Chapter 4: The Path to the Deadlands

From the Obsidian Codex, Page 114: The Nullborn did not wield Pulse, nor did they fear it-they consumed it. Born of shadowed wombs during the First Fracture, they hunted Invokers to steal their strength and silence the Weave. Though believed extin ct, their sigils still surface in forbidden ruins, etched deep and humming faintly.

The cold air wrapped around them, thick with the scent of sea salt and the lingering metallic tang of blood. The ruined outpost, little more than a husk of rotting beams and shattered stone, stood as a silent witness to their work.

Kest knelt before them, still found in chains. His face, battered and hollow-eyed, betrayed no defiance now.

Fey exhaled slowly, arms crossed over his chest. The interrogation was over. There was nothing left for Kest to give them. No more lies. No more half-truths.

Just silence.

Nova adjusted his cloak, his gaze flicking to Rhea. "It's your choice."

The words settled like a stone dropped into deep water.

Rhea's fingers curled around the hilt of her knife. Her expression was unreadable, the usual spark of mischief absent from her green eyes.

Fey turned away first.

Nova followed a moment later, stepping out of the ruined outpost. Neither of them spoke.

The weight of the decision was hers alone.

The moonlight glinted off the edge of her blade. Then a quiet quick decision was made.

They left the port city before dawn, so as to not draw any further attention towards them. Moving swiftly along the winding dirt path that cut through the valley.

Fatigue etched into their features as each mile blurred into the next. For two weeks, the journey pressed forward.

Conversation grew sparse, replaced by the rustle of wind and the distant cries of unseen beasts. Weariness settled in their bones like dust.

The thick forests full of beast and monster gave way to endless plains, their golden grasses swaying like waves in the gentle breeze. Rivers had long ago carved deep scars into the earth, winding toward a horizon they could not yet reach.

The Deadlands lay beyond the horizon, a cursed stretch of barren rock and endless storms. But before they could face it, they needed to pass through Eidralis—a city unlike any other.

On the fourteenth day of travel, as the sun dipped below the hills, they saw it.

A towering wall of translucent shimmering energy in the dying light, stretching high into the sky. Its surface rippled like water, but even from a distance, the power it radiated was undeniable.

An unbreakable barrier.

No cracks. No weaknesses. No flaws.

The city itself stood beyond the barrier, its spires and rooftops glowing in the twilight. Life bustled within, untouched by the outside world's dangers.

Eidralis had survived for centuries, and it would survive for centuries more.

The City of the Forgotten Hero

The entrance to the city was unlike anything they had seen.

A massive stone arch stood before the barrier, its surface etched with ancient glyphs and runes. As they approached, the air around them shifted—an unseen force scanning, weighing, judging.

Then, with a sound like wind chimes, the barrier parted. Fey could make out the Pulses of magic that make out the barrier. But not just the Pulses were there he felt a twinge of sadness woven into the barrier itself.

They stepped through, and the world inside swallowed them whole.

Eidralis was alive in a way few places were.

Merchants lined the streets, their stalls overflowing with rare silks, spices, and trinkets from across the continent. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread drifted through the air. Children darted between the crowds, their laughter unburdened by fear.

It was as if the city itself had forgotten what lay beyond its shimmering walls.

Nova's gaze swept across the bustling streets. "Amazing the traces of The Abyss have yet to touch this place."

Rhea scoffed, though it lacked her usual energy. "Or maybe they just pretend that he hasn't."

Fey said nothing. His eyes were already drawn to the city's center.

There, beneath the glow of enchanted lanterns, stood a statue.

A man knelt in the middle of the plaza, one hand holding a large shield, the other reaching skyward as if was trying to hold something. His face had long since worn away, smoothed by time and weather.

Yet, the people still gathered before him, offering flowers and whispered prayers.

"Who was he?" Fey asked.

An old woman tending to the flowers looked up, her gaze thoughtful. "No one remembers his name anymore," she admitted. "But long ago, when the gods were feuding and waged war the skies burned, he made the greatest sacrifice of all."

She gestured to the barrier above them.

