Frozen in Time

Pigsley’s Tavern roared with life every night. Tonight, however, it burst far beyond its seams like never before. Rumors had been floating around for the past few weeks that our quaint little village would have an unusual guest—a Storyteller. Since the reign of the new king, storytellers had been silenced. Their tales were deemed dangerous, forcing their existence to fall into myth. So it was no surprise that the entire village showed up. Ours was a place small enough to go unnoticed by most travelers, and those who did pass through never stayed long. If they noticed us at all, it was with sneers and snickers. Easily weaving my way through the rapidly compacting crowd inside the tavern, I found a seat close enough to both hear and see. In the center of the room, a small stage had been set up—blankets and pillows of vibrant colors covered it, dancing with the shifting lights from lanterns and candles. The air quickly thickened with heat and moisture as bodies pressed together, voices climbing louder in a struggle to be heard over one another. Guesses flew like sparks—what stories would be told, if any? Was there truly a Storyteller among us? Then, through the chaos, a low, deep ring echoed across the crowd. A gong. The sound was subtle at first—almost unnoticeable beneath the din—but each rhythmic strike pulsed louder, fuller, until it seemed to hum through the floorboards and into our bones. Gradually, the conversation faded. People began to turn, drawn in by the hypnotic rhythm. The room quieted until only the soft creak of wood and the distant wind could be heard. Then we saw him. At the heart of the stage sat a man, surrounded by smoke and color. His clothing bore intricate patterns—foreign designs embroidered in vibrant threads that caught the light with every movement. His skin was adorned with painted symbols, and from his pipe rose a slow swirl of sweet, spiced smoke. He made no sound but exhaled with deliberate calm, as if time itself bent to his rhythm. When he was sure all eyes were on him, he gently set the gong’s mallet on the floor beside him. Then, slowly, he turned his head, meeting the gaze of every soul in the room. When his eyes met mine, something inside me froze. He stared for a heartbeat longer than necessary, then continued. And at last, he spoke. His voice was deep and thick, flavored with an accent that hinted of foreign lands and forgotten tongues. “Tonight is a special night. Many years ago—on this very same night—a tragedy occurred. The fall of Faveria.” As he drew from his pipe again, the smoke began to twist and shape itself. It swirled into the form of a familiar continent, then to a grand kingdom long since forgotten—its towers high, its walls gleaming with light. “Legend says this kingdom was the largest stronghold anyone had ever seen… even stronger than the Blood King’s domain. Yet the legend has been all but erased—scrubbed from history like an ink stain. And yet, just over two decades ago, it still thrived.” He smiled slightly, and with another exhale, the smoke shifted again—this time showing gates opening, people pouring in, voices raised in song. “Fortunately for all you lovely folk,” he continued, “our tale does not begin at the end. It begins at the mighty walls of Faveria.” “The kingdom was prosperous and peaceful for many generations, so much so that it drew jealousy from near and far. It was a place alive with wonder, with advancements beyond imagination, and a joy so simple it made outsiders question if such a thing could be real.” The smoke glowed softly with images of families laughing, magic-infused technology, and musical instruments that floated through the air. “But in the months before its fall, Faveria became a beacon to the broken. "Refugees began arriving—first in small groups, then in waves—from every direction, every known kingdom of the time.” “Faveria had become the last safe place.” The smoke formed winding roads, caravans, and broken banners. A woman clutching a child. A man without shoes. “It was ruled by King Lucas and Queen Cathy. And they… were different. They did not simply sit on thrones and issue orders. No. They walked among the people. Helped them with their own hands. They shared meals, carried supplies, healed wounds, and listened.” “They were loved. Truly loved. Benevolent and fair to all who came under their rule.” Another breath. Another cloud of smoke, this time shifting into a castle courtyard where the king and queen knelt beside children, tending to a wounded man. “Their rule was strange by most standards—but undeniably powerful. No one could explain how a kingdom that gave so freely could remain so strong… and yet, they did.” Then the tone shifted. The smoke grew darker. “And then, came the darkness.” The smoke twisted into something colder now—shapes that moved without light, shadows that bled through walls. “There had been rumors. Whispers. Of a bloodthirsty threat sweeping across the continent. A darkness destroying everything in its path. And one morning, those whispers reached the royal chambers.” “The king and queen were woken abruptly by their trusted advisors, each one talking over the other in panic.” The smoke now showed a war room filled with arguing voices and wide-eyed fear. “The King only said, ‘They are here sooner than we anticipated.’” “He and the Queen cleared their chambers and dressed themselves in armor—armor made by the finest smiths in the world, etched in runes of protection. They gathered their council and called a meeting.” “After hours of tense discussion, a letter arrived. Its scent of smoke lingered. Blood stained the parchment.” The storyteller lowered his voice now, and the room leaned closer. “‘To the King and Queen. Your presence is demanded by the Blood King. 'Failure to show up before the sun has set will result in the slaughter of all who attempt to enter your gate and will be strung up by their feet for the crows to feast on their rotting corpses.” The room stayed silent. “Without a word, the king marched to the front gates. The clang of his armor drew a crowd. People followed him, dread clinging to them like fog.” The smoke rose into the shape of city walls and a gathered army. “Thousands of bows were aimed at the gates. And in front of the army stood a lone figure cloaked in a darkness that oozed into the ground around him. His presence was like a void. It drained color from everything it touched.” Then the storyteller inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. The smoke settled. And finally, he said: “And then… The gates of Faveria opened.” The smoke collapsed into a single pulse of light, then vanished entirely. I blinked as the air cleared, my eyes stinging from the sharp scent of spice. When my vision returned, the storyteller was staring at me again. This time, his expression had shifted. There was sadness in his eyes. Something heavy and ancient. He turned back to the crowd. “Before I continue,” he said, “I am in need of a drink. And I’m sure a few fine butts—and some not-so-fine—need a good shifting.” The room broke into light laughter and applause. Movement returned as people stood to stretch and breathe again. Some called for ale. Others whispered theories. I remained still, heart pounding. There was something about his story—about the way he looked at me—that unnerved me. Not because it felt new. Because it felt… familiar.