Pangeas chosen, p.1
Pangea's Chosen, page 1
Pangea’s Chosen: Rise of the Element Hero
Written By Virgil A. Walker
Published by House Walker Publishing
© 2026 Virgil A. Walker
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Pangea's Chosen: Rise of the Element Hero
Chapter 1: The Divine Summons
Chapter 2: The Path of the Wind
Chapter 3: Kirkhaven’s Defiant Stand
Chapter 4: The Fires of Faith
Chapter 5: The Flaming Winds of Vengeance
Chapter 6: A Time for Healing
Chapter 7: The Deserter’s Arrival
Chapter 8: The Fate of Meadowbrook
Chapter 9: The Battle for Oakridge
Chapter 10: The Roots of Faith
Chapter 11: The Call of the Sea
Chapter 12: The Harbor’s Hope
Chapter 13: The Shadow of Invasion
Chapter 14: The Tides of Faith
Chapter 15: The Gathering of Allies
Chapter 16: The Race to Burhgard
Chapter 17: The Siege of Thegnfast
Chapter 18: The Heart of Thegnfast
Call to Action
About the Author
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Further Reading: Who Is Israel?
Also By Virgil A. Walker
Acknowledgment
PANGEA’S CHOSEN: RISE of the Element Hero was born from a spark kindled by my son, Isaiah, whose boundless imagination lit the path to this tale. A fervent lover of RPGs and medieval fantasy, he urged me to weave stories from the worlds he dreamed, heroes clashing with shadowed foes, lands alive with elemental wonder. What began as bedtime tales, spun by our hearth, grew into Pangea: a realm of wind-swept plains, fire-forged crags, and faith that shines through the darkest coils. “This could be a book,” I told Isaiah, and his eager nod pushed me to craft my first novel. His passion for epic adventures fueled Felix’s journey, and for that, I am endlessly grateful. Thank you, Isaiah, for dreaming with me.
This saga also carries a deeper hope: to restore beauty and purpose to fantasy, as J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis once did. Their tales of hobbits bearing burdens, lions breathing redemption wove wonder with faith, offering light in a shadowed world. Today, many fantasies lean toward secular themes, and while such tales have their place, I sought to craft a story in which the Lord’s light burns unashamedly. In Pangea, crosses rise over pagan runes, and a carpenter’s son wields elemental grace to mend a broken land. This is my humble offering, a debut woven from love and faith, that readers might find hope in Felix’s quest as I found it in Tolkien’s hills and Lewis’s stars.
Chapter 1: The Divine Summons
In the year 832 of the Creator’s Renewed Light, when spring’s tender breath stirred the verdant vales, there lay Eldenwold—a humble hamlet cradled beneath the rugged embrace of the Cragspire Hills. These ancient sentinels, their stony brows arcing northwest and north, guarded the village where the Cragbeck river, a silver ribbon born of the hills’ eastern flanks, murmured softly along Eldenwold’s eastern bounds. Perched upon the northwestern fringe of Pangea, a storied isle of jagged dales and shimmering shores kissed by the boundless Cordelia Ocean, Eldenwold stood as a hearth-fire to the Witsgarian people. These were a stalwart people, their hearts knit by oaths of kinship and devotion to the Creator’s eternal light. Their timbered halls, stout and rune-graven, lined the Cragbeck’s western banks, adorned with woven cloaks and crosses carved in sacred oak—emblems of a tribal honor entwined with divine redemption. Their songs, rich with tales of valor, rose like incense through the ages.
Eastward, the Windweave Plains unfurled in a mantle of emerald, stretching south and southeast across the river’s flow—a sea of grass swaying under the sky’s wide gaze. To the west and southwest loomed the Gildergrove, a vast and ancient wood where mighty oaks and ash stood sentinel, their shadowed glades teeming with deer whose antlers crowned the mead-hall’s beams. The forest’s loamy heart yielded treasures: yarrow, comfrey, and feverfew gathered by the hands of healers, among them Elara, mother to Felix, who wrought salves and teas in the Creator’s name to mend the broken and soothe the fevered. In springtide, the Gildergrove sang with life, its boughs alive with the chorus of birds, its paths trodden by villagers seeking game and sacred herbs beneath the Creator’s watchful gaze.
