Agoruk

The world of Kasheer is dying.
The rivers no longer sing, the mountains weep ash, and in the corners of twilight, something ancient stirs a hunger cloaked in shadow, crafting its dominion in the dark.

Forgotten powers lie buried beneath ruins, sealed within cursed artifacts and whispered in prayers long abandoned. Only those brave or damned enough to seek them can tilt the scales.

In the chaos steps a nameless soul orphaned by fate, haunted by dreams not his own. Chosen not by blood, but by fire, a Sūmgar, a silent warrior of the Khaibarûn, bound to silence the unnatural.

But what if the greatest monster is not what he must slay… but what he may become?

As he delves deeper into the dying world’s secrets relics that shimmer with madness, beasts born of old sin, and voices in the river known only as the Vyeth he must carve his own legacy. Not for glory.  
But because if he fails, there will be nothing left to remember.

Whispers of the Vyeth

They walked in silence, deeper into the Kharûl woods, where even the moss clung tighter to their boots. The forest no longer whispered or watched it waited. A stillness like breath held too long pressed in from all sides.

Zooni hadn't spoken much since the memory vault. Her eyes were different now wide but distant, as though she saw something walking just behind reality. The boy noticed how she flinched at echoes, how she moved as though shadows had weight.

"We're being followed," he said at last.

Not "maybe." Not "by what." Just a quiet confirmation, as if she too felt the air growing thinner.

They made camp near a stream that ran red not with blood, but with rusted minerals that stained the stones like dried wounds. Zooni sat with her back to a tree carved with ancient knotwork, symbols too tangled to read.

"I remember being taken to the salt chamber. The veiling rites. I was meant to be an anchor the last vessel of the Sūmgar's memory. But they fractured me. Split me into verses and scattered them."

Zooni turned toward him. "I am one of seven."

Before he could respond, a sound echoed through the trees.

Then the scent hit them iron, rot, something wrong.

Zooni rose beside him, slower. She didn't draw her blade.

A figure cloaked, maskless, taller than a man, skin stitched with gold wire. Its mouth was sewn shut with black twine, but its eyes burned not with fire, but with recognition.

Zooni stepped forward. "You've come to bind me again."

The forest peeled back like old cloth, revealing not trees, but the altar of the salt chamber the place from her visions. Stone. Chains. Shallow bowls filled with weeping wax. And seven empty thrones.

Zooni screamed, but no sound came.

The boy lunged forward, blade drawn but something struck him from behind, sending him hurtling into a pillar. Blood filled his mouth. The forest flickered between real and remembered.

Zooni knelt, hands pressed to her ears, tears of salt running down her cheeks.

The Ashwright extended a finger long, jointless, like bone grown wrong and touched her forehead.

Light erupted from her skin. Glyphs burned across her arms, chest, throat. And then

Shattered like a mirror dropped into water.

Chunks of her flesh, bone, soul scattered into dust. A single scream tore free from the void where she had stood.

It stepped forward, hand raised to erase him

And whispered a word not meant for human ears.

The boy vanished in a crack of air that smelled of lilies and rot.

A room. Small. Earthen walls and woven mats.

Outside, birds called real birds this time.

A woman entered old, wearing a faded shawl. She carried a bowl of water and a piece of bread.

"You're lucky," she said. "Found you by the edge of the wheatfield. Looked like you'd been dead three days."

Zooni's blood no, her dust was still under his nails.

She smiled faintly. "Zareel. A quiet village. A forgotten one."

But behind them, the sound of her shattering replayed. Again. And again.

Chapter 5: A Thread Unspools