untested. He knew the warnings, but he did not truly understand them. How could he? He had never seen the Khar'nethians' power. He had never felt their malice. To him, they were just stories.

This was the world into which Elvukshan was born.

Chapter II: The Cursed Man

Elvukshan was not evil. This is important to understand. He was simply a man marked by fate, carrying a destiny he never asked for and could not escape.

From his birth, there had been signs. He was born during an eclipse, when the sun's face was hidden and the birds fell silent. His mother died bringing him into the world, her last words a confused warning: "Keep him from the mountain. Keep him from the stone. Oh gods, keep him from the mountain..."

The midwives whispered among themselves. The village elder performed cleansing rituals. But Elvukshan's father, a simple farmer named Nirathon ( in Rxandaphael Nirathon means One born from the waters of origin. A deep soul connected to mystery, foundations, adaptability, and flow. I rise from deep foundations), Nirathon refused to believe his son was cursed. He raised the boy with love and patience, teaching him to work the red clay soil, to honor the seasons, to live a good and honest life.

Elvukshan grew into a humble, contemplative young man. He was kind to his neighbors, respectful to his elders, gentle with animals. But there was something behind his eyes, a shadow that never quite lifted, a sense that he was being pulled toward something he could not name.

He was twenty-three years old when the dreams began.

Every night, he saw the same vision: a mountain crowned with mist, a cave mouth like a screaming face, and seven lights burning deep within the stone. And always, always, a voice calling his name. Not threatening, not seductive - just insistent, as inevitable as the tide.

Elvukshan. Elvukshan. Come to us. Break the seal. Free us. It is your destiny. You were born for this purpose. You cannot escape it.

He fought the dreams for two years. He sought help from priests and healers, from wise women and medicine men. He fasted and prayed to the old gods. He tried to stay awake for days at a time, drinking bitter herbs that burned his throat and made his hands shake.

Nothing helped. The pull grew stronger with each passing day.

And then came the night when he could resist no longer. Later, he would remember it like a dream - rising from his sleeping mat, walking through the silent village, his feet carrying him toward Mount Karesh though his mind screamed at him to stop. He was weeping as he climbed, begging himself to turn back, but his body would not obey.

He reached the cave as dawn was breaking, the sky turning the color of old blood.

The warnings carved into the stone seemed to writhe in the red light: LET WHAT SLEEPS REMAIN SLEEPING.

"I'm sorry," Elvukshan whispered to the mountain, to the kingdom, to the memory of Zepherion and Varlumiel Thazurmek. "I'm so sorry. I cannot stop myself."

And he placed his hands upon the seven locks of light.

They shattered like glass.

The sound that emerged from the cave was not a roar or a scream. It was laughter - ancient, cruel, triumphant laughter that rolled down the mountain like an avalanche. The earth beneath Elvukshan's feet cracked and heaved, throwing him backward. He struck his head on stone and knew no more.

When he woke, hours later, the cave mouth stood open like a wound. And from that wound, seven shapes had emerged into the world.

The Khar'nethians were free.

Chapter III: The Darkness Returns

The terror began that very night.

In the village of Rohexthan, closest to Mount Karesh, every well in the settlement suddenly filled with black water that burned like acid. The screams of the villagers as they tried to wash themselves could be heard for miles. By morning, half of them were dead, their skin marked with strange symbols that continued to smoke even after they had breathed their last.

In the town of Oxgledanduo, the grain stores exploded into flames that could not be quenched with water. The fire was cold - men who tried to beat it out found their hands covered in frost, their fingers turning black with frostbite even as the buildings around them burned. The town starved within a week.

In the capital city of Rxandaphael itself, the eldest daughter of Varlumiel Tenivzaruk began to speak in seven voices, none of them her own. She prophesied horrors to come in languages long dead, her eyes weeping blood. The Varlumiel's physicians could do nothing for her.

And everywhere - in villages, in farmsteads, in the deep forests where the wood-cutters worked - people began to see them. The Khar'nethians. Seven figures in robes of shadow and starlight, their faces sometimes young and beautiful, sometimes ancient and terrible, sometimes not faces at all but swirling voids where features should be.

They walked through the kingdom like lords surveying their rightful domain. Where they passed, milk curdled in the breast. Pregnant women miscarried. Strong men fell down dead with looks of horror frozen on their faces. And always, always, the Khar'nethians laughed.

Varlumiel Tenivzaruk was not his father, but he was not a coward. He sent his soldiers against the sorcerers with blessed arrows and consecrated swords. The soldiers never returned. Their weapons were found later, melted into grotesque sculptures that seemed to scream in the wind.

(Varlum means Kingdom or dominion, Varlumiel means King in Rxandaphael Language)

He called upon the Varlum's priests to perform exorcisms and banishments. The priests chanted their prayers and burned their sacred herbs. The Khar'nethians listened politely, then struck them blind for their impertinence.

He offered tribute - gold, gems, livestock, even virgin sacrifices, though this last made him weep with shame. The Khar'nethians accepted the gold and gems as their due, took the livestock for sport (changing the animals into terrible hybrid creatures that still roamed the forests, shrieking), and sent the virgins back transformed into elderly women who had aged eighty years in a single night.