The year marked eight centuries and thirty-two since the Creator, in His boundless mercy, poured forth His Renewed Light to redeem His faithful through mortal confession and contrition, restoring Pangea’s sacred harmony and purging its ancient sins. In this season of rebirth, the Witsgarians—clad in woolen tunics and cloaks clasped with iron brooches—kindled torches and lifted their voices in solemn chant for the Feast of the Creator. The church’s steeple, a tower of weathered stone, stood resolute, its iron cross catching the dusk’s golden fire like a beacon of faith unyielding. Yet on this night, a wind, borne from the high places, carried a hymn of urgency, and Felix Aldric, son of a carpenter, felt its divine summons stir his soul.
Felix, in his twenty-second year, was a youth of sturdy frame: broad of shoulder, lean and swift of foot. He wore a homespun tunic of earth-brown, belted with leather, and a green cloak of Witsgarian weave—its hem wrought with subtle knotwork honoring the Creator. His boots, crafted by his father Torin’s skilled hands, gripped the stony path, while a carved oaken cross, gift of the same loving father, hung warm against his heart. The Cragbeck’s gentle song echoed from its cradle in the hills, a faithful companion to his ascent.
For weeks, dreams had haunted his rest—visions of a golden eagle whose wings cleaved storm-tossed skies, casting a radiant cross that bathed the ancient sky-altar atop the Cragspire in holy light. These dreams, vivid and unyielding, left him restless, their meaning veiled yet urgent, driving him at last to seek answers in prayer at the sacred ruin he had beheld in slumber.
As he climbed, a memory rose unbidden—Rowan, his elder brother, bold and broad-shouldered at five-and-twenty, laughing by the Cragbeck’s banks three summers past. “Swing harder, Felix, lest I best thee again!” Rowan had jested, his light brown hair agleam in the sun, dodging with a warrior’s grace as they sparred beneath the mead-hall’s eaves. The river had sparkled beside them, and their laughter had rung clear, heedless of the strange lights that would one day steal Rowan away. For two moons now, Rowan had been lost—vanished into the Cragspire Hills in pursuit of those eerie glows during winter’s bitter grasp. Whispers spoke of unholy sorcery, but the snows had swallowed his tracks, and the village, gripped by cold, could not muster a search. Felix’s throat tightened, guilt a heavy mantle for not following his brother’s path. He murmured a prayer taught by Elara: “O Creator, kindle my heart anew in Thy light.”
The sky altar, a ruin of weathered stone, crowned the highest peak of the Cragspire range. In elder days, it had been a place of pagan rites, its slabs witness to the offerings of those who once harried Pangea. In the third century, Crusaders, armed with the Creator’s light, laid siege to the altar, casting down its idols and carving crosses over ancient runes to proclaim their triumph. Now the stones—worn by centuries, etched with faded sigils beneath victorious crosses—stood as a monument to faith’s dominion over heresy. There, amidst the silent ruins, Felix sought clarity for his dreams and solace for the wound of Rowan’s absence. The path grew steep, and he leaned upon his staff, its tip striking the rocky earth with a steady cadence. Below, Eldenwold dwindled, its thatched roofs and stone church nestled in the valley’s embrace.
At last, Felix attained the sky altar, its weathered stones standing stark against the velvet mantle of a star-strewn firmament. Before the central slab, he paused—its ancient face marred by pagan runes, now overshadowed by a cross hewn rough yet resolute. Raising his eyes to the heavens, Felix beheld the boundless canopy of stars that arched over the Cragspire Hills, their cold fires kindling memories of his dreams golden eagle, its wings ablaze with a radiant cross, soaring above these very stones. What portent did it bear? Was it the Creator’s voice, calling him to His will? Guilt and hope warred within Felix’s breast, his thoughts a silent prayer for guidance, seeking to unravel the vision’s truth and find his kin.
A fierce wind roared, tugging at his cloak and biting his cheeks with spring’s lingering chill. The altar’s central stone, etched with crosses over ancient scars, pulsed suddenly with a radiant glow. Felix’s breath caught as the heavens themselves seemed to rend asunder. From the firmament descended a great eagle, its wings vast as the dawn, its feathers agleam with molten gold, wreathed in a halo of divine light. Yet, as it alighted upon the altar, its golden splendor faded gently, its plumage settling into a rich, earthy brown that shimmered with a golden aura, sparkling like embers caught in twilight’s embrace. Her eyes, burning with sacred wisdom, pierced Felix’s soul, and her voice—calm yet resonant as a bell- spoke within him: “Felix Aldric, son of Eldenwold, the Creator hath chosen you. The elements waver, for a fallen sorcerer, once blessed, now wields profane arts to seize the elemental crystals, seeking to corrupt Pangea’s sacred peace and bind its peoples in thrall. Will you bear the Wind’s holy might and rise as the Element’s Cham pion?”
