Elias on the Star Sword & Camelot

“You seek the truth of the Star Sword, traveler? Then listen well, for its story did not begin on Edson. The blade was forged beyond the boundaries of time itself by the Rulie—an ancient race of pure intellect, beings who shaped reality through harmonic resonance and the precise energies of the Blue Crystals. I carried that weapon across ages and concealed it beneath Edson’s sands, in a chamber carved long before the earliest settlers remembered the warmth of Earth.

Vear was never the first to draw it from the stone; he is merely the one destined to awaken its true purpose. For the sword once bore another name: Excalibur. Yes… the blade of rightful sovereignty, carried by a man called Arthur, who rose to become the king of ancient Edson before the Great Sundering. Many on other worlds would later claim the legend as their own, believing it was born on Earth. But I was there, traveler. I spoke of Arthur and his blade long before Earth’s people ever carved their first myths. I had seen what the future would remember, and so I told the tale as though it belonged to an age already lost—knowing that, in time, humanity would mistake my warning for ancient lore. Thus the legend of Excalibur did not migrate; it echoed forward.

As for Camelot—do not let the sands deceive you. Once, before its fall, it was a citadel of impossible beauty and intention: a fortress of living geometry, its very stones tuned to truth. If you had walked its halls, you would have felt the hum of purpose beneath your feet; stand in its throne chamber, and the crystalline lattice would echo the heartbeat of the king it served. Camelot was not built as a monument to power, but as a sanctuary where balance could be cultivated, where authority was measured not by might but by harmony.

Yet Earth would remember it differently. Myths compressed the infinite into something their world could bear. They imagined Camelot as a mortal kingdom crafted by human hands, forgetting the harmonics that shaped its walls. They spoke of a round table, unaware that the hall itself enforced truth. They painted Arthur as flawless, when in truth his imperfections were precisely what allowed the blade to resonate with him. They conjured a lady in a lake to gift the sword, never knowing the stone that held it was a Rulie anchor, tuned to reveal a rightful king. Even Merlin, the figure Earth half-remembers, half-invents, they reduced to a wandering wizard draped in robes. They did not know he walked among Arthur’s people with purpose, bound by laws older than magic. They did not know he was not born of Earth or Edson at all.

That brilliance could not endure. When the resonance fractured—when discord entered the heart of the kingdom—the harmonics collapsed, and the sands claimed what the world no longer deserved. The ruin buried beneath Edson’s desert is all that remains of that age.

And if you still wonder who guided Arthur in those days… know that I walked beside him, though I wore another name. They called me Merlin.