Xilthar

Xilthar, the False Hope

Xilthar is a name that lingers in old stories, a presence feared by those who have heard whispers of its glow. It does not hunt, nor does it strike down the living, yet where it appears, hope fades, and the souls of the damned do not pass on. It is not an executioner, nor a force of justice, but something far worse—a being that manifests only at the end of a wicked life, appearing as the final illusion before oblivion.

Its form is rarely glimpsed in full, as those who encounter it are already fading. Those who do recall seeing it describe a tall, spectral figure, its body cloaked in shadow, its head crowned by a brazier-like structure from which an eerie flame rises. The flame does not burn, nor does it flicker. It casts no heat, only a glow that feels unnaturally steady, unwavering. It is this glow that deceives the dying, for Xilthar does not chase, nor does it force its victims forward—they walk willingly.

Xilthar does not appear for all who perish. It is not an omnipresent force, nor an inevitable fate. But for those whose lives have been marked by cruelty, deceit, and selfishness, the glow may appear as they draw their final breaths. In their last moments, their bodies weak and broken, they see it—a distant light, soft, inviting, promising salvation. A second chance. A final mercy.

Their pain dulls. Their limbs, moments ago too weak to move, find strength. Their wounds seem lighter, the weight of death no longer pressing upon them. They do not question it. They do not hesitate. They believe. Stumbling, crawling, walking, they follow the glow, thinking that against all odds, they have been spared.

But the glow is a lie.

The moment they reach it, the illusion collapses. Their pain returns, their bodies fail, and the reality they had so desperately ignored comes crashing back upon them. Their strength was never real. Their wounds never healed. And before they can scream, before they can beg for one more chance, their soul is drawn into the glow, never to be seen again. Their body does not burn, nor does it fall where it stood. Only silence remains where they once were. None can say what happens to the souls taken by Xilthar. No voice has ever escaped the cursed flame. No one has ever seen what lies beyond it.

There are those who have sought Xilthar’s glow—not at the end of their lives, but out of curiosity, ignorance, or greed. It is said that the ruins of old watchtowers sometimes flicker with its presence, a light shining from places long abandoned. These individuals, though they are not the ones chosen, do not leave untouched. They do not witness the illusion of salvation, but what they see instead is something far worse—something they cannot explain, something they cannot forget. Some return haunted, unable to put into words what they have seen. Others never speak of it at all, their minds fractured, forever lost in the memory of the glow. And the most unfortunate of them—those who stare too long, who let their curiosity linger—find themselves changing. They become distant, their thoughts hollow, as if a part of them had been taken, even though their body remained.

Because Xilthar does not appear for every wicked soul, its legend remains uncertain. Those who have escaped judgment believe they have been spared. Those who have never seen its glow dismiss it as nothing more than myth. But those who know the truth understand that no amount of denial can change what is real. Xilthar does not come to punish, nor does it offer redemption. It does not care whether one believes in it or not. For those who see its light in their final moments, there is only one certainty.

They will not escape.

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