205TF – ③ Pinokio Moyen

Black

word

Midnight Pale light bathed her as Elarin crossed the threshold. The moment her foot touched the surface of the pool, the world dissolved — not in chaos, but in quiet perfection. Every color stretched and folded until the forest became a vast, shifting tapestry of stars. Sound became warmth, and gravity became song. She was no longer falling or walking — she was becoming. When the light finally dimmed, Elarin found herself standing upon a bridge of glass suspended in an endless sky. Beneath her feet, galaxies swirled like sleeping embers. Above her, constellations breathed in slow rhythm, their light pulsing like the hearts of living creatures. She whispered, “Where am I?” The wind answered, carrying a thousand voices at once: “You stand in the Threshold of Echoes — the place where all beginnings end and all endings begin.” Elarin stepped forward cautiously. The bridge extended into the distance, disappearing into a mist of gold. With every step, fragments of memory brushed against her skin — laughter, sorrow, forgotten faces. They weren’t her memories, yet she felt them as her own. The bridge was alive with the stories of countless souls who had crossed before her. Then she saw it: a tower rising from the mist, made not of stone but of light woven into spirals. Its surface reflected every possibility — the child she had been, the woman she was, and the being she might yet become. Drawn forward, she entered its gate. Inside, the air shimmered like water. Stairs wound upward endlessly, each step inscribed with a single rune that glowed as she passed. At the top, she found a vast chamber with walls that reflected not her image, but her essence. In those mirrors she saw flames, oceans, storms — and within them, her own eyes burning brighter than before. A voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere: “Do you understand the nature of what you hold?” Elarin turned, but no figure was there. “I hold the Gate,” she said softly. “I hold the light between worlds.” The voice laughed gently — a sound both kind and ancient. “Not light. Memory. You are the Keeper of what has been forgotten. You carry within you the stories the stars have lost.” As she stood there, the mirrors around her flickered. Scenes burst to life — civilizations rising from dust, gods forging fire from nothing, oceans singing to the moon. All that ever was — all that had been loved and lost — flowed into her. The weight of it nearly broke her knees, but she did not fall. She remembered. And when the last image faded, Elarin understood. The Vale had not chosen her to guard the past, but to remind the future that it existed. The world she had known was crumbling because it had forgotten its story — its song. And she was now its voice. Her hand blazed with light. The runes along the floor ignited, forming a circle around her. Power surged upward, vast and wild. The bridge outside the tower began to hum, and the stars themselves leaned closer, listening. She raised her voice, and the first true word of the new age left her lips — a word older than creation, bright enough to shake eternity. When she spoke it, the darkness fled. And the world began again. Parting from the mortal path was easier than Elarin had imagined. The moon hung low over the valley, pale and heavy like a secret too long kept. Beneath its light, the trees of the Whispering Vale swayed, their silver leaves murmuring in a language older than stars. Few dared to walk that place after nightfall, for the forest was said to remember — and to speak. Elarin had never believed in such tales. She was a scholar, raised among scrolls and stone, not shadows and superstition. Yet when the comet burned crimson across the sky — a herald, the elders whispered — something ancient stirred inside her. The dreams began that night: vast halls of crystal and flame, a song without words, and a voice calling her name from across eternity. Now, she stood at the edge of the Vale, her lantern trembling in her grasp. Mist coiled around her boots, cool and living, and the air shimmered faintly as though reality itself had grown thin. With each step, the world seemed to breathe. Shapes formed in the fog — faces, wings, eyes like shattered starlight — and vanished again. Time stretched and bent. When she reached the heart of the forest, she found the ruins: a circle of marble pillars, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly with blue fire. In the center stood a pool as still as glass. Above it, the moonlight bent — not reflecting, but refracting, as if falling through unseen worlds. She felt a pull deep in her chest, as though the light recognized her. “The Gate,” whispered a voice — not behind her, not before her, but inside her mind. “You have come, child of the forgotten flame.” Elarin’s heart hammered. “Who are you?” she asked, though her voice came out as little more than a breath. “I am the first song. I am the dream of the dying stars. You are my echo.” The pool rippled, though no wind stirred. A hand emerged from its surface — translucent, luminous, terrible in its beauty. Without understanding why, Elarin reached out. The instant her fingers touched the water, she saw everything: the birth of worlds, the fall of empires, the long sleep of the gods beneath mountains of ice. And she saw herself — not as she was, but as she could become. Fire in her veins. Light in her bones. The bridge between the mortal and the eternal. When she finally gasped for breath, the hand was gone. The pool was still again. But in its depths, she saw her reflection — and her eyes now glowed like the heart of a storm. From that night onward, the people of the valley spoke of a figure who walked the moonlit paths, neither ghost nor goddess, whispering to the trees. And sometimes, when the wind was just right, the forest whispered back. The words drifted through her mind as she wandered deeper into the Vale, though she did not know who had spoken them. Perhaps it was her own thought, or perhaps the forest itself was teaching her to listen. Every leaf seemed alive now, every shadow aware. The boundaries between her and the world had grown thin — frighteningly so. The light within her chest pulsed softly, as though answering a rhythm she could not hear. When she pressed her hand against her heart, warmth spilled through her veins, turning her skin faintly golden. She felt strength, yes — but also something vast and sorrowful, an ache that seemed to belong to the earth itself. As dawn approached, the forest began to change. The mist receded like a tide, revealing pathways of glimmering stone and archways carved from living wood. Birds with translucent wings sang songs of unearthly harmony. Elarin followed them, each note a thread pulling her forward. At the crest of a hill, she found a figure waiting. It was tall — impossibly so — draped in garments of shadow and flame. Its face was veiled, but its presence filled the clearing like a rising storm. “You have awakened the ancient covenant,” the figure said, its voice deep and resonant, echoing from every direction. “Do you understand what you have done?” Elarin tried to speak, but her throat was dry. “I... saw something. A vision. A world dying in silence.” The figure inclined its head. “That world was your own. The balance has been broken. The Vale stands between the living and the forgotten, and now — because of you — the two begin to merge.” She took a step back. “I didn’t mean to—” “You were meant to,” the voice interrupted, softer now. “The song chooses its vessel. You are the new Keeper of the Gate.” A wind rose suddenly, bending the trees, scattering petals of silver light. Elarin’s lantern flickered and died. In the darkness that followed, she felt the pull again — deeper, stronger. The pool at the center of the ruins shimmered from afar, as though calling her home. “Keeper?” she whispered. “What must I keep?” The figure’s form began to fade into mist. Only its eyes remained — two burning stars in the twilight. “Hope,” it said. “You must keep hope, even when the worlds forget it exists.” And with that, the figure vanished, leaving her alone beneath a sky that had begun to fracture — thin lines of light spreading like cracks across the heavens. The air trembled. The Vale was waking. Elarin turned toward the glowing pool once more, her reflection now shifting between herself and something divine. She took a breath that tasted like eternity. Then she stepped forward, and the world folded into light. Midnight