Nothing worked. Nothing helped. The Varlum of Rxandaphael was slowly dying, drowning in supernatural terror.

It was in the third month of this torment that the missionaries arrived.

Chapter IV: The Bearers of Light

They came from the west, three of them, walking the old trade road with staffs in their hands and light in their eyes. Two men and a woman, wearing simple robes and carrying packs that seemed far too light for a long journey.

Their leader was a man called Brother Marcus, who had the weathered face of someone who had traveled far and seen much. His companions were Brother Thaddeus, young and fierce in his faith, and Sister Deborah, whose gentle voice somehow carried more authority than any shout.

They entered the capital city of Rxandaphael to find it a place of mourning and fear. Black cloth hung from every window. The streets were nearly empty, and those few souls who ventured out moved quickly, their eyes downcast, jumping at every shadow.

The missionaries asked to speak with the Varlumiel.

Varlumiel Tenivzaruk received them in his throne room, though he barely looked like a Varlumiel anymore. His robes hung loose on his frame, his face was haggard with sleepless nights, and his eyes held the hollow look of a man who had watched his world crumble.

"You are missionaries," he said. It was not a question. Word of their coming had spread through whispers and rumors. "You preach of a God called Christ."

"We do, Your Majesty," Brother Marcus replied, bowing respectfully. "We preach of the one true God, who sent His son to redeem mankind from sin and death. We bring a message of hope and salvation."

The Varlumiel laughed, but there was no humor in it, only bitter exhaustion. "Hope? Salvation? Look around you, missionary. This Varlum is under siege by powers you cannot comprehend. Ancient sorcerers who feed on suffering, who bend reality itself to their will. What can your God do against such darkness?"

Sister Deborah stepped forward, and when she spoke, her voice filled the throne room like a warm light. "Our God has already defeated the darkness, Your Majesty. Not with sorcery or might, but with love. Perfect love that casts out all fear. The powers you describe are mighty, yes - but they are nothing compared to the One who created the stars themselves."

"Pretty words," the Varlumiel said wearily. "But words will not stop the Khar'nethians. I have tried everything. Weapons, magic, sacrifices, prayers to every god whose name I know. Nothing works. They are too powerful."

"They are powerful," Brother Thaddeus agreed, his young face set with determination. "But they are not beyond the reach of Christ's authority. Let us preach to your people, Your Majesty. Let us share the good news of Jesus. You may find that faith is a weapon sharper than any sword."

Varlumiel Tenivzaruk was silent for a long moment, studying these strange foreigners who spoke with such inexplicable confidence in the face of apocalyptic horror. Finally, he shrugged - a gesture of exhaustion, not disrespect.

"Why not?" he said. "At this point, I will try anything. Preach your message, missionaries. If your God is as powerful as you claim, we shall see evidence of it soon enough. And if not..." He did not finish the sentence. If not, the Varlum would fall regardless.

The missionaries bowed and left the throne room. That very day, they began to preach in the streets of the capital.

At first, few listened. The people of Rxandaphael were too frightened, too focused on survival, to pay attention to foreign preachers talking about a God they'd never heard of. But the missionaries were patient and persistent. They stood in the market squares and spoke of a carpenter who became king(varlumiel), of a teacher who healed the sick and raised the dead, of a savior who conquered death itself.

More importantly, they showed no fear.

When a Khar'nethian sorcerer - Molurthazad himself, the eldest and most terrible of them - manifested in the central square one day, his form shifting between beauty and horror, most of the people fled screaming. But the missionaries stood their ground.

"Begone, creature of darkness," Brother Marcus said, his voice steady and strong. "You have no power here. In the name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, I command you to depart."

Molurthazad laughed, a sound like breaking bones. "You dare command me, little preacher? I who have existed in the world since before birth of the son of your God was even dreamed of? I who have drunk the life essence of thousands?"

"You are ancient, yes," Sister Deborah replied calmly. "But you are not eternal. You are a created being, same as I. And the One who created you has more power than you could ever comprehend."

The sorcerer's form rippled with rage. He raised his hand, and black lightning began to gather around his fingers. The few people still watching gasped and covered their eyes, certain they were about to witness the missionaries' deaths.

But Molurthazad paused. His eyes - when they settled into anything resembling eyes - showed something none of the watchers expected: uncertainty. Perhaps even fear.

"You dare speak that name to me?" he hissed.

"What name?" Brother Thaddeus asked. "Jesus? Yes, we speak it freely. It is the name above all names, the name at which every knee shall bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth."

The black lightning around Molurthazad's hand flickered and died. For just a moment, his form solidified into that of a frightened, aging man - a glimpse, perhaps, of what he had been before he became something monstrous. Then he vanished with a sound like tearing fabric, leaving behind only the smell of sulfur.

The people who witnessed this confrontation could not believe what they had seen. One of the Khar'nethians, who had terrorized the Varlum without opposition, had retreated before these missionaries. Word spread through the capital like wildfire.

