Welcome!
Greetings to you, Traveller,
who stumbled upon my narration!
First and foremost, I want to extend my sincerest gratitude to you for embarking on this journey into the The Glass Wizard world. Your presence here gives life to the fantasies and philosophies of a humble duck, and I am deeply grateful for your curiosity. This prologue marks the beginning of an adventure with an odd wizard whose emotions and struggles I hope will resonate with you.
As I waddle along this path of creativity and personal self-realisation, I hope to learn and grow with each chapter. I cherish each comment, correction, critique, and friendly quack you may send my way. I have a strong aspiration to craft a comprehensive series, and as I progress, I will surely revise the upcoming chapters to enhance my writing further.
With heartfelt gratitude,
The Duckman
Dear Traveller,
First and foremost, I want to extend my sincerest gratitude to you for daring this journey into the The Glass Wizard world. Your presence here gives life to the fantasies and philosophies of a humble duck, and I am deeply grateful for your curiosity.
That said, it seems you have stumbled upon this narration during a time of tremendous change. I have rewritten BOOK ONE and will start publishing Yves’ new adventures from 22 July. By that time, you will find the proper prologue here. Until then, you can still read BOOK ONE on Royal Road, or alternatively delve straght into BOOK TWO.
With heartfelt gratitude,
The Duckman
Before the Word
Esteemed traveller,
let these first words be placed in your keeping.
After that, the path belongs to you,
to be shaped by the voices that wake within you.
THE
DARKNESS
crept in
like a thief,
claiming the light
and leaving in its wake
only fragmented shadows.
It was an absence that did not descend,
but came from deep within,
where coherence failed
and all that strayed was swallowed.
Broken light alone did not suffice to give it shape.
Within that fractured radiance, the creature endured in perpetual flux,
ever-contorting and ever-wasting like rot;
drawing semblance out of foreign ruin,
and yet refusing to disperse so long as change itself persisted.
To gain form, it stole from those who crossed into its realm.
The shrouded phantom was nourished by the essence of the forsaken.
Through what it took, it gathered into a maelstrom of chaos made corporal;
a primordial terror first given form, then eyes, and then voice.
Sorcerers who sought it were blind to their instincts, mistaking its strife for shadow,
and those who saw it were blinded by fear,
for once the creature had captured their gaze, escape became an illusion.
It pursued across dimensional planes, bending the light of their passage
until every path returned to the same awaiting dark.
Sometimes, as it closed in, it unfurled arcane secrets.
It spoke of the Genesters of Life. Echoes of ancient deities and forsaken realms wove through its whispers; summons of sundered orders and the divine remnants left in their ruin. Such revelations were not meant for minds of mortal measure, nor for their hunger. Those who succumbed to its allure were drawn into the Shattered Realm, where they were captured and kept and corroded into fractured creatures void of coherence and consciousness.
Dead legends speak of its eternal existence;
an everlasting sentinel that has observed the ebb and flow of reflections
since the birth of luminance. Age after age,
it lay in wait across the ethereal divide;
a siren call of the unknown behind the barrier.
With each reflection it caught, it grew stronger,
more tangible, and more terrible;
no longer a thief of light,
but the 
that had learned to hunt.
THE
DARKNESS
crept in
like a thief,
claiming the light
and leaving in its wake
only fragmented shadows.
It was an absence that did not descend,
but came from deep within,
where coherence failed
and all that strayed was swallowed.
Broken light alone did not suffice to give it shape.
Within that fractured radiance, the creature endured in perpetual flux,
ever-contorting and ever-wasting like rot;
drawing semblance out of foreign ruin,
and yet refusing to disperse so long as change itself persisted.
To gain form, it stole from those who crossed into its realm.
The shrouded phantom was nourished by the essence of the forsaken.
Through what it took, it gathered into a maelstrom of chaos made corporal;
a primordial terror first given form, then eyes, and then voice.
Sorcerers who sought it were blind to their instincts,
mistaking its strife for shadow,
and those who saw it were blinded by fear,
for once the creature had captured their gaze,
escape became an illusion.
It pursued across dimensional planes, bending the light of their passage
until every path returned to the same awaiting dark.
Sometimes, as it closed in, it unfurled arcane secrets.
It spoke of the Genesters of Life. Echoes of ancient deities and forsaken realms wove through its whispers; summons of sundered orders and the divine remnants left in their ruin. Such revelations were not meant for minds of mortal measure, nor for their hunger. Those who succumbed to its allure were drawn into the Shattered Realm, where they were captured and kept and corroded into fractured creatures void of coherence and consciousness.
Dead legends speak of its eternal existence;
an everlasting sentinel that has observed the ebb and flow of reflections
since the birth of luminance. Age after age,
it lay in wait across the ethereal divide;
a siren call of the unknown behind the barrier.
With each reflection it caught, it grew stronger,
more tangible, and more terrible;
no longer a thief of light,
but the that had learned to hunt.
THE
DARKNESS
crept in
like a thief,
claiming the light
and leaving in its wake
only fragmented shadows.
It was an absence
that did not descend,
but came from deep within,
where coherence failed
and all that strayed
was swallowed.
Broken light alone
did not suffice
to give it shape.
Within that fractured radiance, the creature endured in perpetual flux,
ever-contorting
and ever-wasting
like rot;
drawing semblance
out of foreign ruin,
and yet refusing to disperse so long as change itself persisted.
To gain form,
it stole
from those who crossed
into its realm.
The shrouded phantom was nourished by the essence
of the forsaken.
Through what it took,
it gathered into a maelstrom of chaos made corporal;
a primordial terror
first given form,
then eyes,
and then voice.
Sorcerers who sought it
were blind to their instincts,
mistaking its strife
for shadow,
and those who saw it
were blinded by fear,
for once the creature had captured their gaze,
escape became
an illusion.
It pursued across dimensional planes, bending the light of their passage until every path returned to the same awaiting dark.
Sometimes, as it closed in,
it unfurled arcane secrets.
It spoke of
the Genesters of Life.
Echoes of ancient deities
and forsaken realms
wove through its whispers;
summons of sundered orders
and the divine remnants left in their ruin.
Such revelations were not meant for minds of mortal measure, nor for their hunger. Those who succumbed to its allure were drawn into the Shattered Realm,
where they were captured and kept and corroded into fractured creatures void of coherence and consciousness.
Dead legends speak of its eternal existence;
an everlasting sentinel that has observed the ebb and flow of reflections
since the birth of luminance. Age after age,
it lay in wait across the ethereal divide;
a siren call of the unknown behind the barrier.
With each reflection it caught,
it grew stronger,
more tangible,
and more terrible;
no longer
a thief of light,
but the
that had learned
to hunt.