Black

sentence

Pale light bathed her as Elarin crossed the threshold. The moment her foot touched the surface of the pool, the world dissolved — not in chaos, but in quiet perfection. Every color stretched and folded until the forest became a vast, shifting tapestry of stars. Sound became warmth, and gravity became song. She was no longer falling or walking — she was becoming. When the light finally dimmed, Elarin found herself standing upon a bridge of glass suspended in an endless sky. Beneath her feet, galaxies swirled like sleeping embers. Above her, constellations breathed in slow rhythm, their light pulsing like the hearts of living creatures. She whispered, “Where am I?” The wind answered, carrying a thousand voices at once: “You stand in the Threshold of Echoes — the place where all beginnings end and all endings begin.” Elarin stepped forward cautiously. The bridge extended into the distance, disappearing into a mist of gold. With every step, fragments of memory brushed against her skin — laughter, sorrow, forgotten faces. They weren’t her memories, yet she felt them as her own. The bridge was alive with the stories of countless souls who had crossed before her. Then she saw it: a tower rising from the mist, made not of stone but of light woven into spirals. Its surface reflected every possibility — the child she had been, the woman she was, and the being she might yet become. Drawn forward, she entered its gate. Inside, the air shimmered like water. Stairs wound upward endlessly, each step inscribed with a single rune that glowed as she passed. At the top, she found a vast chamber with walls that reflected not her image, but her essence. In those mirrors she saw flames, oceans, storms — and within them, her own eyes burning brighter than before. A voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere: “Do you understand the nature of what you hold?” Elarin turned, but no figure was there. “I hold the Gate,” she said softly. “I hold the light between worlds.” The voice laughed gently — a sound both kind and ancient. “Not light. Memory. You are the Keeper of what has been forgotten. You carry within you the stories the stars have lost.” As she stood there, the mirrors around her flickered. Scenes burst to life — civilizations rising from dust, gods forging fire from nothing, oceans singing to the moon. All that ever was — all that had been loved and lost — flowed into her. The weight of it nearly broke her knees, but she did not fall. She remembered. And when the last image faded, Elarin understood. The Vale had not chosen her to guard the past, but to remind the future that it existed. The world she had known was crumbling because it had forgotten its story — its song. And she was now its voice. Her hand blazed with light. The runes along the floor ignited, forming a circle around her. Power surged upward, vast and wild. The bridge outside the tower began to hum, and the stars themselves leaned closer, listening. She raised her voice, and the first true word of the new age left her lips — a word older than creation, bright enough to shake eternity. When she spoke it, the darkness fled. And the world began again. Parting from the mortal path was easier than Elarin had imagined. The moon hung low over the valley, pale and heavy like a secret too long kept. Beneath its light, the trees of the Whispering Vale swayed, their silver leaves murmuring in a language older than stars. Few dared to walk that place after nightfall, for the forest was said to remember — and to speak. Elarin had never believed in such tales. She was a scholar, raised among scrolls and stone, not shadows and superstition. Yet when the comet burned crimson across the sky — a herald, the elders whispered — something ancient stirred inside her. The dreams began that night: vast halls of crystal and flame, a song without words, and a voice calling her name from across eternity. Now, she stood at the edge of the Vale, her lantern trembling in her grasp. Mist coiled around her boots, cool and living, and the air shimmered faintly as though reality itself had grown thin. With each step, the world seemed to breathe. Shapes formed in the fog — faces, wings, eyes like shattered starlight — and vanished again. Time stretched and bent. When she reached the heart of the forest, she found the ruins: a circle of marble pillars, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly with blue fire. In the center stood a pool as still as glass. Above it, the moonlight bent — not reflecting, but refracting, as if falling through unseen worlds. She felt a pull deep in her chest, as though the light recognized her. “The Gate,” whispered a voice — not behind her, not before her, but inside her mind. “You have come, child of the forgotten flame.” Elarin’s heart hammered. “Who are you?” she asked, though her voice came out as little more than a breath. “I am the first song. I am the dream of the dying stars. You are my echo.” The pool rippled, though no wind stirred. A hand emerged from its surface — translucent, luminous, terrible in its beauty. Without understanding why, Elarin reached out. The instant her fingers touched the water, she saw everything: the birth of worlds, the fall of empires, the long sleep of the gods beneath mountains of ice. And she saw herself — not as she was, but as she could become. Fire in her veins. Light in her bones. The bridge between the mortal and the eternal. When she finally gasped for breath, the hand was gone. The pool was still again. But in its depths, she saw her reflection — and her eyes now glowed like the heart of a storm. From that night onward, the people of the valley spoke of a figure who walked the moonlit paths, neither ghost nor goddess, whispering to the trees. And sometimes, when the wind was just right, the forest whispered back. The words drifted through her mind as she wandered deeper into the Vale, though she did not know who had spoken them. Perhaps it was her own thought, or perhaps the forest itself was teaching her to listen. Every leaf seemed alive now, every shadow aware. The boundaries between her and the world had grown thin — frighteningly so. The light within her chest pulsed softly, as though answering a rhythm she could not hear. When she pressed her hand against her heart, warmth spilled through her veins, turning her skin faintly golden. She felt strength, yes — but also something vast and sorrowful, an ache that seemed to belong to the earth itself. As dawn approached, the forest began to change. The mist receded like a tide, revealing pathways of glimmering stone and archways carved from living wood. Birds with translucent wings sang songs of unearthly harmony. Elarin followed them, each note a thread pulling her forward. At the crest of a hill, she found a figure waiting. It was tall — impossibly so — draped in garments of shadow and flame. Its face was veiled, but its presence filled the clearing like a rising storm. “You have awakened the ancient covenant,” the figure said, its voice deep and resonant, echoing from every direction. “Do you understand what you have done?” Elarin tried to speak, but her throat was dry. “I... saw something. A vision. A world dying in silence.” The figure inclined its head. “That world was your own. The balance has been broken. The Vale stands between the living and the forgotten, and now — because of you — the two begin to merge.” She took a step back. “I didn’t mean to—” “You were meant to,” the voice interrupted, softer now. “The song chooses its vessel. You are the new Keeper of the Gate.” A wind rose suddenly, bending the trees, scattering petals of silver light. Elarin’s lantern flickered and died. In the darkness that followed, she felt the pull again — deeper, stronger. The pool at the center of the ruins shimmered from afar, as though calling her home. “Keeper?” she whispered. “What must I keep?” The figure’s form began to fade into mist. Only its eyes remained — two burning stars in the twilight. “Hope,” it said. “You must keep hope, even when the worlds forget it exists.” And with that, the figure vanished, leaving her alone beneath a sky that had begun to fracture — thin lines of light spreading like cracks across the heavens. The air trembled. The Vale was waking. Elarin turned toward the glowing pool once more, her reflection now shifting between herself and something divine. She took a breath that tasted like eternity. Then she stepped forward, and the world folded into light. Pale light

