The town of Velbrun had long since lost its name. Charred wood, broken glass, and the haunting stink of burnt flesh hung in the air like a memory that refused to die. It was just another forgotten ruin nestled between cracked hills and bleeding skies—except Ralph had come for more than history.His boots crunched over ash and bones. He didn’t flinch. The wind screamed like it wanted him dead.“Still warm,” he muttered, running a gloved finger over the blackened bones of what once was a family. “Not more than a week. He was here.”Behind him, two of his loyalists stayed silent. They didn’t dare speak when Ralph was like this, half possessed by obsession, half boiling with wrath. His red cloak danced behind him, scorched at the hem from the last town they visited. No sign of Rhok there, either.But this one felt different.He stepped into what remained of a chapel. The symbol of the Eight had been defaced, scratched over by crude sigils, a black mark swirling through the stone. Blood ha

The sky bled orange over the southern towns, what was once wheat-filled country now smouldered like a dying forge. Smoke hung thick, crawling into lungs and choking prayers before they left lips. Screams were swallowed by the sound of galloping horses, boots stomping mud, and the crackle of burning roofs.Sir Dave had seen his fair share of horror, but this… this was something else.He sat atop his horse, armor scuffed with soot and sin, watching as Varn’s soldiers kicked down doors, dragged out families, and executed them in the name of divine cleansing.Children clung to their mothers, old men sobbed, and even the town priest, a man Dave remembered preaching kindness once, was now begging for his life on his knees, blood pooling at the base of the altar. The soldiers laughed. One drew a knife.Varn stood at the center of it all like a goddamn warden of hell. Cloaked in black and crimson, his horns gleamed like polished bone. He gave no rousing speeches, no justifications. He simply

The night was thick with smoke and ash. A storm had rolled through the mountain pass hours ago, but its echoes lingered in the dark. Cracked tree branches, the distant growl of thunder, and the smell of scorched wood hung in the air like a threat never fully delivered.Liora didn’t care.She crouched by a dying campfire, her boots muddy and cloak damp from the rain. She had stolen three scrolls from a shrine in the capital’s outer ring. Divine scrolls. Real ones. Glowing with enchantment, humming like they hated her. She wrapped them in old cloth, shoved them deep into her pack, and ran into the forest.She thought she was alone.Until a twig cracked.She stood quickly, hand moving to the dagger at her belt. “Who's there?”No reply.Just more silence.Until a voice broke through it like fire through dry grass.“You’re a long way from the temple, thief.”She turned.A man stood by the tree line. Red hair, wild eyes. Smiling without joy. His cloak was too clean for a traveler, his boots

The rain never stopped.It felt like the sky had been crying for years, relentless, loud, cold. The ground was soaked to its bones. Trees dripped endlessly. Clothes stuck to skin like wet paper. And in the middle of all that misery walked Rhok, hood pulled over his head, shoulders tense, eyes fixed ahead. Each step squelched in the mud. The air smelled like mould, rot, and regret.He didn’t know the name of this place. No one did. Maps avoided it like it didn’t exist. Locals only called it “The Drowned Belt” or “The Weeping God’s Grave.” It was a region lost in time, cursed by something older than sin.But the rain… it spoke.It whispered through the trees, in the puddles, on rooftops. A kind of grief so thick it felt like you were breathing someone else’s sorrow. Rhok had been in dozens of battlefields, drowned in blood and ash, but this, this place was quieter. Sadder. Like the whole land had been abandoned by the gods, and even they were too ashamed to take credit for it.He passed