Within days, crowds were gathering to hear the missionaries preach. The stories they told seemed impossible - a God who loved humanity so much He became one of them, who allowed Himself to be killed so that death itself could be defeated, who rose from the grave to prove that no darkness could ultimately triumph over light.

But the people of Rxandaphael were desperate for hope, and these missionaries offered something they had not felt in months: the possibility that the Khar'nethians were not invincible after all.

Among those who came to listen was a family from a small farming village on the eastern border of the Varlum. The father's name was Thonelash ( Thonelash in Rxandaphael means One bonded to creation and nature. A soul aligned with the earth, seasons, harmony, growth, and stewardship. Creation responds to my presence) . With him were his wife Elivash, their three daughters, and their son. (Elivash in Rxandaphael means Holiness is my portion. A life set apart for purity, truth, divine alignment, and sacred distinction. I walk marked by holiness.)

The son's name was Shavethar. (Shavethar in Rxandaphael means One in whom early death is cancelled. A life not designed for premature ending, accidents, or untimely falling. I was not formed to die young.)

Chapter V: The Mission of Death

Shavethar was twenty years old, though he looked older. Life as a farmer had given him broad shoulders and calloused hands, and his face had the weathered quality of someone who spent long days under the sun. But his eyes were young - curious and alert, always watching, always learning.

His family had come to the capital seeking refuge. Their village had been one of the lucky ones - spared the worst of the Khar'nethians' attention, though not entirely untouched. Strange lights had been seen on the horizon at night. Livestock had sometimes vanished without explanation. And there were dreams - terrible dreams that left people waking in cold sweats, speaking of voices that called from beneath Thonar.

(Thonar means earth in Rxandaphael)

Shavethar's father had decided to bring the family to the capital, hoping the varlumiel's presence might offer some protection. They had arrived just days before the missionaries began preaching.

From the moment Shavethar heard Brother Marcus speak, he felt something spoke inside him. It was as if he had been waiting his entire life to hear these words without knowing it. The story of Jesus resonated in his bones - a God who had conquered death, who offered protection not through sorcery or might but through faith and love.

He came back to hear the missionaries preach every day. His sisters teased him about it, but his parents understood. There was something different about their son lately, a kind of peace settling over him that they hadn't seen before.

After a week, Shavethar approached the missionaries directly.

"I want to learn more," he told them. "About Jesus. About this faith that makes the sorcerers afraid."

Brother Marcus smiled, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Then learn you shall, my friend. What is your name?"

"Shavethar."

"That is an unusual name. What does it mean?"

"One in whom early death is cancelled," Shavethar replied. "My mother gave it to me. I was born with the cord wrapped around my neck, but I survived. She said God must have plans for me."

Sister Deborah's eyes widened slightly. "Your mother was wise. Perhaps wiser than she knew." She exchanged a meaningful glance with her fellow missionaries.

They began teaching Shavethar and his family the ways of Christ. They spoke of the scriptures, of the miracles Jesus performed, of His death and resurrection. They taught prayers and hymns. They explained the concept of grace - unearned, undeserved love from a God who desired relationship with His creation.

Shavethar absorbed it all like parched earth drinking in rain.

It was during his third week of learning that Varlumiel Tenivzaruk made his announcement.

The Varlumiel had consulted with his advisors, with the remaining priests, and with the missionaries themselves. A desperate plan had been formed. The Khar'nethians drew their power from their sanctum - the very cave on Mount Karesh where they had been imprisoned. If that place could be destroyed, if the source of their power could be severed, they might be stopped.

But someone would have to go into the cave itself. Someone would have to venture into the heart of the Khar'nethians' domain and destroy the seven pillars of power that Zepherion had documented in his final writings.

It would be suicide. Everyone knew it. But the Varlum was dying, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

Varlumiel Tenivzaruk called for volunteers, promising that the families of those who went would be cared for for generations, that their names would be remembered as heroes, that they would receive the Varlums's highest honors.

Fifty men volunteered. Warriors mostly, but also some scholars who knew ancient languages, a few priests who felt called to martyrdom, and several young men who simply wanted to save their families.

Among the volunteers was Shavethar.

His father tried to forbid it. His mother wept and pleaded. His sisters clung to him, begging him not to go. But Shavethar was unmoved.

"This is why I was given my name," he told them. "One in whom early death is cancelled. I was not formed to die young. I believe that with all my heart. If God has protected me this long, He will protect me still."

"But Shavethar," his mother sobbed, "going into that cave is certain death! Even if the sorcerers don't kill you, the journey itself will! The mountain is treacherous, and the cave is said to drive men mad just by entering it!"

"Then I will trust in Jesus," Shavethar said simply. "Brother Marcus says that perfect love casts out fear. I will carry that love with me like a torch into the darkness."

The night before the mission was to depart, the missionaries performed a special ceremony for the volunteers. One by one, they anointed each man with oil, praying over them, asking God to protect them and grant them courage.

When it was Shavethar's turn, Brother Marcus held his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. "You have a strong faith, young man. Stronger than you know. But hear me now: where you go, you will see terrible things. You will face evil in its most concentrated form. Hold fast to the name of Jesus. When everything else fails, when your courage falters and your strength gives out, cry out that name. There is power in it - power the darkness cannot stand against."