Regular

word

Ritual & Metaphor Pale light bathed her as Elarin crossed the threshold. The moment her foot touched the surface of the pool, the world dissolved — not in chaos, but in quiet perfection. Every color stretched and folded until the forest became a vast, shifting tapestry of stars. Sound became warmth, and gravity became song. She was no longer falling or walking — she was becoming. When the light finally dimmed, Elarin found herself standing upon a bridge of glass suspended in an endless sky. Beneath her feet, galaxies swirled like sleeping embers. Above her, constellations breathed in slow rhythm, their light pulsing like the hearts of living creatures. She whispered, “Where am I?” The wind answered, carrying a thousand voices at once: “You stand in the Threshold of Echoes — the place where all beginnings end and all endings begin.” Elarin stepped forward cautiously. The bridge extended into the distance, disappearing into a mist of gold. With every step, fragments of memory brushed against her skin — laughter, sorrow, forgotten faces. They weren’t her memories, yet she felt them as her own. The bridge was alive with the stories of countless souls who had crossed before her. Then she saw it: a tower rising from the mist, made not of stone but of light woven into spirals. Its surface reflected every possibility — the child she had been, the woman she was, and the being she might yet become. Drawn forward, she entered its gate. Inside, the air shimmered like water. Stairs wound upward endlessly, each step inscribed with a single rune that glowed as she passed. At the top, she found a vast chamber with walls that reflected not her image, but her essence. In those mirrors she saw flames, oceans, storms — and within them, her own eyes burning brighter than before. A voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere: “Do you understand the nature of what you hold?” Elarin turned, but no figure was there. “I hold the Gate,” she said softly. “I hold the light between worlds.” The voice laughed gently — a sound both kind and ancient. “Not light. Memory. You are the Keeper of what has been forgotten. You carry within you the stories the stars have lost.” As she stood there, the mirrors around her flickered. Scenes burst to life — civilizations rising from dust, gods forging fire from nothing, oceans singing to the moon. All that ever was — all that had been loved and lost — flowed into her. The weight of it nearly broke her knees, but she did not fall. She remembered. And when the last image faded, Elarin understood. The Vale had not chosen her to guard the past, but to remind the future that it existed. The world she had known was crumbling because it had forgotten its story — its song. And she was now its voice. Her hand blazed with light. The runes along the floor ignited, forming a circle around her. Power surged upward, vast and wild. The bridge outside the tower began to hum, and the stars themselves leaned closer, listening. She raised her voice, and the first true word of the new age left her lips — a word older than creation, bright enough to shake eternity. When she spoke it, the darkness fled. And the world began again. Parting from the mortal path was easier than Elarin had imagined. The moon hung low over the valley, pale and heavy like a secret too long kept. Beneath its light, the trees of the Whispering Vale swayed, their silver leaves murmuring in a language older than stars. Few dared to walk that place after nightfall, for the forest was said to remember — and to speak. Elarin had never believed in such tales. She was a scholar, raised among scrolls and stone, not shadows and superstition. Yet when the comet burned crimson across the sky — a herald, the elders whispered — something ancient stirred inside her. The dreams began that night: vast halls of crystal and flame, a song without words, and a voice calling her name from across eternity. Now, she stood at the edge of the Vale, her lantern trembling in her grasp. Mist coiled around her boots, cool and living, and the air shimmered faintly as though reality itself had grown thin. With each step, the world seemed to breathe. Shapes formed in the fog — faces, wings, eyes like shattered starlight — and vanished again. Time stretched and bent. When she reached the heart of the forest, she found the ruins: a circle of marble pillars, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly with blue fire. In the center stood a pool as still as glass. Above it, the moonlight bent — not reflecting, but refracting, as if falling through unseen worlds. She felt a pull deep in her chest, as though the light recognized her. “The Gate,” whispered a voice — not behind her, not before her, but inside her mind. “You have come, child of the forgotten flame.” Elarin’s heart hammered. “Who are you?” she asked, though her voice came out as little more than a breath. “I am the first song. I am the dream of the dying stars. You are my echo.” The pool rippled, though no wind stirred. A hand emerged from its surface — translucent, luminous, terrible in its beauty. Without understanding why, Elarin reached out. The instant her fingers touched the water, she saw everything: the birth of worlds, the fall of empires, the long sleep of the gods beneath mountains of ice. And she saw herself — not as she was, but as she could become. Fire in her veins. Light in her bones. The bridge between the mortal and the eternal. When she finally gasped for breath, the hand was gone. The pool was still again. But in its depths, she saw her reflection — and her eyes now glowed like the heart of a storm. From that night onward, the people of the valley spoke of a figure who walked the moonlit paths, neither ghost nor goddess, whispering to the trees. And sometimes, when the wind was just right, the forest whispered back. The words drifted through her mind as she wandered deeper into the Vale, though she did not know who had spoken them. Perhaps it was her own thought, or perhaps the forest itself was teaching her to listen. Every leaf seemed alive now, every shadow aware. The boundaries between her and the world had grown thin — frighteningly so. The light within her chest pulsed softly, as though answering a rhythm she could not hear. When she pressed her hand against her heart, warmth spilled through her veins, turning her skin faintly golden. She felt strength, yes — but also something vast and sorrowful, an ache that seemed to belong to the earth itself. As dawn approached, the forest began to change. The mist receded like a tide, revealing pathways of glimmering stone and archways carved from living wood. Birds with translucent wings sang songs of unearthly harmony. Elarin followed them, each note a thread pulling her forward. At the crest of a hill, she found a figure waiting. It was tall — impossibly so — draped in garments of shadow and flame. Its face was veiled, but its presence filled the clearing like a rising storm. “You have awakened the ancient covenant,” the figure said, its voice deep and resonant, echoing from every direction. “Do you understand what you have done?” Elarin tried to speak, but her throat was dry. “I... saw something. A vision. A world dying in silence.” The figure inclined its head. “That world was your own. The balance has been broken. The Vale stands between the living and the forgotten, and now — because of you — the two begin to merge.” She took a step back. “I didn’t mean to—” “You were meant to,” the voice interrupted, softer now. “The song chooses its vessel. You are the new Keeper of the Gate.” A wind rose suddenly, bending the trees, scattering petals of silver light. Elarin’s lantern flickered and died. In the darkness that followed, she felt the pull again — deeper, stronger. The pool at the center of the ruins shimmered from afar, as though calling her home. “Keeper?” she whispered. “What must I keep?” The figure’s form began to fade into mist. Only its eyes remained — two burning stars in the twilight. “Hope,” it said. “You must keep hope, even when the worlds forget it exists.” And with that, the figure vanished, leaving her alone beneath a sky that had begun to fracture — thin lines of light spreading like cracks across the heavens. The air trembled. The Vale was waking. Elarin turned toward the glowing pool once more, her reflection now shifting between herself and something divine. She took a breath that tasted like eternity. Then she stepped forward, and the world folded into light. Ritual & Metaphor