Felix stumbled back, his staff clattering upon the stone. “I am no holy warrior!” he cried, his voice trembling as the wind. “A mere villager, unworthy of such a charge!” The eagle—Titania—inclined her noble head, her gaze both stern and tender. “The Creator renews the humble who seek His mercy with true hearts. A traitor, once anointed in His light, now defies it with sorcery profane, coveting the elemental crystals to shatter Pangea’s sacred balance and enslave its folk. Your faith, courage, and love mark you as His chosen.”
With a sweep of her talon, Titania summoned a gem, the Wind Crystal, gleaming with airy radiance, hovering before Felix. Its warmth sang to him, whispering of tempests that might bear him aloft to lofty heights or carry him swift across the land. Yet doubt gnawed at his heart. He thought of his mother, Elara, weaving salves in the Creator’s name; of his father, Torin, carving crosses with steady hands; of Rowan, lost to the strange lights that flickered in these hills, whispered to be sorcery unholy. “I cannot forsake Eldenwold,” Felix murmured, his voice scarce above the wind. “My kin have need of me.”
Titania’s voice softened, like a breeze through summer leaves. “Behold what fate awaits should evil rise unchecked.” A vision surged into his mind: villages swallowed by unholy flames, skies choked with roiling storms, and Rowan—bound in chains amidst fiery peaks—lips moving in fervent prayer for deliverance. Felix’s breath caught in his throat. “Rowan lives?” he gasped, hope kindling amidst his fear.
“His fate is woven with thine,” Titania answered. “Trust in the Creator’s renewed light, and you shall not tread this path alone.”
Felix’s heart raced, torn between duty and fear. He was no hero clad in storied mail like tales of old. How could he stand against a sorcerer fallen from grace? Yet the vision of Rowan—suffering yet alive—tugged at his soul. He recalled his father’s words, spoken by the hearth’s glow: “Faith is not the absence of fear, but the courage to walk through it.” His hand clutched the oaken cross at his chest, its warmth steadying his trembling fingers.
Titania’s eyes gleamed with compassion, her golden aura shimmering softly. “The Creator chooses not the mighty, but the willing. Your faith and love for the Creator shall be your guide. The Elemental Beasts, guardians of Pangea’s crystals, shall lend their strength to one who proves worthy.”
Felix drew a deep breath, closing his eyes. In the silence, he prayed: “O Creator, grant me the strength to walk the path of righteousness, to shield my kin and my land.” The words anchored him, though doubt lingered like a shadow. Opening his eyes, he met Titania’s gaze. “I would do as you ask,” he said, his voice faltering yet resolute. “But this burden is vast. How can I, a mere man, be the chosen?”
Titania tilted her head, her voice calm yet firm. “The Creator’s light shines brightest in those who humble themselves before Him, not the arrogant or proud. See the crystal, it calls to you alone.”
Felix gazed upon the Wind Crystal, its radiant glow steady and warm as a hearth-fire, pulsing with divine promise. His heart churned thoughts of Rowan’s unknown fate, Eldenwold’s fragile peace, and the shadowed trials that loomed ahead swirled like leaves in a storm. Yet within him, a spark of resolve kindled, fragile but growing, fanned by faith and love. “I will do it,” he declared, his voice rising firm above the wind’s murmur. “For the Creator, for Eldenwold’s hearth, for all of Pangea.”
The Wind Crystal drifted towards his chest, merging with a flash of celestial light. A surge of divine power coursed through him, his senses sharpened, as if the world’s edges were etched in starlight; the spring breeze bent to his will, whispering secrets of the air; and the Creator’s presence wrapped his heart like a shield forged of faith. Titania spoke with a voice clear as a temple bell: “As the Creator’s herald, I shall guide you. Seek the Elemental Beasts, for their crystals are the keys to vanquish the fallen one. But beware his dark minions hunt you even now.”