Sister Deborah pressed something into Shavethar's hands. It was a book, small but heavy, bound in dark leather.

"This is a Bible," she told him. "It contains the words and teachings of our Lord. We have only three copies, and we give one to you. Read from it when you are afraid. Let it remind you that you are not alone."

Shavethar clutched the book to his chest, feeling its weight like an anchor. "Thank you," he whispered.

The mission left at dawn.

Chapter VI: Into the Mountain

Fifty men began the climb up Mount Karesh. They carried weapons - swords and spears, blessed by every priest in the capital. They carried supplies - food and water, torches and rope. They carried determination born of desperation.

But they also carried fear. No matter how brave they tried to be, each man knew in his heart that he was likely marching to his death.

The first attack came when they were halfway up the mountain.

It started with laughter - soft at first, then building, echoing off the rocks until it seemed to come from everywhere at once. The men gripped their weapons tighter, forming a defensive circle.

Then the illusions began.

Suddenly, each man saw his worst fear made manifest. One warrior saw his wife and children being torn apart by shadow-beasts. A young scholar saw himself buried alive, dirt filling his mouth and nose. A priest saw his god turning away from him, declaring him unworthy.

Screams filled the air. Several men dropped their weapons and fled back down the mountain, their minds broken. Others fell to their knees, sobbing. Three men threw themselves off the cliff, preferring a quick death to the horrors they were witnessing.

Shavethar saw his fear too - saw his entire family transformed into the Khar'nethians, their faces shifting and melting, heard them laugh at him with voices that were theirs and yet not theirs. But even as terror gripped his heart, he remembered Brother Marcus's words.

The name of Jesus.

"Jesus!" Shavethar shouted into the wind. "Jesus Christ, help me!"

The illusion flickered. His family's faces were still twisted and terrible, but now he could see through them, see the deception for what it was.

"These are lies!" he called to the other men. "They're not real! Call on the name of Jesus! He will show you the truth!"

Some of the men heard him. They took up the cry: "Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!"

As they called out that name, the illusions began to fade. Not all at once - the Khar'nethians' power was too strong for that - but gradually, like fog burning off in morning sunlight. The survivors huddled together, still shaking, but with clearer eyes.

They had started with fifty men. Thirty-seven remained.

They continued climbing.

The second attack was more subtle. A sickness fell over the group - fever and chills, weakness in the limbs, blood seeping from eyes and ears. Men began to collapse, unable to continue.

One of the priests who had volunteered moved among them, speaking prayers of healing. Some rallied briefly, but most continued to decline. By the time they reached the cave entrance, another twelve had fallen.

Twenty-five men stood before the mouth of the Khar'nethians' sanctum.

The cave entrance was exactly as Elvukshan had described it in his tearful confession before the (king)Varlumiel (the cursed man Elvukshan had been imprisoned, though more for his own protection than as punishment). The cave stone was smooth and black, seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. Strange symbols crawled across its surface - not carved, but somehow alive, shifting and changing when viewed directly.

"This is it," one of the warriors said, his voice hollow. "This is where we die."

"Then let us die well," replied his companion. "For our varlum."

They entered the cave.

Chapter VII: The House of Horrors

Inside, the cave was impossibly vast. The entrance had seemed like a normal cave mouth, perhaps twenty feet high and fifteen wide. But stepping through was like entering another world entirely.

The cavern stretched before them into darkness that their torches could not penetrate. The ceiling was invisible, lost somewhere high above. And the walls...

The walls were decorated with scenes of such horror that several men immediately vomited. Images of torture and suffering, of bodies twisted in ways that defied anatomy, of souls being consumed by darkness. But these were not paintings or carvings. They were moving, living tableaux - as if the walls were windows into other places where these atrocities were actually occurring.

Worse, some of the men recognized faces in the images. Villagers who had disappeared. Family members who had died screaming. Their own faces, showing their future torments.

"Do not look at the walls!" one of the priests shouted. "Keep your eyes forward! Remember why we're here!"

They pressed on, following the markings Zepherion had left centuries ago - markings that showed the way to the seven pillars of power that needed to be destroyed.

The path led them deeper into the mountain. As they descended, the temperature grew colder, though not in a natural way. This was the cold of the void, of absolute absence. Men's breath froze in their lungs. Their fingers turned blue despite the gloves they wore.

That's when the whispers started.

Each man heard a voice - or voices - speaking directly into his mind. The voices knew their names, knew their secrets, knew every shameful thing they'd ever done or thought. The voices offered bargains: "Turn back now, and we'll spare your family. Stay, and watch them suffer. Leave while you can, and we'll even give you power, wealth, anything you desire."

One by one, men began to turn back. Some walked calmly, as if hypnotized. Others ran, desperate to escape. By the time the group reached the first pillar, only seventeen remained.

The pillar was a column of twisted black stone, shot through with veins of sickly green light. It pulsed like a heartbeat, and looking at it too long made the eyes water and the head ache. This was a concentration of pure malevolent power, and merely being near it made the men feel tainted.