Book

text

Pale light bathed her as Elarin crossed the threshold. The moment her foot touched the surface of the pool, the world dissolved — not in chaos, but in quiet perfection. Every color stretched and folded until the forest became a vast, shifting tapestry of stars. Sound became warmth, and gravity became song. She was no longer falling or walking — she was becoming. When the light finally dimmed, Elarin found herself standing upon a bridge of glass suspended in an endless sky. Beneath her feet, galaxies swirled like sleeping embers. Above her, constellations breathed in slow rhythm, their light pulsing like the hearts of living creatures. She whispered, “Where am I?” The wind answered, carrying a thousand voices at once: “You stand in the Threshold of Echoes — the place where all beginnings end and all endings begin.” Elarin stepped forward cautiously. The bridge extended into the distance, disappearing into a mist of gold. With every step, fragments of memory brushed against her skin — laughter, sorrow, forgotten faces. They weren’t her memories, yet she felt them as her own. The bridge was alive with the stories of countless souls who had crossed before her. Then she saw it: a tower rising from the mist, made not of stone but of light woven into spirals. Its surface reflected every possibility — the child she had been, the woman she was, and the being she might yet become. Drawn forward, she entered its gate. Inside, the air shimmered like water. Stairs wound upward endlessly, each step inscribed with a single rune that glowed as she passed. At the top, she found a vast chamber with walls that reflected not her image, but her essence. In those mirrors she saw flames, oceans, storms — and within them, her own eyes burning brighter than before. A voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere: “Do you understand the nature of what you hold?” Elarin turned, but no figure was there. “I hold the Gate,” she said softly. “I hold the light between worlds.” The voice laughed gently — a sound both kind and ancient. “Not light. Memory. You are the Keeper of what has been forgotten. You carry within you the stories the stars have lost.” As she stood there, the mirrors around her flickered. Scenes burst to life — civilizations rising from dust, gods forging fire from nothing, oceans singing to the moon. All that ever was — all that had been loved and lost — flowed into her. The weight of it nearly broke her knees, but she did not fall. She remembered. And when the last image faded, Elarin understood. The Vale had not chosen her to guard the past, but to remind the future that it existed. The world she had known was crumbling because it had forgotten its story — its song. And she was now its voice. Her hand blazed with light. The runes along the floor ignited, forming a circle around her. Power surged upward, vast and wild. The bridge outside the tower began to hum, and the stars themselves leaned closer, listening. She raised her voice, and the first true word of the new age left her lips — a word older than creation, bright enough to shake eternity. When she spoke it, the darkness fled. And the world began again. Parting from the mortal path was easier than Elarin had imagined. The moon hung low over the valley, pale and heavy like a secret too long kept. Beneath its light, the trees of the Whispering Vale swayed, their silver leaves murmuring in a language older than stars. Few dared to walk that place after nightfall, for the forest was said to remember — and to speak. Elarin had never believed in such tales. She was a scholar, raised among scrolls and stone, not shadows and superstition. Yet when the comet burned crimson across the sky — a herald, the elders whispered — something ancient stirred inside her. The dreams began that night: vast halls of crystal and flame, a song without words, and a voice calling her name from across eternity. Now, she stood at the edge of the Vale, her lantern trembling in her grasp. Mist coiled around her boots, cool and living, and the air shimmered faintly as though reality itself had grown thin. With each step, the world seemed to breathe. Shapes formed in the fog — faces, wings, eyes like shattered starlight — and vanished again. Time stretched and bent. When she reached the heart of the forest, she found the ruins: a circle of marble pillars, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly with blue fire. In the center stood a pool as still as glass. Above it, the moonlight bent — not reflecting, but refracting, as if falling through unseen worlds. She felt a pull deep in her chest, as though the light recognized her. “The Gate,” whispered a voice — not behind her, not before her, but inside her mind. “You have come, child of the forgotten flame.” Elarin’s heart hammered. “Who are you?” she asked, though her voice came out as little more than a breath. “I am the first song. I am the dream of the dying stars. You are my echo.” The pool rippled, though no wind stirred. A hand emerged from its surface — translucent, luminous, terrible in its beauty. Without understanding why, Elarin reached out. The instant her fingers touched the water, she saw everything: the birth of worlds, the fall of empires, the long sleep of the gods beneath mountains of ice. And she saw herself — not as she was, but as she could become. Fire in her veins. Light in her bones. The bridge between the mortal and the eternal. When she finally gasped for breath, the hand was gone. The pool was still again. But in its depths, she saw her reflection — and her eyes now glowed like the heart of a storm. From that night onward, the people of the valley spoke of a figure who walked the moonlit paths, neither ghost nor goddess, whispering to the trees. And sometimes, when the wind was just right, the forest whispered back. The words drifted through her mind as she wandered deeper into the Vale, though she did not know who had spoken them. Perhaps it was her own thought, or perhaps the forest itself was teaching her to listen. Every leaf seemed alive now, every shadow aware. The boundaries between her and the world had grown thin — frighteningly so. The light within her chest pulsed softly, as though answering a rhythm she could not hear. When she pressed her hand against her heart, warmth spilled through her veins, turning her skin faintly golden. She felt strength, yes — but also something vast and sorrowful, an ache that seemed to belong to the earth itself. As dawn approached, the forest began to change. The mist receded like a tide, revealing pathways of glimmering stone and archways carved from living wood. Birds with translucent wings sang songs of unearthly harmony. Elarin followed them, each note a thread pulling her forward. At the crest of a hill, she found a figure waiting. It was tall — impossibly so — draped in garments of shadow and flame. Its face was veiled, but its presence filled the clearing like a rising storm. “You have awakened the ancient covenant,” the figure said, its voice deep and resonant, echoing from every direction. “Do you understand what you have done?” Elarin tried to speak, but her throat was dry. “I... saw something. A vision. A world dying in silence.” The figure inclined its head. “That world was your own. The balance has been broken. The Vale stands between the living and the forgotten, and now — because of you — the two begin to merge.” She took a step back. “I didn’t mean to—” “You were meant to,” the voice interrupted, softer now. “The song chooses its vessel. You are the new Keeper of the Gate.” A wind rose suddenly, bending the trees, scattering petals of silver light. Elarin’s lantern flickered and died. In the darkness that followed, she felt the pull again — deeper, stronger. The pool at the center of the ruins shimmered from afar, as though calling her home. “Keeper?” she whispered. “What must I keep?” The figure’s form began to fade into mist. Only its eyes remained — two burning stars in the twilight. “Hope,” it said. “You must keep hope, even when the worlds forget it exists.” And with that, the figure vanished, leaving her alone beneath a sky that had begun to fracture — thin lines of light spreading like cracks across the heavens. The air trembled. The Vale was waking. Elarin turned toward the glowing pool once more, her reflection now shifting between herself and something divine. She took a breath that tasted like eternity. Then she stepped forward, and the world folded into light. Pale light

