A Bard’s Lie Made Flesh”

Lie Made Flesh"

He told tales of dragons and gods. Then one day… they answered.*

A Bard’s Lie Made Flesh

In every tavern between the Spine Mountains and the Sea of Ash, the name Kael the Silver-Tongue carried weight. Not because he was brave. Not because he was noble. But because Kael could make you believe in anything.

He could spin tales so vivid that old men cried for battles that never happened, lovers swore by gods they'd never heard of, and children huddled under blankets at night whispering names of dragons that never lived.

But Kael never believed in the stories himself.

Not really.

To him, words were weapons. Tools. Toys. And the world, full of fools eager to be dazzled.

One night, in a half-broken tavern on the edge of the forgotten village of Braith, Kael stood atop a table, drink in hand, eyes glinting with mischief and misdirection.

"And so," he said, gesturing wildly, "from the belly of the black sea rose Velkarion, the last god-dragon, scales like starlight, teeth that could shear mountains—"

"Never heard of him," grumbled a farmer.

Kael grinned. "That's because none who saw him lived long enough to tell the tale."

The room burst into laughter.

"And what became of this god-dragon?" someone asked.

Kael leaned forward, letting the firelight catch his face just right. “He waits, beneath the stone of the world. Sleeps, until the song of his name reaches his ears again. Until a bard calls him forth with fire and truth.”

A dramatic pause.

Then, mock solemn: “And should that day come, the skies will burn, the gods will kneel, and—”

Thunder shook the tavern.

Everyone froze.

Kael blinked. Coincidence, surely.

But then the fire flared blue.

And a voice—deep, slow, impossibly ancient—echoed from nowhere and everywhere.

“Velkarion.”

The room emptied in seconds. Except for Kael, who stood rooted, the mug slipping from his fingers.

This wasn’t part of the act.

The next morning, Braith no longer existed.

Ash coated the earth. The trees were black skeletons. And at the center of the ruins, untouched by fire, stood Kael—silent, eyes wide, mouth dry, staring at a shape etched into the sky.

A dragon. Not smoke. Not storm cloud. But scale and muscle and wings that stretched beyond the horizon.

Velkarion.

His lie. Made flesh.

Kael fled.

He ran for days, through dead towns and ruined hills. The gods he’d once mocked now stalked the land—half-shaped things of bone and golden flame. They tore temples from the earth. They hunted priests who dared invoke other names. And above them all, Velkarion circled like a god-star, ever watching.

The world was unraveling.

Because of a story.

Because of him.

By the time Kael reached the high city of Nareth, the people already knew his name.

Not as a bard.

But as a herald. A prophet. A cursed oracle.

Some begged for blessings. Others threw stones. Most just wept.

The royal guard seized him, shackled his hands, and dragged him before the Archseer.

She was old—older than the city, some claimed. Eyes milky with time, hair like spun snow. She studied Kael as if reading the last page of a book she hadn’t meant to finish.

“You called him.”

Kael laughed, broken and bitter. “I made him up.”

“No,” she said. “You remembered him.”

That silenced him.

She stood, leaning on a staff carved with runes no longer spoken.

“There are words older than memory, Kael. Some stories are not fiction, but locks**—seals—chains. You did not invent Velkarion. You freed him.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered.

“Intent is meaningless to ancient things,” she said. “But there is still a path.”

Kael leaned forward. “To stop him?”

“To unmake the tale,” she said. “To sing the truth. Not the one that dazzles. But the one that wounds.”

He didn’t understand then. But he would.

They sent him alone into the Vale of Whispers, where the first songs were born.

The land was quiet there. Too quiet.

It wasn’t empty—Kael saw echoes of old gods walking through stone, dragons slumbering beneath rivers, spirits dancing between trees. They didn’t touch him. But they watched.

He wandered for days, seeking the story’s root. The lie beneath the lie.

And in the hollow of an ancient tree, he found it.

A scroll. Bound in scaled leather, pulsing faintly with warmth. Ink that shimmered with starlight.

The first telling of Velkarion.

It was short. Brutal. Honest.

Velkarion, god of ruin, born of betrayal, fed on worship, slain by silence.

That was the truth.

Not that he slept.

But that he was dead.

And that stories—like Kael’s—resurrected him.

He fell to his knees. Wept. Tore the scroll in two.

And the world shuddered.

The skies cracked open.

Velkarion screamed—a sound of mourning and fury—and plummeted to earth.

But he did not crash.

He unraveled.

Like mist. Like a dream at dawn. His body broke into stardust, and the gods that had marched behind him crumbled into wind.

The fires died. The madness stopped.

The lie was dead.

Kael returned to the world, thinner, older, quieter.

He no longer sang of gods or dragons.

He told stories of farmers. Of broken hearts. Of kindness that cost more than gold.

He became dull in the eyes of the crowd.

But the earth healed.

And sometimes—at the edge of sleep—Kael could still hear Velkarion’s voice, not angry, not cruel…

…but thankful.

For the silence.