The morning light cut through the tavern’s shutters, scattering pale beams across the wooden floor. Rhok rose from his bed slowly, stretching out stiff shoulders that still ached from the constant tension of running, hiding, and fighting. Sayo was already awake, perched on the edge of his own bed with his boots half laced. He didn’t look tired. He never seemed to.“You ready?” Sayo asked, glancing up.Rhok nodded, tying the strap of his cloak. “Yeah. Let’s move.”They left the tavern quietly, stepping out into the bustling streets. People rushed about, carts rolled across the cobblestones, and merchants shouted about fresh bread or sharpened blades. It felt almost ordinary... too ordinary. But Rhok knew better. The letter that had carved itself into the wall the night before hadn’t been a dream. Beneath the city that never ages.That clue hung over him like a weight. It pulled him forward, urging him toward their next destination, though he didn’t know exactly where it was yet. All he

Far away from the endless roads Rhok and Sayo walked, in the silent chambers of Zenyra, the Triads gathered. The air smelled of incense and burnt parchment, the kind of stench that always lingered after heavy spellcraft. Each of the Triads sat within their etched circles, carved into the obsidian floor. A meeting of this magnitude was not casual, it was desperate.At the center of them sat Emek, robed in grey, his eyes reflecting more weariness than malice. He leaned forward, running his fingers over the curling edges of a parchment pinned to the floor. It was a wanted poster. Rhok’s name scrawled beneath a crude sketch, his hooded face more shadow than flesh. Dozens of them had been issued across Seroth in recent weeks, though most commoners were too frightened or too loyal to tear them down. To the Triads, however, those posters were more than just warnings, they were a doorway.“He grows beyond what any of us predicted,” said one Triad, her voice sharp, like a blade dragged across

The land changed before Rhok even reached the valley. The air thickened with a copper taste, like blood left too long in the mouth. The soil grew darker, cracked in jagged lines that pulsed faintly as if veins ran beneath them. And then he saw it, the valley known by the whispered rumor as The Blooming Scar.It stretched like an old wound carved into the earth, wide and deep, with blossoms of crimson sprouting from every fracture. They were not natural flowers. Their petals were thin as paper, glowing faintly in the dying light of the horizon, and they swayed despite the still air.The locals had avoided this place. They told stories of people who wandered in and never came back. They spoke of curses, of a god whose name had long been scraped out of stone and memory, but whose roots still lived in this soil.Rhok didn’t hesitate. He walked straight down into the valley.The moment his boots touched the scar’s floor, the flowers shivered. Their petals curled toward him like listening e

Rhok had seen many strange places since faking his death. Villages that prayed to gods no one remembered, ruins that bled with curses, caves where shadows whispered his name. But Kyraleth was different. It wasn’t simply strange, it was unsettling, like walking into a dream he didn’t belong to.The city was hushed. Not silent, not empty, but hushed, as though the air itself demanded restraint. People moved with deliberate grace through the pale streets, their faces hidden behind masks. Some masks were carved from bone, some painted wood, others hammered metal. No two were alike. Some bore the likeness of animals, others of twisted gods, and many were so plain they seemed expressionless, lifeless.At first Rhok thought it was a festival, but he quickly realized it was no celebration. This was life here. Every man, woman, and even child wore a mask... not for joy, but for reverence.“For the dead,” Veyra explained when she noticed his stare.“The dead?” Rhok muttered. His voice felt too

Rhok woke up with his body still trembling from yesterday’s weakness. His chest burned when he tried to breathe deeply, as though his lungs were being scraped by shards of glass. Sweat clung to him even though the room was cold. He lay there for a long while, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Sleep had done nothing for him. If anything, it only deepened the ache.But he couldn’t rest. Not here. Not now. Something gnawed at him, deeper than hunger, deeper than pain. A whisper he had been ignoring since he set foot in this village. The underground.The villagers never spoke of it directly, only in broken sentences or nervous stares, but he had heard enough. There was a cavern beneath the streets, sealed long ago by divine hands. He didn’t know what lay inside, but every fragment of his cursed soul screamed for him to go.“Rest,” the innkeeper had told him the night before. “You won’t heal if you keep moving.”Rhok clenched his teeth. He couldn’t heal, not really, especially while hi