According to Zepherion's notes, the pillars could be destroyed with sanctified weapons and holy prayers. The men set to work, hacking at the pillar with their blessed swords while the priests chanted prayers of banishment.

The pillar screamed making strange sounds that scared everyone.

Not metaphorically - it actually screamed, a sound like a thousand voices in agony. The cavern shook, and from the darkness came... things. Creatures that had no business existing, assemblages of teeth and eyes and grasping limbs that defied description. They fell upon the men with terrible hunger.

The battle was brief and brutal. The warriors fought valiantly, but these were not mortal enemies that could be killed with normal weapons. For every creature they struck down, two more emerged from the shadows. Blood and screaming filled the air.

Through it all, a few men kept working on the pillar. Chips of black stone flew. The green veins began to crack. And finally, with a sound like breaking glass amplified a thousand times, the pillar shattered.

The creatures vanished instantly, along with the screaming. But of the seventeen men who had reached the first pillar, only nine remained standing.

They looked at each other with haunted eyes. Nine men. Six more pillars to go.

"We can't do this," one warrior said, his voice breaking. "We can't. It's impossible."

"Then we die here," another replied. "We've come too far to turn back."

They moved toward the second pillar.

By the time they destroyed it, there were six of them left.

By the third pillar, four.

The fourth pillar killed two more, leaving only two men standing in that hell beneath the mountain.

One was a grizzled warrior named Keludaveton, ( In Rxandaphael language, Keludaveton means: "The One who Completes the Future Life. A man of destiny who finishes what was started by previous generations. My ending births eternity.") Keludaveton is the man who had survived more through sheer stubbornness than anything else. His sword arm was broken, his armor dented and cracked, his face a mask of blood and dirt.

The other was Shavethar.

Keludaveton stared at the young farmer in disbelief. Shavethar was untouched. Not a scratch, not a bruise. His clothes were dirty from the cave, but there was no blood on them - none of it his, anyway. While men all around him had fallen screaming, while warriors twice his size had been torn apart by things that shouldn't exist, Shavethar had walked through it all unharmed.

"How?" Keludaveton gasped. "How are you not dead? I've seen you standing in the path of creatures that should have devoured you. I've watched claws pass through the air where your head should be. How?"

Shavethar's face was pale but calm. In his hand, he clutched the Bible Sister Deborah had given him. "My name," he said quietly. "My name is Shavethar. One in whom early death is cancelled. I was not formed to die young."

"That's just a name," Keludaveton said. "Names don't stop monsters."

"No," Shavethar agreed. "But God does. And I have been calling on His name since we entered this place."

As if to prove his point, a creature lunged from the shadows - all teeth and hunger and malice. Keludaveton tried to raise his weapon, knowing he was too slow. But the creature never reached them. It struck something invisible a few feet from Shavethar and recoiled as if burned, shrieking in fury before disappearing back into the darkness.

"Jesus," Shavethar whispered. "There is power in that name. Just as the missionaries said."

They destroyed the fifth pillar together, Keludaveton striking with his good arm while Shavethar read passages from the Bible aloud. The words seemed to strengthen them both, pushing back the darkness.

But when the sixth pillar fell, Keludaveton fell with it. A piece of flying stone struck him in the chest, and he went down hard. Blood bubbled on his lips.

"Go," he told Shavethar. "Finish it. One more pillar. End this nightmare."

"I won't leave you," Shavethar said, kneeling beside the dying warrior.

Keludaveton smiled, bloody teeth showing. "You won't be leaving me, boy. I'll be going to meet that God you keep talking about. If He's real... if any of this means anything... then I'll be fine. Now go!"

With tears streaming down his face, Shavethar went.

Chapter VIII: The Name Above All Names

The seventh pillar stood in the deepest chamber of the cave, in a space so vast it might have been its own world. The darkness here was absolute, pushing against Shavethar's torch like a physical thing.

And waiting for him were the seven Khar'nethians themselves.

They stood in a circle around the final pillar, their forms shifting constantly - sometimes appearing as beautiful men and women in robes of starlight, sometimes as ancient corpses wrapped in shadow, sometimes as things that had no form at all, just hungry voids in the shape of people.

"So," Molurthazad said, his voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. "One remains. Just one little farmer boy. Of all the warriors and scholars and priests the kingdom sent against us, it is you who survives. How... unexpected."

Shavethar gripped his Bible tighter. His sword had been lost somewhere in the earlier battles, not that it would matter against these beings. All he had was his faith.

"Let me pass," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "In the name of Jesus Christ, let me pass."

The Khar'nethians hissed as one, recoiling slightly at the name. But Molurthazad laughed.

"That name again! You think it protects you, child? You think your carpenter God has power here, in our domain? We are ancient! We have existed since before your God was even conceived! We have drunk the essence of thousands, and we shall drink yours too!"

The other six Khar'nethians began to circle closer. Shavethar could feel their power pressing against him, trying to invade his mind, to fill him with the same terror that had driven so many of the other men mad.

But instead of terror, Shavethar felt... peace.

