Stone and Fog: Tales of the Valley Chronicles

“There are bridges built of stone and bridges built of blood. This one was built of both.”

Long ago, before the marsh crept in and before the Red Rose raised its banners, there were three brothers: Tennel, Bran, and Corin. They were not noble. They were not rich. They were builders — sons of a mason, grandsons of a gravekeeper. When the flood came and washed away the old crossing, the valley was split. Trade halted. Families were stranded. The Queen’s riders could not pass.

So the brothers stepped forward.

They had no coin.

They had no title.

They had only each other.

Tennel was the eldest — strong, quiet, and stubborn. He carried the stone.

Bran was the middle — clever, sharp-tongued, and impatient. He shaped the arch.

Corin was the youngest — kind, soft-handed, and often afraid. He laid the mortar.

They argued.

They bled.

They nearly gave up.

But each morning, they returned.

Each evening, they worked.

And each night, they swore they would finish — not for glory, but for need.

When the rains came again, the scaffolding collapsed. Bran broke his arm. Tennel nearly drowned. Corin wept. But they rebuilt. They reinforced. They endured.

It took three winters.

It took two deaths — their father and their mentor.

It took one promise: “We finish together, or not at all.”

And they did.

The bridge still stands.

Fog clings to it.

Lanterns burn beneath it.

And when the wind is right, some say you can hear three voices — not speaking, just working.

The Red Rose crosses it.

The Queen’s messengers cross it.

But The Hunt does not — they stick to the marsh, as if the bridge is not meant for them.

And the people of the valley say:

“If the brothers could build through the storm, so can we.”

The Bloom Beneath the Blade

Collected from the valley folk by Elric Vann, Historian of Myrklwood

Most stories about castles begin with kings or soldiers.

This one begins with a drought.

For a full year the valley saw no rain. The fields cracked. Wells sank to mud. Livestock died where they stood. People spoke quietly, because loud voices made the heat feel worse. Farmers walked their land with empty buckets, and scholars argued over old texts, hoping to find some forgotten remedy for a sky that would not open.

It was during that year that the rose appeared.

No one planted it. No one tended it. It simply grew — a single red bloom pushing up through hard, dry earth near the ridge. The ground around it was dead, but the rose stood straight, bright as fresh blood, untouched by the dust.

People came to look at it. Some prayed. Some cried. Some just stared, because after months of brown and grey, the colour felt almost unreal.

The farmers said it was a sign that the land wasn’t finished with them.

The scholars said it was a sign that something greater was watching.

Most agreed it was a sign of something, and that was enough.

When the rains finally returned, the rose was still there.

And when the valley folk decided to build a place of safety — a place where people could gather, learn, and defend one another — they chose the ridge beside the flower.

They built with their own hands.

Farmers, masons, scribes, and wanderers.

No nobles. No lords. Just people who had survived a hard year and wanted to leave something standing behind them.

They didn’t name the castle after themselves.

They named it after the rose.

Not because it was beautiful, though it was.

But because it had grown when nothing else would.

A reminder that even in the worst seasons, something living can push through the cracks.

And that sometimes, hope arrives quietly — one petal at a time.

Lin Wei Chronicle

They say Lin Wei stood alone on the ridge.

The valley below was crawling with soldiers. Not bandits. Not raiders. A full army. Shields, banners, war drums. Enough to drown a town in steel. The village behind him had no walls. No fighters to aid him.

The commanders said retreat.

The scouts said hide.

Lin Wei said, “I’ll hold.”

He wasn’t a general. He wasn’t even from the valley. Just a wanderer with a lion carved into his armor and a sword that looked too heavy for one man. But he walked to the ridge, planted his feet, and waited.

The army laughed.

Then they charged.

They say he didn’t move.

Not until the first spear came close.

Then he roared.

Not like a man. Like a storm.

As the wind shifted,

He cut through the first wave like wheat.

The second broke against him like tide on rock.

By the third, they stopped coming.

When the sun rose, Lin Wei was still standing.

His armor cracked. His blade chipped.

But the village was untouched.

No one knows where he went after.

Some say he walked into the fog.

Others say he became the wind itself.

But every soldier in Striga knows the ridge.

And every child in that valley knows the name.

Lin Wei. The Lion Warrior.