The Last Circle of Keldor

By m.j. mann

A dying world. A lost past.

One hundred years ago, the world was shattered in an arcane catastrophe known as 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew J Meersman
• Release date: Apr 17, 2025
• ISBN: 9798349297885

Book preview

The Last Circle of Keldor Saga

The Last Circle of Keldor Books 1-3

m.j. mann

Copyright © 2025 Matthew J Meersman

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13:  9798349297885

Independently Published

Cover design by: Art Painter

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

Printed in the United States of America

The Last Circle of Keldor Saga

Book One: Ashes of the Arcane

Book Two: Echos of the Veil

Book Three: Architect of Ruin

Book One:

Prologue: Echoes of the Sundering

Chapter 1: A World in Ashes

Chapter 2: The Watchers

Chapter 3: The Lost Grimoire

Chapter 4: Blood of the Betrayer

Chapter 5: Siege of the Last Circle

Chapter 6: The Shattered Ley Line

Chapter 7: A Choice of Fire and Ash

Chapter 8: The Road to Shadows

Chapter 9: The Order of Embers

Chapter 10: Trial by Blade

Chapter 11: The Fire Within

Chapter 12: Shadow and Steel

Chapter 13: The Hollowborn

Chapter 14: The Mark of Shadows

Chapter 15: Lessons in Blood

Chapter 16: The Unseen War

Chapter 17: The Shadow Duel

Chapter 18: A Flicker of Light

Chapter 19: The Gathering Storm

Chapter 20: The Road to Keldor

Chapter 21: The Dead City

Chapter 22: The Sigil Battle

Chapter 23: The First Trial

Chapter 24: The Tomb of the Forgotten

Chapter 25: The Hollowborn’s Return

Chapter 26: The Veil Weakens

Chapter 27: The Betrayer’s Path

Chapter 28: The Shattered Rift

Chapter 29: The Unveiling

Chapter 30: Ashes of the Arcane

Book Two:

Chapter 1: The Broken Circle

Chapter 2: Beyond the Veil

Chapter 3: The Ashborn’s Hunt

Chapter 4: The Warden of Veylspire

Chapter 5: The Black Sigil

Chapter 6: The Forgotten War

Chapter 7: The Riftwalker

Chapter 8: The Siege of Ithorak

Chapter 9: Return of the Keeper

Chapter 10: The Omen of Ash

Chapter 11: A War of Gods and Monsters

Chapter 12: The Heart of the Rift

Chapter 13: The Breaking of the World

Chapter 14: The Rift Unleashed

Chapter 15: The Veil’s Reckoning

Chapter 16: The Aftermath of Silence

Chapter 17: Shadows on the Horizon

Chapter 18: The Forgotten Ones

Chapter 19: Beneath the Surface

Chapter 20: The Vault of Echoes

Chapter 21: The Keeper’s Warning

Chapter 22: The Cracks in the World

Chapter 23: The Shattered Veil

Chapter 24: The Mistlands

Chapter 25: The Last Archive

Chapter 26: The Reflection of the Lost

Chapter 27: The Unseen War

Chapter 28: The Sundering Reborn

Chapter 29: Ashes of the Arcane

Chapter 30: The Keeper’s Reckoning

Book Three:

Prologue: Echoes of the Rift

Chapter 1: The War for the Mortal World Begins

Chapter 2: New Alliances, New Betrayals

Chapter 3: The Western March

Chapter 4: Ambushed on the Road

Chapter 5: Entering the City of Varrik

Chapter 6: The Siege of Varrik

Chapter 7: The Ashborn’s Return

Chapter 8: The Long Retreat

Chapter 9: Death in the Frozen Vale

Chapter 10: The First City of the Sigil-Bearers

Chapter 11: The Gathering Storm

Chapter 12: The Shifting World

Chapter 13: The Veil’s Hunger

Chapter 14: The Burden of the Marked

Chapter 15: Hollow’s Rest

Chapter 16: The Rising Veil

Chapter 17: Those Who Remade Themselves

Chapter 18: The Road to the First Sanctum

Chapter 19: The Guardians of the Lost

Chapter 20: The Weight of the Fallen

Chapter 21: The Keeper’s Dilemma

Chapter 22: The Anchor Sigil

Chapter 23: The Cracking Veil

Chapter 24: The Warped Battlefield

Chapter 25: The Last Seal

Chapter 26: The Fractured Veil

Chapter 27: A World Holding Its Breath

Chapter 28: The City That Watches

Chapter 29: The Fate Worse Than Death

Chapter 30: The Lock and the Key

The Last Circle of Keldor

Book One:

Ashes of the Arcane

Prologue: Echoes of the Sundering

The sky had split apart. Not like a storm, nor a conjured trick of some errant mage, but a true and terrible sundering of reality itself. It began with a scream—one that did not come from a single throat, but from the world, as if the bones of existence had fractured at their core.

From the pinnacle of the Great Tower of Saphiron, the Archmagister watched his doom unfold. He had foreseen many fates, but not this. Not this unmaking. The ley lines, those ancient veins of power, ruptured in chaotic torrents, vomiting arcane fire across the heavens. They writhed like living things, twisting and collapsing, scattering raw energy in waves that turned mountains to dust and cities to kindling.

The chamber around him was no longer stone and mortar. It had become light, darkness, and unfathomable void, shifting between forms as the balance unraveled. His brethren lay broken—some flung through the abyss rent in the walls, others obliterated outright. He alone endured, not through strength, but because fate had chosen him to witness the end.

The spell had been meant to bind magic, to forge control over what was never meant to be harnessed. It had taken centuries of learning, of subterfuge, of gathering the might of the wizarding orders. And yet, hubris had always been the silent partner in such endeavors. The circle had been incomplete. The flaw imperceptible. A miscalculation so small, so profound, that it had shattered the world.

A figure moved within the unraveling chaos, stepping from shadow to fire, untouched by the carnage. Hooded and unreadable, it strode across the wreckage of the once-great hall, unperturbed by the void devouring the world’s foundation.

It was always going to end this way, the figure murmured, voice neither male nor female, ancient yet ageless. You merely quickened the fall.

The Archmagister tried to respond, but his throat had become dust. His limbs, his thoughts, all unraveling as the Great Tower collapsed beneath him. He reached for the ley lines, but they recoiled, like a dying beast lashing out in its final throes. The weight of his knowledge, his arrogance, could not hold back the abyss.

In his final instant, he glimpsed the hooded figure kneel before a singular object—untouched amidst the devastation. A grimoire, bound in sigils long forgotten. The figure reached out, taking it reverently, as if plucking the last ember from a dead hearth.

Then the Tower was gone. Then the world was changed forever.

And the scream of the Sundering echoed on.

Chapter 1: A World in Ashes

Kael Maren had always known fear. It slithered through the streets of Red Hollow like a starving hound, lurking in the shadows of burned-out buildings and clawing at the edges of every whispered conversation. The world had broken before he was born, and though a century had passed since the Sundering, its scars had never healed.

Tonight, the fear took a different form. It bled from the sky, thick with the scent of iron and rain. The wind carried whispers—not the voices of men, but something older, something colder. Kael could hear them even through the shuddering walls of the tavern where he stood. They spoke of change, of endings, of things that should not wake.

He tightened his grip on the battered tankard in his hands. The ale was weak, stale, and barely drinkable, but it kept him from trembling.

Another storm rolling in, muttered an old man at the next table, scratching at his tangled beard. It’s the ley lines, I tell you. Magic’s dying out, same as us. The world’s got no strength left.

A hush spread through the room. Few dared to speak of magic openly. The Council of the Last Circle still held dominion in what remained of the great cities, and their envoys had long memories. Even here, in a nameless drinking hole at the end of the world, people feared their judgment.

Kael swallowed the last of his drink and stood, feeling the weight of the mark on his arm shift beneath his sleeve. The sigil had been with him since birth, a swirling brand of light that pulsed against his skin. Some called it a blessing. Most called it a curse.

Whatever it was, it was growing stronger.

Outside, the storm broke. The wind howled like a wounded beast, rattling the wooden shutters. Kael stepped into the night, pulling his cloak tighter against the cold. The streets were empty, save for the rain streaming down the cobblestones.

Then, a flicker of movement.

