Short Stories in Arcanthria - pTr

[pTr]

Welcome to Short Stories in Arcanthria, a collection of glimpses into a world suspended between sky and crystal, order and rebellion, light and shadow. Arcanthria is a realm of five floating islands—each carved from ancient stone and held aloft by ley lines and ethereal crystals. Here, every citizen bears a crystal in the back of their right hand, its colour marking their place in a rigid caste—and their fate in a society where magic is both currency and chain.

Within these pages, you will meet those who dwell in the soaring spires of Eldraxis, where the Violet Sovereigns and White Ascended rule with divine authority—and those who hide beneath the verdant canopy of the Whispering Thicket, where outcasts and rebels weave secrets in the undergrowth. You will glimpse the clang of Ironreach’s forges, the murmurs of drift-mark traders, the hush of the Hollow’s hidden glades, and the distant thunder of a god’s awakening.

Some tales explore a single moment—a soldier’s choice as the Sovereign Spire’s gates clang shut, a smuggler’s flight through moonlit branches, an oracle’s warning whispered in a mistbound fen. Others span years, tracing the rise and fall of hidden factions, the shifting colour of a crystal, the spark of hope that refuses to be snuffed out. Each stands alone, yet all are threads in the vast tapestry of Arcanthria—a tapestry that trembles on the brink of revolution and divine reckoning.

May these stories carry you through sky-bridges and shadowed tunnels, into council circles and secret shrines. May you feel the weight of crystal and the thrill of forbidden magic, the cold gaze of gods and the fiery resolve of those who dare to challenge them. And may you, too, find in these pages a spark of your own rebellion—and the promise that even the smallest voice can echo across the Aether.

— E. J. Chigbrow (pTr)

 

[Jay2up]

Hi I’m a pen spinner any pen spinners here ?

 

[pTr]

The bells of Eldraxis tolled nine times—nine peals for the ninth hour of penance.

Sera knelt in the shadow of the Sovereign Spire, scrubbing ash from the alabaster tiles with a rag soaked in vinegar and melted snow. Her hands were raw. Blood stained the fibers. The soot never truly came off—the crystals embedded in the tiles always held the memory of fire.

Just like her.

Above her loomed the Spire’s core—an impossible structure of crystal and stone, a needle of geometry piercing clouds. Within it lived the Violet Sovereigns, their bodies so saturated with magic they no longer touched the ground. They hovered through gilded corridors, sustained by ley-lines and enforced silence. Their word was law, and their gaze was judgment. Sera didn’t look up. Not when the patrols passed. Not when the bells fell quiet. To look up was arrogance. And her crystal—embedded in the back of her right hand like everyone else’s—did not permit arrogance. It was dull gray. Low-caste. The stone of the Unseen, the Unworthy. The Gray were servants, diggers, ash-scrubbers. To be born Gray meant death in silence, service without record.

But there was something wrong with Sera’s crystal. When she was younger, it had glimmered once. Just once. Not gray. Something else. A deep red that flickered under moonlight like coal about to catch. She’d told no one. Not even when it happened again three months ago. Not even when she found the shard.

It had been a cold dawn in the purification trench. The others had left early—too many burn marks on their hands from improperly disposed spellstones. Sera stayed. She liked the quiet. She liked the way the ley-lines pulsed just under the grate, whispering through her boots. That morning, a rat had scurried past, knocking loose a tile. Behind it: the shard.

The colour struck her first. Not purple or white or green—not the usual caste-bound shades. No. This was red. Deeper than ruby. Almost black. It hummed when she picked it up, soft as breath, hot as embers. When she held it near her crystal, her own stone flickered—just briefly—and matched it. She’d nearly thrown it away in fear. Instead, she swallowed it. Not out of madness—out of survival. The White Ascended could smell magic on the skin. But not inside the body. That was the only hiding place she had. For two weeks, it rested beneath her tongue, shifting when she slept. It spoke sometimes. Not in words—in pulls. It wanted something. It waited. And tonight, she’d give it what it wanted.

She moved quickly now, ducking into a side corridor used only by the lowest orders. At its end: a rusted grate. She knelt, lifted it, and slid into the vent tunnel. Warm air whistled around her—alive with the hum of ley-energy. She navigated by memory, counting turns, until she emerged above a small chamber buried in the foundation of the Spire itself. The Ember Reliquary. Or so the stories called it. It wasn’t on any map. Only the oldest servants whispered of it. A room locked from the inside, a chamber where the gods once walked.

Sera dropped to the floor. The shard beneath her tongue burned white-hot the moment her boots hit stone. She coughed, fell to her knees, and spat it into her palm. It hovered. The shard rose. Light spilt from it—a red sun in miniature—casting shadows in concentric circles across the reliquary walls. Sera stepped back as the shard shot forward and embedded itself in the centre of a dais ringed with forgotten symbols. Five she recognised—one for each caste. But the sixth was buried beneath soot and moss. She wiped it clean: a broken circle, ringed with stars. As the shard touched it, the whole room vibrated. Her crystal blazed. Not grey. Red. The same burning crimson as the shard. Alive, radiant, singing.

Then came the voice. Not aloud. Inside her. "One awakens. The line remembers. The flame returns."

The walls lit up with glowing sigils. Floating crystals—dormant for centuries—lifted into the air, spinning. A ring of heat expanded outward, burning her rags to ash, but leaving her untouched. Then the ley-lines screamed. It was not a sound, but a sensation—like air imploding. Sera collapsed to one knee, heart racing, vision tunnelling. Her hand, the crystal, hurt. Not from damage. From growth. It was changing. Reshaping. No longer a caste brand. Something older. Something freer. Above her, the walls split open, revealing an arcane map of the five islands of Arcanthria. Red veins pulsed through them like blood. And in the center, a sixth island—shattered, broken, and unnamed. Her breath caught. It was real. And it was calling her. On the highest tier of Eldraxis, the Violet Sovereigns felt the tremor. Two of them collapsed. One wept openly. The Divine Register cracked along its core, its records blurring. In Ironreach, a forge-mage dropped her hammer and stared into the flames, which now danced red. In the Hollow, an oracle woke from a dreamless sleep and whispered to no one, “She’s here.” And in the Whispering Thicket, where the outcasts gathered, a young rebel turned to the east, toward Eldraxis, and smiled.

The flame was lit. Rebellion had a name.

Sera stood alone in the heart of the reliquary, naked but unburned, her skin marked with the shimmer of starlight. Her crystal was no longer a mark of shame. It was a weapon. And Arcanthria would learn to fear it.

 

[Caleb Valenzuela]

did you make these yourself?

 

[pTr]

I've has a lot of indirect help from my D&D Party. The setting is from a D&D campaign I ran for a few friends for the last 2ish years.