The Bones of Orūzh

The mist parted as Xymóra stepped forward, the bridge groaning beneath her weight as though it, too, objected to her passage where beyond, the world stretched in ruin.

The ground beneath her boots was cracked and brittle, flaking away like the remnants of something long dead. What should have been soil was grey and ashen, pulsing with decay. Trees twisted in grotesque shapes, their branches curling like skeletal fingers, and where leaves should have sprouted, thorns jutted out in cruel defiance. The wild and gnarled bushes bore no flowers, only spines that pulsed with something not quite alive.

Xymóra's breath hitched. "What happened here?"

The figure did not turn. Their steps remained measured, their voice carrying across the hollow landscape. "A memory. A consequence. A place forsaken."

Xymóra exhaled, her gaze flickering to the remnants of what had once been paths. They wove through the ruins like faded ghosts, barely discernible beneath the rot. She took another step, and suddenly, the world shifted.

A burst of light, so warm, so golden, blinded her. Her surroundings melted into something else, something whole. Lush greenery unfurled around her, thick with the scent of summer. She blinked, disoriented, as laughter rang out through the air, high and unburdened. Children, their faces alight with joy, darted past her, kicking up dust as they ran. A little girl paused, her dark curls bouncing, and turned to look at Xymóra with eyes bright as dawn.

Then the vision shattered.

She stumbled back, gasping as the golden light flickered out, replaced by the desolation. The girl was gone. The laughter, silenced.

Xymóra pressed a trembling hand to her forehead. "I saw—"

"What was," the figure finished.

A hollow ache settled in her chest. The air shifted again, carrying a scent—warm, rich, familiar. Spiced bread baking in an unseen hearth, the unmistakable tang of fresh fruit ripening in the midday sun. Her stomach clenched. She knew this smell. It called to her, whispered of home. Her lips parted, but before she could voice her disbelief, she heard it.

Music. Soft, lilting. The trill of birds weaving into a song carried by voices lifted in harmony.

She turned sharply, expecting—hoping—to see the world whole once more. But there was only ruin. The trees were skeletal and unyielding. The earth is cracked and lifeless. The sound faded into a whisper, then nothing.

Xymóra's fingers curled at her sides. "This place—"

"Remembers."

The figure stopped.

Xymóra followed their gaze, her stomach twisting as she took in what lay ahead.

The Orūzh.

Or what was left of it.

The remnants of towering stone, now little more than crumbling foundations, stretched before her like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Walls that once stood unyielding were nothing but skeletal remains, consumed by time and something far more insidious. Faint engravings marred the fallen pillars, worn smooth by decay. The great archway, once a symbol of passage, stood half-collapsed, its edges blackened as if touched by fire.

A hush settled over the land, heavy, expectant.

Xymóra swallowed. "This was once—"

"Everything."

Her throat tightened. The echoes of laughter, of warmth, of life, clung to the air like ghosts refusing to be forgotten. She had never set foot here before, and yet, the loss felt personal. As if something had been stolen from her, too.

The figure stepped forward, their presence dark against the wasteland.

"Come, Xymóra," they murmured. "The past is not done with you yet."