Kael froze. Across the street, beneath the eaves of a crumbling building, a figure stood motionless. Cloaked, hooded, barely distinguishable from the shadows. Yet Kael felt the weight of their gaze settle upon him, a pressure like unseen hands pressing against his chest.

A whisper carried through the rain.

Run.

His pulse surged. He didn’t question the warning. He turned on his heel and sprinted down the alley, boots splashing through puddles. Behind him, the night seemed to stir.

A bolt of energy shattered the air where he had stood moments before. A twisting column of violet flame erupted, scorching the stone.

Kael ran faster. His mind screamed for answers, but his body knew only survival. He darted between buildings, leapt over fallen beams, and scrambled through the labyrinth of ruined streets. The sigil on his arm burned, responding to whatever magic had been cast behind him.

Another blast tore through the alley, sending shards of stone flying. Kael stumbled, rolled, and came up gasping. He spun toward his attacker.

The cloaked figure stood at the mouth of the alley, hand still outstretched from the spell. Beneath the hood, their eyes gleamed like molten gold.

Kael had never seen eyes like that before.

Who are you? he demanded, breath ragged.

The figure tilted their head. Then they spoke, and their voice was not one, but many.

We are the Ashborn.

The name meant nothing to him, but the way it was spoken chilled him to the bone. He reached instinctively for the dagger at his belt, though he knew it would do no good against magic.

The Ashborn took a step forward. Kael felt the air tighten around him, an invisible noose ready to snap. The sigil on his arm flared, sending a shock of heat through his body.

Something inside him broke free.

A pulse of light exploded outward from his chest. The force hurled the Ashborn backward, shattering nearby windows. Kael collapsed to one knee, struggling to breathe. The sigil’s glow dimmed, but the sensation remained—a door had been opened, and something vast loomed just beyond.

The Ashborn rose from the rubble, slow and deliberate. Their hood had fallen back, revealing sharp, angular features and hair the color of embers. A smile curved their lips.

So it’s true, they murmured. You are the key.

Kael didn’t wait to hear more. He turned and fled into the storm, not daring to look back.

The world had been waiting for something. And tonight, it had found him.

Chapter 2: The Watchers

The rain had turned to mist by the time Kael reached the outer ruins of Red Hollow. His breath came in ragged gulps, the weight of the night pressing down on him like unseen hands. The encounter with the Ashborn had shaken him to his core—he had seen death before, but never in the form of violet fire or eyes that burned like molten gold.

Lightning split the sky, momentarily illuminating the skeletal remains of buildings lost to time. The world after the Sundering was full of places like this—ghosts of a bygone age where magic had once thrived and then turned to ruin. He ducked beneath a crumbling archway, hands still trembling, and pressed his back against the cold stone.

He had nowhere left to run.

The sigil on his arm pulsed beneath his sleeve, a steady rhythm that did not match his heart. It was reacting to something, to the presence of magic still lingering in the air. He clenched his fists, trying to still the frantic thoughts in his mind.

Why were the Ashborn hunting him?

What did they mean by ‘the key’?

And, more importantly—why had the sigil answered them?

A rustling sound snapped him to attention. His grip found the hilt of his dagger as he shrank deeper into the shadows.

A figure moved at the edge of the ruins, silhouetted by the dim moonlight. This one was not cloaked in darkness like the Ashborn, nor did they bear the air of a hunter. Their steps were measured, careful. Searching.

Kael held his breath.

Then the figure spoke.

Come out, boy. I know you’re there.

The voice was rough, worn by time and smoke. Kael hesitated, every instinct telling him to run. But something about the way the words were spoken—calm, certain—rooted him in place.

He exhaled and stepped from the shadows.

The man who stood before him was not what Kael had expected. He was older, his beard streaked with silver, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk’s. His cloak was travel-worn, frayed at the edges, and the staff in his hand was cracked from years of use. Not a warrior. Not a threat.

A wizard.

Kael tensed, one foot already shifting back.

Don’t bother running, the man said, watching him carefully. I won’t chase you.

Who are you? Kael demanded.

The man studied him for a long moment before answering. Edran.

The name meant nothing to Kael. What do you want?

To keep you alive.

Kael almost laughed. You’re too late for that.

Edran shook his head. No. But if you don’t listen, you will be in danger.