Everything Brother Marcus had taught him, all the stories Sister Deborah had shared, all the scriptures he had read from this precious book - it all came together in a moment of perfect understanding.

These beings were powerful, yes. Ancient, yes. Terrible beyond measure. But they were not infinite. They were not eternal. They were created things, and like all created things, they were subject to the Creator.

And the Creator's name was a name above all names.

"You know what I think?" Shavethar said, and his voice rang through the chamber with unexpected authority. "I think you're afraid. You keep talking about how ancient you are, how powerful, but you flinch every time I say His name. You retreated from the missionaries. You couldn't stop me from reaching this place. For all your power, you can't touch me."

"Careful, boy," Molurthazad warned, his form flickering with rage.

But Shavethar was not done. He opened his Bible and began to read, his voice growing stronger with each word:

"'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name's sake. And though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...'"

"STOP!" one of the Khar'nethians shrieked.

"'...I will fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies...'"

The Khar'nethians were writhing now, their forms becoming unstable. The chamber began to shake.

"'You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.'"

Shavethar closed the Bible and looked at the seven beings with eyes that no longer held any fear.

"You have no power over me," he said. "You never did. From the moment I was born - the moment I was given the name Shavethar - I was marked as one in whom early death is cancelled. Not by magic. Not by sorcery. But by the will of the God who created everything, including you. And now, in His name, I will finish what I came here to do."

He walked forward, directly through their circle. They tried to stop him - shadows lashed out, voices screamed in his ears, visions of horror flooded his mind. But it was like trying to stop the tide with a basket. Shavethar walked on, untouched, protected by something they could not overcome.

He reached the seventh pillar.

Raising his hand, he placed it on the black stone. And then, with all the faith in his heart, he spoke one word:

"Jesus."

The pillar did not shatter. It did not crack or crumble.

It simply ceased to exist.

One moment it was there, solid and pulsing with malevolent power. The next, it was gone, as if it had never been. The absence was so complete that reality itself seemed to bend inward, filling the space it had occupied.

And with the seventh pillar gone, the Khar'nethians screamed.

Their forms were unraveling, their power draining away. Whatever dark binding had given them their terrible strength was breaking, flowing back into whatever void had spawned it.

"No!" Molurthazad howled. "No! This cannot be! We are eternal! We are-"

"You are defeated," Shavethar said quietly. "In the name of Jesus Christ, you are defeated."

The Khar'nethians' screams rose to a crescendo that should have shattered stone and split the thonar(earth). But to Shavethar, standing in the space where the seventh pillar had been, the sound was distant, muted - as if he were hearing it through deep ocean waters.

Then, like smoke before a wind, the seven beings were swept away, pulled back into whatever dark place they had come from. Their cries echoed and faded, and finally, there was silence.

Shavethar stood alone in the chamber. The darkness was already receding, normal light beginning to filter down from above. The cave was just a cave again - still vast, still eerie, but no longer a portal to nightmare.

He had done it. Against all odds, against impossible opposition, he had destroyed the source of the Khar'nethians' power and banished them from the world.

Now he just had to find his way out.

Chapter IX: The Walk Home

The journey out of the cave should have been easier than the journey in, but in some ways it was harder. Every step, Shavethar passed the bodies of the men who had come with him. Brave men, good men, men who had died horrible deaths trying to save their Varlum.

He said a prayer over each one, commending their souls to God.

Keludaveton was still alive when Shavethar reached him, though barely. His eyes fluttered open as Shavethar knelt beside him.

"You... did it?" the warrior whispered.

"I did," Shavethar confirmed, taking the man's hand.

Keludaveton smiled. "Good. That's... good." His breathing was growing shallower. "Tell them... tell the varlum... we died for something."

"I will tell them you died as heroes," Shavethar promised. "Your names will be remembered."

"And your God..." Keludaveton's eyes sought Shavethar's face. "Is He real? Did I... did I call on Him in time?"

"He is real," Shavethar said firmly. "And He hears all who call on Him. You will meet Him soon."

Keludaveton's smile widened slightly. "Good... good..." His eyes closed, and his breathing stopped.

Shavethar continued on, alone.

When he finally emerged from the cave, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of red and gold. He stood at the entrance and looked back one last time at the darkness within. Then he began the long walk down the mountain.

Word of his return spread faster than he walked. By the time Shavethar reached the base of Mount Karesh, a crowd had gathered. When they saw him - one man, alone, without a scratch on his body - they fell silent in awe.

Varlumiel Tenivzaruk himself rode out to meet him, the missionaries at his side.

"The others?" the varlumiel asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Dead, Your Majesty," Shavethar replied. "All of them. They fought bravely, but the cave... the Khar'nethians were too powerful."

"But you survived," Brother Marcus said, wonder in his voice. "How?"

Shavethar met the missionary's eyes. "You know how. You taught me. The name of Jesus. I called on it when I was afraid, when I faced death, when evil tried to overwhelm me. And He protected me. Just as you said He would."

"And the mission?" Varlumiel Tenivzaruk pressed. "The pillars?"

