The Great Darkness

Legend III of The Legends of Arcanea

"He was the brightest of us all. That is what makes his fall so terrible—and so instructive. The greatest light casts the deepest shadow." — Lumina, speaking of Malachar

Part One: The Brightest Light

Chapter I: Malachar Lumenbright

Before there was the Dark Lord, there was Malachar Lumenbright.

He was the First Eldrian Luminor—born not from mortal parents but from Lumina's first dream of sentient life. Ten feet of radiant starlight, he walked Arcanea when the world was young, when the forests of Lúmendell were saplings, when the Dwarves had not yet descended to their forges.

Malachar was perfect. Or as close to perfect as a conscious being can be.

His power was immense—he was the Original Reality Architect, able to perceive the fundamental structure of existence and rewrite it at will. Where others saw objects, he saw the Pattern that made objects possible. Where others experienced time as a river, he saw it as a lake—all moments accessible simultaneously.

Lumina made him her Chosen Champion. Her right hand. Her greatest creation.

For ten thousand years, Malachar served the light. He healed the wounded. He taught the seekers. He protected the innocent. He established the first Academy, wrote the first teachings, trained the first mages who would train all who came after.

He mastered all Ten Luminous Centers—the energy channels that most beings spend lifetimes learning to open. He moved through the Gates as easily as walking through doors.

He was beloved. He was trusted absolutely. He was the light made flesh.

And he could see across infinite timelines simultaneously.

This gift became his curse.

Chapter II: The Weight of Infinite Sight

Seeing across infinite timelines meant witnessing endless suffering.

Every death—not once, but in every possible variation. Every tragedy—not in isolation, but in infinite versions. Every failure, every loss, every moment of pain—multiplied across countless parallel realities.

For ten thousand years, Malachar bore this weight. He watched civilizations rise and fall. He witnessed heroes fail. He saw children die, saw love betray, saw hope crumble into despair—again and again, in reality after reality.

He tried to help. He intervened where he could, saving those he could reach, healing those he could touch. But for every life he saved, ten thousand still died in other timelines. For every tragedy he prevented, infinite tragedies continued.