Thin

word

M◐NSTER UT◉PIA Pale light bathed her as Elarin crossed the threshold. The moment her foot touched the surface of the pool, the world dissolved — not in chaos, but in quiet perfection. Every color stretched and folded until the forest became a vast, shifting tapestry of stars. Sound became warmth, and gravity became song. She was no longer falling or walking — she was becoming. When the light finally dimmed, Elarin found herself standing upon a bridge of glass suspended in an endless sky. Beneath her feet, galaxies swirled like sleeping embers. Above her, constellations breathed in slow rhythm, their light pulsing like the hearts of living creatures. She whispered, “Where am I?” The wind answered, carrying a thousand voices at once: “You stand in the Threshold of Echoes — the place where all beginnings end and all endings begin.” Elarin stepped forward cautiously. The bridge extended into the distance, disappearing into a mist of gold. With every step, fragments of memory brushed against her skin — laughter, sorrow, forgotten faces. They weren’t her memories, yet she felt them as her own. The bridge was alive with the stories of countless souls who had crossed before her. Then she saw it: a tower rising from the mist, made not of stone but of light woven into spirals. Its surface reflected every possibility — the child she had been, the woman she was, and the being she might yet become. Drawn forward, she entered its gate. Inside, the air shimmered like water. Stairs wound upward endlessly, each step inscribed with a single rune that glowed as she passed. At the top, she found a vast chamber with walls that reflected not her image, but her essence. In those mirrors she saw flames, oceans, storms — and within them, her own eyes burning brighter than before. A voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere: “Do you understand the nature of what you hold?” Elarin turned, but no figure was there. “I hold the Gate,” she said softly. “I hold the light between worlds.” The voice laughed gently — a sound both kind and ancient. “Not light. Memory. You are the Keeper of what has been forgotten. You carry within you the stories the stars have lost.” As she stood there, the mirrors around her flickered. Scenes burst to life — civilizations rising from dust, gods forging fire from nothing, oceans singing to the moon. All that ever was — all that had been loved and lost — flowed into her. The weight of it nearly broke her knees, but she did not fall. She remembered. And when the last image faded, Elarin understood. The Vale had not chosen her to guard the past, but to remind the future that it existed. The world she had known was crumbling because it had forgotten its story — its song. And she was now its voice. Her hand blazed with light. The runes along the floor ignited, forming a circle around her. Power surged upward, vast and wild. The bridge outside the tower began to hum, and the stars themselves leaned closer, listening. She raised her voice, and the first true word of the new age left her lips — a word older than creation, bright enough to shake eternity. When she spoke it, the darkness fled. And the world began again. Parting from the mortal path was easier than Elarin had imagined. The moon hung low over the valley, pale and heavy like a secret too long kept. Beneath its light, the trees of the Whispering Vale swayed, their silver leaves murmuring in a language older than stars. Few dared to walk that place after nightfall, for the forest was said to remember — and to speak. Elarin had never believed in such tales. She was a scholar, raised among scrolls and stone, not shadows and superstition. Yet when the comet burned crimson across the sky — a herald, the elders whispered — something ancient stirred inside her. The dreams began that night: vast halls of crystal and flame, a song without words, and a voice calling her name from across eternity. Now, she stood at the edge of the Vale, her lantern trembling in her grasp. Mist coiled around her boots, cool and living, and the air shimmered faintly as though reality itself had grown thin. With each step, the world seemed to breathe. Shapes formed in the fog — faces, wings, eyes like shattered starlight — and vanished again. Time