Xyo_

The Kingdom of Helloria was once bound by the sacred Orūzh, its power upheld by the three tenets of existence: Zūhren, Kaelth, and Væsh. When the great schism fractured the land, its roots were severed, each brother carving a fragment to forge their dynasties. The purity of the Orūzh’s power was lost to greed, and the land withered under war, famine and ruin.

Yet deep within the untamed wilds of Velloria, the last of the Hellorian Laza endure. The keepers of forgotten wisdom live among the whispering flora, guarding the remnants of the Orūzh. 

A daughter of the Væsh Laza, Xymóra was born in blood and shadow, her arrival marked by the deaths of those sworn to protect her. Yet, when she is told she must never set foot beyond the bridge, she knows she will.

The Last Keeper of the Orūzh

The night pressed against the cavern like a great, smothering beast. Shadows clung to the walls, stretching long and distorted, their edges flickering in the dying firelight amidst the silence. Xymóra lay motionless, her breath shallow, her body cold despite the thick furs draped over her. The whispers had faded into silence, but their weight still coiled around her thoughts like a serpent, waiting.

Soft. Barely more than a shift in the air.

Beyond the dim glow of embers, something moved.

At first, it was nothing but a suggestion, a shape lurking just outside the reach of the fire's frail light. Then, a step. The figure emerged from the black, the contours of their robe shifting like liquid shadow. Xymóra's breath stilled. The figure stood at the mouth of the cavern, half-draped in darkness, watching.

A terrible knowing settled in her chest. It was the familiar figure from before, the blur that had vanished into the abyss. Now, they did not flee. They waited.

Xymóra sat up slowly, the furs slipping from her shoulders. The cavern was still. Even the embers seemed to dim, retreating from the presence lingering at the threshold.

The figure tilted their head, the motion slow, deliberate, almost curious.

"You fled into the night" she pressed.

Silence stretched between them, taut as a drawn wire. Then, a voice, barely more than a breath against the void.

Xymóra swallowed, her throat dry. "You- You whispered to me."

"What is it that you want?" she asked.

The figure extended a hand from the folds of their robe. Fingers, long and bone-pale, curled towards her in silent beckoning. "The truth."

Her pulse quickened. The words curled through the air, ancient and knowing, as though they had been spoken long before she had asked them. Yet, before she could speak again, the figure turned.

Xymóra pushed to her feet, her breath sharp in the cold night air. The figure moved with an unnatural grace, soundless, drifting toward the cavern's exit. Without thinking, she followed.

The air beyond the cavern was sharp with cold. The wind stirred, carrying the scent of damp stone and distant woodsmoke. The figure walked ahead, their steps never faltering. Xymóra's own hesitated. The night stretched wide around them, an endless expanse of black and silver. Yet there, cutting through the void, was the bridge.

It loomed ahead, ancient and skeletal, its wooden beams worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. The figure stepped onto it without pause, their silhouette stark against the abyss below. Xymóra's heart twisted.

For a moment, she thought they would turn back. That they would face her. Speak.

Instead, they walked forward, their form vanishing into the mist beyond the bridge, swallowed whole by the night.

Veil of the Shadows