The Story of Sylvandria
So why is my story different? Why didn’t I just let AI write it for me?
Because this story has been in my head for years.
So, what’s the big picture?
At its core, it’s a love story.
A boy falls in love with a girl, but she’s not who she thinks she is.
That’s it.
But for that to happen, swords are needed. Not just any swords—magic swords.
They aren’t just in any place. They’re in Ravea.
SO, my story starts with the forge of swords. The Swords are needed to end a tyrant. But then more happens. The swords chip the great ruby ring of King Morath, trapping a part of his soul. The chip is found and turned into a pendant. The pendant waits 300 years for a boy to find it. He gives it to the girl he likes.
And why does this all happen three hundred years before the boy and girl meet?
Because love takes time.
Behind every well-known tale is a deeper, unseen story—shaped by people and characters, forgotten actions, and words lost to time. Over the centuries, events are distilled and reshaped, moulded to suit those who remember them.
But it’s not just the people who shape history.
It’s the objects.
Some things travel through time, passing from hand to hand, unknowingly changing fate long after the story forgets them.
The swords are remembered.
The warriors who wielded them are remembered.
The battles they fought are remembered.
But history does not recall the smallest fragment—the thing that slipped free when the swords struck their final blow. And yet, it is this fragment, overlooked and forgotten, that will shape the fate of Sylvandria long after the warriors are dust.
The Setting
What I present here is a snapshot—of choices made, lives lived, and the forces at play long before history became legend in my fantasy world.
Rather than setting my stories in the well-trodden medieval fantasy landscape, I wanted to go back further. Pre-Roman Europe. Celtic cultures.
There is magic in this world.
There are spirits that whisper in the wind.
But at its heart, this is a tale of ordinary people—living as they always have—until the moment everything changes.
Final Thoughts
Some legends live on. Others fade into forgotten whispers.
But the spirits keep playing the long game—just as stories always do.
Once, I never wanted to write. Now, I can’t imagine a world without writing.
Maybe the spirits nudged me. Or maybe it was a single spark lit by someone who passed through my life at just the right moment. Or maybe I was like the forgotten fragment—waiting quietly to find my purpose.
And if you’ve read this far, thank you. You’ve seen the first sparks. The swords, the dagger, the pendant, the king… they all return. But this is where they were born—amid silence, in the mud, beneath the spirits’ gaze.