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 mist curled around Xymóra, thick and shifting, obscuring the path ahead. The bridge stretched before her, its weathered planks cracking softly under the weight of the figure that moved soundlessly across it. Xymóra lingered at the threshold, the warning etched deep into her bones.

No one crossed the bridge save for the elders. To set foot upon it was to invite something far worse than exile. Yet the figure did not falter, drifting forward with an unwavering grace, as though they belonged to the space between worlds.

Xymóra clenched her fists. "I cannot follow."

The figure slowed but did not turn. "And yet, you have come this far."

A pause, filled only by the restless whisper of the wind. Then, the figure turned at last, their robes shifting like liquid shadows. "Who decided this?"

Xymóra hesitated. "It is the law."

"Laws are written by hands that fear what they do not understand."

Her breath caught in her throat. The figure's voice was hollow, neither harsh nor soft, but resonant, as though spoken from somewhere beyond the veil of the present moment.

"And you?" the figure continued, stepping closer, their presence dark and absolute. "Do you fear?"

Xymóra swallowed. "Only a fool does not."

"Then you are wise." A pause. "And yet, wisdom alone does not bring truth."

Her pulse quickened. "What truth is there beyond the bridge?"

The figure lifted a hand, fingers bone-pale against the abyss. "That which was taken. That which was lost. That which calls to you even now."

The wind pressed against her back, urging her forward. Xymóra felt the weight of unseen eyes, of the whispers that had coiled around her dreams since the first moment she had heard them. The air here was thick with something ancient, something expectant.

"If I follow," she said, "there will be no turning back."

The figure inclined their head. "There never was."

A silence stretched between them, taut as a blade's edge. The bridge loomed ahead, a yawning path into mist and shadow.

Xymóra stepped forward, the weight of her decision pressing into her bones. The first board creaked beneath her foot, as though protesting the trespass. Yet, the figure ahead moved with certainty, untouched by hesitation.

The mist thickened, swallowing the distant shore in a veil of grey. "What lies beyond?" Xymóra asked.

"A story unfinished. A fate unclaimed. A choice yet to be made."

The words settled in her chest, heavy with meaning she did not yet grasp. The bridge stretched endlessly now, as though the world she knew had already fallen away behind her. She turned, but the cavern was gone, the night replaced by shadow and fog.

The figure did not pause. "Come, Xymóra. You have already begun."

Where the Lost Await