Rhok walked with his head low, his boots crunching through the cracked salt that stretched across the endless flats. The air was dry and empty. No wind, no sound, no life. Just white, endless white that hurt his eyes and reminded him how far he was from everything he once knew. He didn’t know how long he had been walking, perhaps hours, maybe days, but he kept going. Something deep inside pushed him forward. A pull he couldn't explain, like a whisper that wasn’t quite a voice, guiding him through silence.The horizon shimmered, distorted by heat and exhaustion. That was when he saw it, something breaking the monotony of the flats or the flat lands. A silhouette, large and low, it looked half swallowed by the ground. As he came closer, Rhok realized it was a building. A structure made of stone, blackened by time and barely visible beneath layers of salt and dust. A buried temple.He stopped at the base of the stairs, the entrance caved in but not fully blocked. The worn carvings on the

Ralph's POVThe sanctuary had once housed worshippers of light. Now, it served something older, much darker and malicious.Ralph stood at the head of a crescent-shaped table carved from volcanic stone salvaged from the ruins of Erevos' first temple. The stained glass windows behind him had been painted black. Candlelight flickered across the faces of his guests, casting twisted halos on traitors.There were eight of them seated. Each is a snake, a wolf in sheep's clothing. They were all important and highly classed people in society of course.Bishop Orlan of the Inner Church, his shoulders sagged slightly with the weight of all the stolen coins he had embezzled from the church.High Arcanist Velda, whose eyes glowed faintly from too many forbidden tomes and secrets.Lord Gallian, an old and cruel man, with wine-stained lips and a mouth made for smiling at executions.Captain Lys Asera, commander of the royal family's personal guard, was stone-faced, with sharp eyes that watched every

The wind that swept across the battle campsite carried a strange unease.Sir Dave rode in slowly, his cloak dusted in soot and ash from the long journey. The scorched ruins of the distant village still haunted his thoughts—the blackened bones, the whispering winds, the altar charred and very much broken. And above it all, the name they’d left painted in blood across the stones.The Nameless.He’d found Rhok. Both in flesh and as a man whom he could honestly confess his feelings too. Although he felt deep guilt while he spoke the words that he did and yet he had been understood. The man had not changed, and yet... he had become something else.Sir Dave’s boots hit the soil as he stepped down from his loyal steed Buttercup, already removing his helmet. His face was tight with exhaustion, but his eyes, his eyes were deeply unsettled. He walked straight toward the largest tent, where Varn was posted.Inside the tent, the mood was grim.Varn stood over a map, surrounded by his lieutenants.

The wind howled through the broken trees like it had a vendetta. Rhok stood still in the middle of the decaying forest, his tattered hood drawn low, cloak soaked in mist that surrounded the forest, and shadows clinging to him like soup bonds. The earth was soft beneath his boots, the softness that suggested centuries of things rotting just under the surface. It reeked of forgotten rituals and old gods that had died badly.He didn’t know what pulled him here, maybe it was instinct, maybe it was his slow madness, or both, shaking hands in the back of his skull. But after parting ways with Sir Dave, Rhok had felt something stir inside him. A whisper, faint but furious, had led him into the heart of this twisted forest.The trees gave way to a clearing, and at its centre stood a ruin that shouldn’t exist, a shattered structure of obsidian bone and ancient stone, cracked open like a ribcage. Shrines of corrupted iron, symbols long since banned by every order and creed, littered the edges.

Rain fell in long threads across the forest canopy, making a gentle thrum against the leaves overhead. Beneath them, deep inside the damp mouth of a cave, Rhok lay still. His back was pressed to the stone wall, shadows clinging to him like a second skin. His breath was steady, but his thoughts were not.The dream had shaken him more than he cared to admit.Aby’s voice still lingered like smoke in his ears, soft, coaxing, too familiar. She had appeared in his sleep again, speaking not with comfort, but revelation. Images had flashed like a burning film, the gods gathered in half a circle as they dethroned the great serpent that was the god of death into shards, scattering it across realms like it was something to be hidden. As if death itself terrified them.He sat now, staring blankly at the dripping stone in front of him, letting the dreams marinate in his mind like spoiled wine. Hours passed. Maybe more. He didn’t know. He didn't care and he was all falling apart. Or maybe he had al