"Destroyed," Shavethar confirmed. "All seven. The Khar'nethians' power is broken. They have been banished."

As if to confirm his words, a change swept over the land. Those who had been afflicted by the sorcerers' curses suddenly found relief. The princess who had been speaking in seven voices fell silent, then opened her eyes and spoke in her own voice for the first time in months. Across the varlum, the strange illnesses and torments began to fade. The shadow that had hung over Rxandaphael varlum was lifting.

The people erupted in cheers and celebration. They lifted Shavethar onto their shoulders, proclaiming him a hero, the savior of the varlum.

But Shavethar gently asked to be put down. Standing before the crowd, he raised his voice:

"I am no savior! I am just a farmer, the son of Thonelash, a man who was in the right place at the right time. But I will tell you what I learned in that cave, in the heart of darkness: There is a God who loves you. His name is Jesus, and He is more powerful than any sorcery, any curse, any evil that walks this earth. It was not my strength that defeated the Khar'nethians. It was His. And that same strength is available to all of you, if you will only call on His name."

Sister Deborah stepped forward, tears streaming down her face. She held a small flask of oil. "Kneel, Shavethar."

He knelt before her, and she anointed his head, speaking a prayer of blessing over him. When she finished, she placed her hands on his shoulders.

"From this day forward," she proclaimed, "let all who hear of you know your name and what it means. Shavethar - One in whom early death is cancelled. A life not designed for premature ending, accidents, or untimely falling. You were not formed to die young, for God has great plans for you."

The crowd took up the words, chanting them like a litany: "Shavethar! One in whom early death is cancelled! He was not formed to die young!"

Chapter X: The Years That Followed

In the months and years after the banishment of the Khar'nethians, the varlum of Rxandaphael was transformed.

The missionaries' message of Jesus spread like wildfire. People who had witnessed the power of that name, who had seen how the Khar'nethians flinched from it, who had watched Shavethar walk out of certain death untouched - they wanted to know more about this God who could do such things.

Brother Marcus, Sister Deborah, and Brother Thaddeus traveled throughout the kingdom, preaching and teaching. Churches were established in every major town. The old temples of sorcery, the places where dark rituals had been performed, were torn down and replaced with houses of worship for the one true God.

It was not always easy. Some clung to the old ways, fearful of change. Others were skeptical, believing the Khar'nethians' defeat was just a temporary setback and that they would return. But gradually, persistently, the light pushed back the darkness.

And at the heart of this transformation was Shavethar.

He became an evangelist himself, traveling with the missionaries, sharing his testimony. Wherever he went, people gathered to hear the story of how a simple farmer had walked into hell itself and emerged victorious through the power of Jesus's name.

"I am not special," he would always tell them. "I am not a great warrior or a learned scholar. I am just a man who believed what the missionaries taught me - that God's power is made perfect in weakness, that His love casts out all fear. If He can protect someone like me, He can protect anyone."

He married a woman named Elathadei ( Elathadei / Pronunciation: Eh-lah-thah-day / Meaning: Healing and grace follow me; my life brings comfort to many.), Elathadei is one of the first converts in the capital city of Rxandaphael, and they had children - strong, healthy children who grew up hearing stories of their father's impossible journey. Shavethar taught them to read from the Bible that Sister Deborah had given him, the same Bible he had carried into the Khar'nethians' cave.

As the years passed, Shavethar began to write. He documented everything he could remember about that terrible mission - the men who had gone with him, how they had fought, how they had died, what he had seen in the cave, and most importantly, how God had protected him.

His writings were collected into a book, simply titled "The Book of Shavethar - The one who cannot die young." It was copied and distributed throughout the varlum, treasured alongside the chronicles of the Rxandaphael people, and also treasured alongside the scriptures the missionaries had brought.

In his book, Shavethar wrote:

"Let those who read this understand: The Khar'nethians were terrible, yes, and powerful beyond measure. But they were not beyond the reach of God's authority. They feared the name of Jesus because they knew - as all spirits of darkness know - that He is Lord over all. I went into that cave expecting to die. Every rational part of my mind told me I would not survive. But I had faith, and that faith was rewarded. Not because I was worthy, but because God is faithful. He gave me a name - Shavethar, One in whom early death is cancelled - and He honored that name. He has honored it every day of my life since. And He will continue to honor it, for I was not formed to die young. I was formed to live and to testify to His greatness."

The book became a cornerstone of faith for the people of Rxandaphael. When doubt crept in, when fear tried to take hold, they would read Shavethar's words and remember: God is stronger than darkness. Faith can move mountains. Love casts out fear.

Varlumiel Tenivzaruk officially recognized Christianity as the kingdom's faith and decreed that every year, on the anniversary of Shavethar's return from Mount Karesh, there would be a celebration - a day of thanksgiving for their deliverance.

Shavethar returned from the depths of Mount Karesh in the Year 82 After the First Binding, on the 17th Day of Luminar - a day thereafter marked as the Feast of Shavethar, when the people of Rxandaphael celebrate the life that death could not claim.

