The mountain loomed above like a sleeping beast, its peak buried in clouds, its sides scarred by wind and time. Rhok had spent hours climbing its jagged trails. His cloak was torn, his boots muddy, and his breath fogged out in short, tired puffs. But the pull toward it had been undeniable. The monk hadn’t lied. There was something under this mountain, something old and definitely something dead.And Rhok was walking right into its heart.He pushed through a narrow crevice in the rock wall, slipping into a passageway hidden by time and snow. The moment he stepped in, the air changed. It grew colder, heavier, almost sacred, but not holy. This wasn’t a place for prayers.It was a tomb.The tunnel widened into a massive cavern. Torches lined the walls and they were not burning, but glowing faintly, like they were lit by the memory of fire. In the centre of the chamber stood a giant statue. But it wasn’t carved to impress.It was bound.Chains of shimmering silver wrapped around the figure

They’d been walking through this godforsaken forest for days now, maybe weeks. Time didn’t really matter anymore. All that mattered was the silence between them. The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful, no, this one was heavy. The kind of silence that made every step sound like a sin.Liora pushed a branch out of her way, the leaves brushing her cheek like whispers she didn’t want to hear. The forest here was dense, damp, and filled with the kind of stillness that made your skin itch. Roots jutted from the ground like ribs of something dead and buried. Everything about this place felt old, but not in a wise way, more like something that should’ve been forgotten.“I swear if this man lied to us…” Dian muttered, breaking the silence finally, “I’m gonna find him, strangle him, and resurrect him just so I can kill him again.”“We don’t even know if he was a man,” Eryn replied, adjusting the bow slung across her back. “He looked like one, yeah. But something about him... his eyes. That wa

There are some sins so heavy, even a saint cannot cleanse them with prayer. Varn remembered that day, not in fragments or blurred memory, but in sharp, cutting detail, like shards of glass buried just beneath the skin of his mind.He had stood under the crimson banners of the Holy Church, draped in his golden armor, his sword drawn, the sacred relic of judgment clasped in his hand. It had rained that day. It rained ash, the orphanage, a humble temple nestled on the cliffs of Cindar’s Reach, had been smoking for days before the order came. The taint had already begun to show, they said. The children had started seeing things, shadows whispering behind stone walls, flowers wilting in their hands, small birds falling dead wherever they played.Varn had thought it superstition at first. But superstition was not for him to question. Orders came sealed, holy, unbreakable. And this one had come with a signature from the Pope himself."Purge them." He said."They reek of death. The Eight dema

The wind wasn’t kind.It never was, not in this part of the land.Rhok stood at the edge of the ashes, boots crunching into what was left of a life. The village had once been small and quiet, tucked along the salt flats like a secret whispered into the earth. Now, it was nothing but char and dust, smoke long gone, but the scent was still buried deep in the bones of the place. The buildings were jagged ribs of wood. Stone foundations wept soot. He didn’t know what made him come back. Maybe guilt. Maybe grief. Maybe because there was nothing else left to do.The silence was unbearable.It wasn’t just quiet. It was empty. No insects. No birds. No whispers. Even the ghosts had left.He stepped through the wreckage like he was walking through a grave. His cloak caught on splinters of what used to be doors. He stepped over burned cradles, shattered pots, and pieces of lives no one would ever remember.He remembered the screams.That day, fire fell like judgment from the skies. The Church ha

Ralph had gone far.Far from the ruins. Far from Rhok. Far from the war. As far east as the maps stretched, beyond kingdoms, beyond empires into wild lands where even the Church’s hand couldn't reach. Here, among forgotten mountains and old gods carved into cliffs, Ralph trained.It was quiet out here. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your own thoughts sound like screaming.He stood shirtless in the rocky basin of a dried-up river, drenched in sweat, the ground scorched in every direction. His skin shimmered with burns that didn’t quite heal. The air shimmered around him like a mirage. His fingers trembled not from exhaustion, but restraint.Then, without warning, his eyes glowed orange-red.“Come,” he muttered.And the flames answered.The sky above twisted. Fire cracked open the air like it had been holding its breath too long. From that rip in the world came Ifrit, his spirit, his tormentor, his power. A titan of heat and smoke, bound to Ralph by an ancient pact made back in