stretched and bent. When she reached the heart of the forest, she found the ruins: a circle of marble pillars, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly with blue fire. In the center stood a pool as still as glass. Above it, the moonlight bent — not reflecting, but refracting, as if falling through unseen worlds. She felt a pull deep in her chest, as though the light recognized her. “The Gate,” whispered a voice — not behind her, not before her, but inside her mind. “You have come, child of the forgotten flame.” Elarin’s heart hammered. “Who are you?” she asked, though her voice came out as little more than a breath. “I am the first song. I am the dream of the dying stars. You are my echo.” The pool rippled, though no wind stirred. A hand emerged from its surface — translucent, luminous, terrible in its beauty. Without understanding why, Elarin reached out. The instant her fingers touched the water, she saw everything: the birth of worlds, the fall of empires, the long sleep of the gods beneath mountains of ice. And she saw herself — not as she was, but as she could become. Fire in her veins. Light in her bones. The bridge between the mortal and the eternal. When she finally gasped for breath, the hand was gone. The pool was still again. But in its depths, she saw her reflection — and her eyes now glowed like the heart of a storm. From that night onward, the people of the valley spoke of a figure who walked the moonlit paths, neither ghost nor goddess, whispering to the trees. And sometimes, when the wind was just right, the forest whispered back. The words drifted through her mind as she wandered deeper into the Vale, though she did not know who had spoken them. Perhaps it was her own thought, or perhaps the forest itself was teaching her to listen. Every leaf seemed alive now, every shadow aware. The boundaries between her and the world had grown thin — frighteningly so. The light within her chest pulsed softly, as though answering a rhythm she could not hear. When she pressed her hand against her heart, warmth spilled through her veins, turning her skin faintly golden. She felt strength, yes — but also something vast and sorrowful, an ache that seemed to belong to the earth itself. As dawn approached, the forest began to change. The mist receded like a tide, revealing pathways of glimmering stone and archways carved from living wood. Birds with translucent wings sang songs of unearthly harmony. Elarin followed them, each note a thread pulling her forward. At the crest of a hill, she found a figure waiting. It was tall — impossibly so — draped in garments of shadow and flame. Its face was veiled, but its presence filled the clearing like a rising storm. “You have awakened the ancient covenant,” the figure said, its voice deep and resonant, echoing from every direction. “Do you understand what you have done?” Elarin tried to speak, but her throat was dry. “I... saw something. A vision. A world dying in silence.” The figure inclined its head. “That world was your own. The balance has been broken. The Vale stands between the living and the forgotten, and now — because of you — the two begin to merge.” She took a step back. “I didn’t mean to—” “You were meant to,” the voice interrupted, softer now. “The song chooses its vessel. You are the new Keeper of the Gate.” A wind rose suddenly, bending the trees, scattering petals of silver light. Elarin’s lantern flickered and died. In the darkness that followed, she felt the pull again — deeper, stronger. The pool at the center of the ruins shimmered from afar, as though calling her home. “Keeper?” she whispered. “What must I keep?” The figure’s form began to fade into mist. Only its eyes remained — two burning stars in the twilight. “Hope,” it said. “You must keep hope, even when the worlds forget it exists.” And with that, the figure vanished, leaving her alone beneath a sky that had begun to fracture — thin lines of light spreading like cracks across the heavens. The air trembled. The Vale was waking. Elarin turned toward the glowing pool once more, her reflection now shifting between herself and something divine. She took a breath that tasted like eternity. Then she stepped forward, and the world folded into light. M◐NSTER UT◉PIA

