The River of Whispers

The ruins of the ancient hall disappeared behind me, swallowed by the ash-choked wind. I moved through the remains of the forgotten city, past broken spires and hollowed temples. Every step took me farther from the Seal and deeper into lands that had not known a living soul for an age.

In my hand, the pendant pulsed with faint warmth. A guide and a warning both.

The black rivers were my destination. Somewhere beyond the dead hills, they wound their way through the shattered world, leading toward the floating city whispered of by the fallen Warden. The thought gnawed at the edges of my mind, but I forced myself onward.

The landscape grew more twisted the farther I went. Trees, if they could still be called that, loomed along the broken paths. Their bark was blackened and split, weeping sap that shimmered like molten glass. The ground beneath my boots shifted, as if something ancient and restless slept just below the surface.

As night fell, the world became a place of shadow and uneasy dreams.

I camped beneath the shelter of a crumbled arch, lighting no fire. Light, even a flickering ember, would only invite attention. Instead, I wrapped myself in my cloak, the relic-sword cradled close, and stared into the darkness.

The dreams came swiftly.

I stood upon a shore of black sand, staring out over a river that stretched to the ends of the world. Its waters were thick and sluggish, filled with shapes that writhed and whispered beneath the surface. In the distance, veiled by mist, a city floated above the water, its spires reaching for a sky that bled silver.

Voices murmured from the river, calling my name in a thousand broken tongues.

I awoke with a start.

The pendant around my neck was burning hot against my skin. The relic-sword thrummed with a low, urgent pulse.

The river was close.

I rose, gathered my gear, and set out under the starless sky.

It did not take long before the ground began to slope downward. The air grew heavy, laden with a metallic scent that clung to the back of my throat. The trees thinned, their twisted forms giving way to barren flats of cracked stone.

Ahead, through the creeping mist, I saw it.

The River of Whispers.

It was worse than my dream.

The river was a living thing. Its waters were not truly liquid but something thicker, a viscous current that shimmered with sickly colors. Shapes moved beneath its surface, too swift and shapeless to name. The whispers were real, a constant susurrus that clawed at the edge of sanity.

I approached cautiously.

The path ran parallel to the riverbank, a narrow trail of half-sunken stones. There were signs of travelers who had come before me: shattered bones, rotted banners, relics half-swallowed by mud.

None had made it far.

The pendant at my chest pulled toward the river, dragging me from the safe path.

I hesitated, the weight of choice heavy in my chest.

The fallen Warden's warning echoed in my mind. Trust nothing that speaks from the dark. Trust nothing born of the rivers.

I tightened my grip on the relic-sword and stepped onto the stone trail.

The whispers grew louder with every step.

Some begged for help.

Some cursed me with words older than human tongues.

Some promised power beyond imagination.

I ignored them all.

Hours blurred into a haze of mist and murmurs. Several times I saw figures moving along the opposite bank, shadowy things that watched but did not approach. Once, a creature slithered from the water, a pale mass of tendrils and blind eyes, but it recoiled when the relic-sword flared with light.

Still, the river watched.

And waited.

Near midday, the mist thickened into a choking fog. I could barely see my own hands in front of me. The pendant vibrated violently against my chest, a warning. I paused, listening.

From the fog ahead came the sound of footsteps.

Not the aimless shuffle of the river's spawn, but deliberate, measured steps.

I raised the relic-sword, the blade humming with restrained fury.

The figure emerged slowly from the mist.

A man, or something that wore the shape of one. His armor was dark and simple, his face hidden beneath a hood stitched with silver thread. In one hand he carried a staff carved with runes that bled faint light. His presence bent the air around him, pressing against my senses like a weight.

He stopped a dozen paces away and regarded me silently.

"You walk the black rivers," he said finally. His voice was calm, but beneath it lay something unnatural.

"I seek the floating city," I replied, my voice steady.

He tilted his head slightly. "Few who enter the rivers reach its shores. Fewer still remain unchanged."

I did not lower my sword.

"Are you one of the Keepers?" I asked.

He laughed softly, a sound like dry reeds snapping in the wind.

"No. I am a Watcher. Bound to the river, not by choice, but by the sins of my ancestors."

He stepped closer, slow and unthreatening.

"I can guide you, Warden. But there is a price."

Of course there was. In this cursed place, nothing came freely.

I tightened my grip. "Name it."

He extended a hand, palm up.

"A memory. One precious to you. Something that cannot be replaced."

My jaw tightened. Memories were all I had left of the life before the fall, before the Empire's betrayal. To give one away felt like gouging out a piece of my own soul.

Yet without a guide, the river would surely devour me.

I sheathed the relic-sword reluctantly.

"What guarantee do I have you will lead me true?"

The Watcher smiled sadly.

"You have none. Only your hope, and the river's hunger."

The mists swirled thicker around us, and the whispers grew hungry.

I had little choice.

I reached within myself, searching for a memory to give.

My fingers brushed one.

A warm evening by the coast, my sister's laughter carried by the breeze, the smell of salt and lilac on the wind. The memory shone bright, precious.

Tears stung my eyes as I pressed the memory into the Watcher's hand.

He closed his fingers around it. For a brief instant, I saw the memory flash across his face, and something like sorrow passed through his eyes.

Then he turned and beckoned.

"Follow closely. Stray but once, and you will not find the city. Only the end."

I followed him into the mist, my heart a little emptier, my resolve sharpened by loss.

Ahead, the river whispered, eager for more.

The floating city waited.

And the next Keeper stirred.