A chilling howl tore through the night, sharp as a blade against the Cragspire’s ancient stone. Felix’s grip tightened on his staff, the Wind Crystal’s warmth pulsing at his chest, unfamiliar yet alive, like a heart not his own. Below, Eldenwold’s church bell clanged, its iron toll a cry of alarm against the starlit dark. Screams rose, shrill and fervent, as Felix sprinted down the rugged trail, loose stones skittering beneath his boots. The wind swirled about him, unbidden, tugging his cloak with divine haste, as if the Creator Himself urged him forward. Cresting a ridge, he beheld a dire sight: shadowy wraiths, spawn of the fallen sorcerer, slithered through Eldenwold’s streets. Their forms writhed like smoke given malice, eyes blazing with profane fire, claws of darkness scorching thatch and timber as they hissed in voices like burning pitch, “The Crystal!”
Around the church, the militia rallied, their round shields each bearing a white cross and a raven in flight, emblems of faith and vigilance forming a crescent bulwark. A spearman, his cloak singed, staggered as a wraith’s claw shattered his weapon’s shaft, yet he raised his shield, defiant. Beside him, Halric—grizzled, blonde beard streaked with salt—thrust his spear through a gap, grazing a wraith’s smoky flank. It recoiled with a shriek like tearing cloth. A youth, face pale but jaw set, young Tobin, Felix’s sparring-mate from summers past, swung a torch, its flames flaring as a wraith hissed and frayed. “Hold fast!” Halric roared, his voice a bellow over the chaos.
Felix’s heart pounded, fear and faith warring within. O Creator, renew my heart in Thy light, he prayed, Elara’s words anchoring him. The Wind Crystal flared, its power surging like a river unbound, but wild, slipping from his grasp. He leaped from the ridge, the wind catching him, guiding his descent with unsteady gusts that nearly pitched him into the dirt. Landing in the square, his cloak snapped like a banner, and he gripped his staff, Torin’s lessons echoing: Strike swift, guard low. A wraith lunged, claws slashing for his chest. Felix sidestepped, the wind curling instinctively around him, but the Crystal’s power bucked, a gust flaring wide, rattling shutters but missing the foe. The wraith’s talons grazed his staff, splintering wood, and Felix stumbled, his breath sharp with panic.
“Tobin, to me!” Felix shouted, voice cracking. Tobin, torch in hand, darted to his side, thrusting flame at the wraith. It recoiled, and Felix swung his staff, willing the Crystal’s power to obey. A gust roared, sharp but erratic, clipping the wraith’s flank. Its form frayed, but it rallied, eyes blazing, claws arcing for his throat. Felix ducked, rolling across the dirt, the wind whispering warnings in his ears, a divine nudge he barely understood. Coming up, he thrust his staff upward, and a cyclone spun from its tip, small and wobbling, tearing at the wraith. It wailed, unraveling into ash, but the effort left Felix’s arms trembling, the Crystal’s power heavy as a storm in his veins.
Three more wraiths surged from the shadows, their hisses a chorus of malice. Felix’s breath came fast, his militia training straining against the Crystal’s wild energy. A wraith darted low, tendrils coiling for Tobin, who stumbled, his torch guttering. “Creator, guide me!” Felix cried, planting his feet. He spun his staff, summoning a gale, but it flared too wide, scattering debris and nearly knocking Halric off balance. “Steady, lad!” Halric growled, spearing a wraith’s core, its form dissolving like mist. Felix focused, clutching the oaken cross at his chest, its warmth grounding him. Faith, not strength, he thought. The Crystal pulsed, and a precise gust lashed out, slicing a wraith in two. Its ashes scattered, but the third lunged, claws raking Halric’s shield, leaving scorched trails. Halric fell to one knee, groaning.
Felix charged, the wind propelling him, but his footing faltered on uneven stone. He swung his staff, a blast of air striking the wraith like a hammer, yet it drained him, his vision swimming. It dissolved with a final wail, its ashes swirling into the night. The remaining wraiths hissed, retreating into the shadows, their fiery eyes dimming as they fled. The militia lowered their spears, their cheers rising like a hymn, ragged but triumphant. An elder approached, her cross pendant glinting in the torchlight, her eyes wide with awe and gratitude. “Felix,” she said, her voice trembling with reverence, “the Creator’s light shines through thee this night.”