Thin

sentence

Pale light bathed her as Elarin crossed the threshold. The moment her foot touched the surface of the pool, the world dissolved — not in chaos, but in quiet perfection. Every color stretched and folded until the forest became a vast, shifting tapestry of stars. Sound became warmth, and gravity became song. She was no longer falling or walking — she was becoming. When the light finally dimmed, Elarin found herself standing upon a bridge of glass suspended in an endless sky. Beneath her feet, galaxies swirled like sleeping embers. Above her, constellations breathed in slow rhythm, their light pulsing like the hearts of living creatures. She whispered, “Where am I?” The wind answered, carrying a thousand voices at once: “You stand in the Threshold of Echoes — the place where all beginnings end and all endings begin.” Elarin stepped forward cautiously. The bridge extended into the distance, disappearing into a mist of gold. With every step, fragments of memory brushed against her skin — laughter, sorrow, forgotten faces. They weren’t her memories, yet she felt them as her own. The bridge was alive with the stories of countless souls who had crossed before her. Then she saw it: a tower rising from the mist, made not of stone but of light woven into spirals. Its surface reflected every possibility — the child she had been, the woman she was, and the being she might yet become. Drawn forward, she entered its gate. Inside, the air shimmered like water. Stairs wound upward endlessly, each step inscribed with a single rune that glowed as she passed. At the top, she found a vast chamber with walls that reflected not her image, but her essence. In those mirrors she saw flames, oceans, storms — and within them, her own eyes burning brighter than before. A voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere: “Do you understand the nature of what you hold?” Elarin turned, but no figure was there. “I hold the Gate,” she said softly. “I hold the light between worlds.” The voice laughed gently — a sound both kind and ancient. “Not light. Memory. You are the Keeper of what has been forgotten. You carry within you the stories the stars have lost.” As she stood there, the mirrors around her flickered. Scenes burst to life — civilizations rising from dust, gods forging fire from nothing, oceans singing to the moon. All that ever was — all that had been loved and lost — flowed into her. The weight of it nearly broke her knees, but she did not fall. She remembered. And when the last image faded, Elarin understood. The Vale had not chosen her to guard the past, but to remind the future that it existed. The world she had known was crumbling because it had forgotten its story — its song. And she was now its voice. Her hand blazed with light. The runes along the floor ignited, forming a circle around her. Power surged upward, vast and wild. The bridge outside the tower began to hum, and the stars themselves leaned closer, listening. She raised her voice, and the first true word of the new age left her lips — a word older than creation, bright enough to shake eternity. When she spoke it, the darkness fled. And the world began again. Parting from the mortal path was easier than Elarin had imagined. The moon hung low over the valley, pale and heavy like a secret too long kept. Beneath its light, the trees of the Whispering Vale swayed, their silver leaves murmuring in a language older than stars. Few dared to walk that place after nightfall, for the forest was said to remember — and to speak. Elarin had never believed in such tales. She was a scholar, raised among scrolls and stone, not shadows and superstition. Yet when the comet burned crimson across the sky — a herald, the elders whispered — something ancient stirred inside her. The dreams began that night: vast halls of crystal and flame, a song without words, and a voice calling her name from across eternity. Now, she stood at the edge of the Vale, her lantern trembling in her grasp. Mist coiled around her boots, cool and living, and the air shimmered faintly as though reality itself had grown thin. With each step, the world seemed to breathe. Shapes formed in the fog — faces, wings, eyes like shattered starlight — and vanished again. Time stretched and bent. When she reached the heart of the forest, she found the ruins: a