"He shattered his own soul, weaving its pieces into the walls of Eidralis. Because of him, the city stands. No force—divine or mortal—can breach it."

Nova stepped closer, his fingers trailing over the statue's weathered surface. His brow furrowed.

"Strange," he murmured. "To think Udeyar and Odos would give him permission to not return to the cycle."

The old woman only smiled. "Perhaps it is strange. But no one here has ever known war or destruction. And in the end, isn't that what truly matters?"

Fey wasn't sure he agreed.

His gaze lingered on the kneeling figure, on the outstretched hand reaching for something long lost.

He had seen enough futures to know that nothing—no barrier, no magic—was truly unbreakable. Or so he thought but this was his first time hearing of someone shattering their own soul.

But if this city was untouched by war, it was only because war had not yet found it.

As they walked around the city shopping and gathering supplies they found a small inn near the plaza.

Outside the inn, the city carried on—merchants closing their stalls, lanterns flickering in the streets, the faint hum of magic woven into every stone and building.

Inside their dimly lit room, the silence between them grew heavier.

Nova sat by the window, fingers absently tracing the lines of the tattoos on his arms.

Rhea lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind her head.

Fey sat cross-legged on the floor, sharpening his newly purchased sword.

Then, finally—

"Did you do it?" Nova's voice was low.

Rhea didn't look at him.

Silence stretched between them like a thread ready to snap. Her face remained unreadable in the low light.

The steady scrape of Fey's sharpening stone filled the space, rhythmic and slow.

After a long pause, Rhea sighed and rolled onto her side. "Does it matter? My people are still in danger."

Nova looked at her his face full of curiosity and intrigued death was his domain. " Sorry, call it morbid curiosity."

Fey glanced at her, stood, stretched, and finally spoke. "Hopefully not for much longer." He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his goggles down over his eyes. A faint glow began to seep through the lenses.

The dim room caught the light as his skin grew paler, strands of black hair draining into silver. His breathing grew shallow, labored, as he reached forward-past the present, into the Web of what Could be.

Rhea sat up sharply. It was the first time she'd seen him use his Eyes. "Fey... doesn't that hurt?"

"He's fine. Says it's more exhausting than painful," Nova answered, he added peering at the window and the distant town beyond it.

Fey gave a breathless chuckle. "Yeah...he's right. It's Just draining." He blinked, slowly.

"But it doesn't matter. I saw the ruins. Kest wasn't lying. About 30 or 40 people. Cages full of fairies."

Fey's breath hitched. His hands trembled, goggles still over his eyes.

"There's… more."

Nova turned from the window, brow furrowing. Rhea leaned forward, her wings twitching slightly behind her.

Fey's voice dropped, barely more than a whisper.

"They're not just keeping the fairies there. They're… draining them."

"Draining?" Rhea echoed, her voice thin.

He nodded slowly. "The ruins—they built something beneath them. Not ancient. Steel and stone, covered in wards. Magic doesn't work down there. Pulses don't flow."

Rhea's face paled. "That's why they chose the Deadlands…"

Fey pulled the goggles off. His eyes were dimmer now, skin ashen. "Fairies resist magic extraction normally. Their pulses adapt, fight back. But in the Deadlands, there's no mana to cling to. No flow to return to. It's like… tearing a leaf off a dying tree."

Nova's jaw tightened. "So they wait until the pulse weakens—then harvest it?"

Fey swallowed. "Not just blood. They're taking their connection to the Pulse itself. Condensing it—Grinding it into powder. That's what Fairy-Dust is."

The silence that followed felt thicker than before.

Rhea's hands curled into fists. "They're not just killing us. They're unmaking us."

Fey nodded. "The Deadlands aren't just a hiding place. They're a crucible—where magic dies slow, and suffering fuels the fire."

Nova looked down at the floor, jaw tense. "Forcefully ripping beings out of the cycle. Nova looked upward with both hands over heart. "Let not the soul that sows pain walk unmarked, for death walks with memory."

Rhea sighed and laid back onto the bed. "We have to leave tomorrow as soon as we can. I can't stay idle why my People are being Taken—beyond the Veil."