In the reckoning of later ages, the return of Shavethar is commemorated on the 17th day of March, known as the Day Death Was Denied

The day became known as the Feast of Shavethar, though Shavethar himself was always uncomfortable with the honor. "Celebrate God's goodness," he would say. "Not me. I was just His instrument."

But the people needed a hero they could see, a story they could hold onto, and Shavethar gave them that. Not through his own greatness, but through his testimony of God's.

Account of the Years That Followed: The Legacy

Shavethar lived to be ninety-three years old - a remarkable age in those times, especially for a man who had once walked through the heart of darkness itself.

His children had children, and those children had children, and the family grew into a large and respected clan within the varlum. Each generation preserved Shavethar's book, adding to it their own stories of faith and God's protection.

Some of his descendants became missionaries themselves, traveling beyond the borders of Rxandaphael to share the gospel with other nations. They carried copies of their ancestor's testimony with them, and everywhere they went, people marveled at the story of the farmer who had defeated sorcerers through the power of a name.

Others became scholars, studying the scriptures and adding their own insights to the growing body of Christian thought in Rxandaphael. They wrote commentaries on Shavethar's book, drawing parallels between his journey and the biblical accounts of faith.

Still others became teachers, ensuring that every child in the varlum learned not just letters and numbers, but also the story of Shavethar and the great deliverance. The tale became part of the varlums's identity, reminds them of where they had been and what God had saved them from.

The cave on Mount Karesh was sealed with heavy stones and marked with warnings, much as it had been in Zepherion's time. But now the warnings were different. They no longer spoke of sleeping evil, but of conquered darkness. And carved above the sealed entrance, in letters three feet high, were the words:

HERE THE POWER OF DARKNESS WAS BROKEN

HERE JESUS CHRIST PROVED HIS LORDSHIP

HERE SHAVETHAR WALKED IN FAITH AND WAS PRESERVED

LET ALL WHO READ THIS REMEMBER: GOD IS STRONGER THAN EVIL

Elvukshan, the cursed man who had accidentally released the Khar'nethians, lived out his days in a monastery, serving God and seeking forgiveness. Shavethar visited him often, and the two became unlikely friends. Elvukshan found peace in knowing that though he had been the instrument of the varlum's torment, God had used even that for good - raising up a deliverer and bringing many to faith.

As for the Khar'nethians themselves, they were never seen again in Rxandaphael. But old scholars noted something interesting in the ancient texts: the sorcerers had been bound once by Zepherion's power, which was formidable but finite. The second binding, accomplished through Shavethar's faith and Jesus's authority, was of a different order entirely. The Khar'nethians were not merely imprisoned but broken, their power shattered at its source.

The elders would sometimes discuss this late at night, reading from Shavethar's book by firelight.

"What did he do, exactly, in that cave?" one would ask. "How did he destroy beings so powerful?"

And another would answer, reading from the Book of Shavethar: "He called on the name of Jesus. That is all. But that was enough. For there is no power in heaven or thonar(earth) or under the earth that can stand against that name when it is spoken in faith."

Years became decades, decades became centuries. The varlum of Rxandaphael evolved and changed. Kings came and went. Borders shifted. Wars were fought and peace was made. The world moved on, as worlds do.

But the story of Shavethar endured.

Even now, in whatever land reads these words, you may find echoes of his tale. When people speak of faith overcoming impossible odds, when they tell of ordinary people doing extraordinary things through God's power, when they remember that love casts out fear- they are remembering, whether they know it or not, the legacy of a young farmer who refused to believe that death had any claim on him.

Shavethar.

One in whom early death is cancelled.

A life not designed for premature ending, accidents, or untimely falling.

A man who was not formed to die young.

And he did not.

He lived fully, loved deeply, served faithfully, and when his time finally came - at peace in his bed, surrounded by children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren - he smiled and whispered his final words:

"Jesus. Always Jesus. The name above all names."

And then he went home to meet the God who had protected him, preserved him, and used him to save a varlum.

His story lives on.

And the name he proclaimed - the name of Jesus - lives on too, still powerful, still relevant, still casting out fear and breaking the power of darkness wherever it is spoken in faith.

This is the story of Shavethar.

Remember it well.

THE END

From the Book of Shavethar, final entry, written in his own hand:

"To my children, my children's children, and all who come after: Learn from my life this one great truth: God is faithful. He has given each of you a name, an identity, a purpose. Trust in that. When darkness comes - and it will come, for this world is fallen - do not lose heart. Call on the name of Jesus. Stand firm in faith. Remember that you are loved by the One who created the stars themselves. And know that if He could protect a simple farmer like me, walking into the very jaws of evil, He can protect you too. Be strong. Be courageous. And never, never forget: there is power in the name of Jesus. Power to save, power to heal, power to deliver, power to overcome every darkness. I have seen it with my own eyes. I have lived it with my own life. And I testify to you now, with my final words: It is all true. Every bit of it. God is real. Jesus is Lord. And love - perfect, unshakeable, eternal love - casts out all fear. Live in that truth. Die in that truth. And you will never truly die at all. This is my testimony. This is my legacy. This is my prayer for you all. In Jesus's name, Amen."