circle of marble pillars, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed faintly with blue fire. In the center stood a pool as still as glass. Above it, the moonlight bent — not reflecting, but refracting, as if falling through unseen worlds. She felt a pull deep in her chest, as though the light recognized her. “The Gate,” whispered a voice — not behind her, not before her, but inside her mind. “You have come, child of the forgotten flame.” Elarin’s heart hammered. “Who are you?” she asked, though her voice came out as little more than a breath. “I am the first song. I am the dream of the dying stars. You are my echo.” The pool rippled, though no wind stirred. A hand emerged from its surface — translucent, luminous, terrible in its beauty. Without understanding why, Elarin reached out. The instant her fingers touched the water, she saw everything: the birth of worlds, the fall of empires, the long sleep of the gods beneath mountains of ice. And she saw herself — not as she was, but as she could become. Fire in her veins. Light in her bones. The bridge between the mortal and the eternal. When she finally gasped for breath, the hand was gone. The pool was still again. But in its depths, she saw her reflection — and her eyes now glowed like the heart of a storm. From that night onward, the people of the valley spoke of a figure who walked the moonlit paths, neither ghost nor goddess, whispering to the trees. And sometimes, when the wind was just right, the forest whispered back. The words drifted through her mind as she wandered deeper into the Vale, though she did not know who had spoken them. Perhaps it was her own thought, or perhaps the forest itself was teaching her to listen. Every leaf seemed alive now, every shadow aware. The boundaries between her and the world had grown thin — frighteningly so. The light within her chest pulsed softly, as though answering a rhythm she could not hear. When she pressed her hand against her heart, warmth spilled through her veins, turning her skin faintly golden. She felt strength, yes — but also something vast and sorrowful, an ache that seemed to belong to the earth itself. As dawn approached, the forest began to change. The mist receded like a tide, revealing pathways of glimmering stone and archways carved from living wood. Birds with translucent wings sang songs of unearthly harmony. Elarin followed them, each note a thread pulling her forward. At the crest of a hill, she found a figure waiting. It was tall — impossibly so — draped in garments of shadow and flame. Its face was veiled, but its presence filled the clearing like a rising storm. “You have awakened the ancient covenant,” the figure said, its voice deep and resonant, echoing from every direction. “Do you understand what you have done?” Elarin tried to speak, but her throat was dry. “I... saw something. A vision. A world dying in silence.” The figure inclined its head. “That world was your own. The balance has been broken. The Vale stands between the living and the forgotten, and now — because of you — the two begin to merge.” She took a step back. “I didn’t mean to—” “You were meant to,” the voice interrupted, softer now. “The song chooses its vessel. You are the new Keeper of the Gate.” A wind rose suddenly, bending the trees, scattering petals of silver light. Elarin’s lantern flickered and died. In the darkness that followed, she felt the pull again — deeper, stronger. The pool at the center of the ruins shimmered from afar, as though calling her home. “Keeper?” she whispered. “What must I keep?” The figure’s form began to fade into mist. Only its eyes remained — two burning stars in the twilight. “Hope,” it said. “You must keep hope, even when the worlds forget it exists.” And with that, the figure vanished, leaving her alone beneath a sky that had begun to fracture — thin lines of light spreading like cracks across the heavens. The air trembled. The Vale was waking. Elarin turned toward the glowing pool once more, her reflection now shifting between herself and something divine. She took a breath that tasted like eternity. Then she stepped forward, and the world folded into light. Pale light

Typeface③ Pinokio Moyen

DesignerTanguy Vanlaeys

Release 2025

Fonts In Use

Specimen

16 Styles

Roman

Italic

OpenType Features

Character Map

Supported Languages