Kael hesitated, his grip tightening on the dagger. He had been alone for as long as he could remember—no allies, no protectors. The world had taught him not to trust those who appeared out of nowhere with well-timed warnings.

And yet, something in Edran’s stance was different.

Kael made his choice.

Talk, he said.

---

They moved to a fire-lit alcove beneath the ruins, where the remnants of a shattered temple stood as a silent witness to the past. Edran tossed a bundle of dry wood into the flames, the crackling warmth a stark contrast to the cold, wet night.

Kael sat opposite him, arms folded, waiting.

Edran did not speak right away. He took his time, watching the fire as though gathering his words from the embers. When he finally did, his voice carried the weight of years.

There was a time before the Sundering when magic was limitless, he began. When the ley lines pulsed strong, and those who wielded them shaped the world. But that kind of power never goes unchallenged.

Kael said nothing. He had heard the old tales, the ones spoken in hushed voices about the fall of the Great Tower and the devastation that followed. But Edran’s tone was not that of a storyteller spinning myth—it was the voice of someone who had lived it.

The Sundering was no accident, Edran continued. It was a war. A betrayal. And it didn’t end that day—it only changed shape.

Kael frowned. What does that have to do with me?

Edran turned to him then, and for the first time, there was something close to sorrow in his gaze.

Because you were born from it.

Kael’s breath caught. The sigil on his arm flared beneath his sleeve.

You are connected to the ley lines in a way no one else is, Edran said. The magic in you—it isn’t dying, like the rest of the world’s. It’s waking up.

Kael shook his head. That’s not possible.

Isn’t it? Edran leaned forward. Tell me, boy. How many times have you felt the air hum around you when you were afraid? How many times have you escaped certain death without knowing how?

Kael’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want to believe it.

But he couldn’t deny it, either.

Edran’s voice lowered. The Ashborn know what you are. And they will not stop until they have you.

Kael clenched his fists. Why?

Edran’s eyes darkened. Because if they control you, they control magic itself.

The words fell like stones.

Kael swallowed, his mind spinning. His whole life, he had been nothing—just another orphan scraping by in a world too broken to care. And now, he was supposed to be something more?

A weapon? A savior?

A target.

He exhaled sharply, pushing himself to his feet. What do we do?

Edran rose as well, his staff tapping against the stone. We leave, he said simply. Before they find you again.

Kael hesitated only a moment before nodding.

The past had come for him. And if he wanted to survive, he had to face it.

Chapter 3: The Lost Grimoire

The night stretched long and restless as Kael and Edran put as much distance between themselves and Red Hollow as possible. The wind carried the scent of wet earth and distant smoke, remnants of the storm and whatever remained of the ruined town behind them. Kael’s mind churned with questions, each one heavier than the last.

His entire life had been shaped by things beyond his control. He had never asked for the sigil that marked him, never sought to be hunted by creatures like the Ashborn. And yet, here he was, fleeing into the unknown with a man he barely knew, being told that his very existence might shift the course of a world that had already fallen to ruin.

Edran walked ahead, silent but purposeful, his staff tapping against the uneven terrain. His presence should have been reassuring. It wasn’t.

After hours of walking, the landscape began to change. The remnants of civilization faded into overgrown trails and jagged rock formations. The deeper they went, the more Kael felt something in the air—a kind of pressure, like walking through the residue of a long-dead fire.

He slowed his steps. Where are we going?

Edran didn’t turn. To where the past still lingers.

Kael frowned. That doesn’t tell me anything.

Now, Edran did stop. He turned to face Kael, his expression unreadable. Have you ever heard of the Vault of Eldrin?

Kael shook his head.

Edran nodded, as if he had expected the answer. Few have. Fewer still know where to find it. After the Sundering, most of the great archives were lost, either buried beneath the rubble of the old cities or burned by those who feared what they held. But some were hidden.

Kael’s pulse quickened. You think this place—this vault—has something to do with me?

Edran turned away. I think it has something to do with all of us.

They walked on, descending a narrow pathway that wound through towering cliffs. Kael tried not to think about how easy it would be for someone—or something—to trap them here. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of damp stone and something older, something untouched by the world above.

At last, they reached the entrance.

It was