The flames burned silver.
They did not give warmth. They gave memory—visions etched into the stone of the soul. And as Asari and Aicha stood frozen in that arena, those memories surged around them like a wave of ancient sorrow.
The Whispered Queen hovered above the broken coliseum, her veil of darkness fluttering in unseen wind. Her eyes were hollow like a dead moon—yet deep within them, stars twitched as if they remembered a time before time.
Asari stepped forward, ignoring the blood seeping down his ribs.
"You're no fragment," he said coldly. "You're a remnant."
The Queen tilted her head. "So, you know the old tongues… Good. Then know this—Velmara is not yours to wander, little slayer."
Behind him, Aicha clenched her fists. "What is she?"
"I don't know," Asari muttered, "but she's not alive in the normal sense. She's something born from Eather itself."
The Whispered Queen raised her hands slowly. Silver threads danced between her fingers—shimmering like tears.
"This continent was once home to gods," she whispered. "Before your kingdoms, before your towers of arrogance. And beneath its soil, those gods are buried—chained in stories, waiting for fools to wake them."
Asari narrowed his eyes. "Then I'll cut those stories before they speak."
The Queen let out a low laugh—cold and distant.
"You will try."
She vanished—dissolving into motes of light, leaving behind only the scent of lavender and rust.
Silence reclaimed the arena.
"…Was that a test?" Aicha asked after a long pause.
"No," Asari answered. "That was a warning."
He walked toward the edge of the chamber where the Whispered Queen had hovered. There, carved into the stone wall, was a symbol. Circular, entwined with seven rings.
Each ring held a different name in ancient script.
Velmara's Seals.
Aicha read it aloud, heart sinking. "This isn't the only place like this."
"No," Asari muttered. "There are more. Seven ruins. Seven locked memories. And maybe—seven remnants."
They emerged from the ruins hours later. Above them, the red sun of Velmara glared through an ashen sky. The world felt heavier here. As if walking meant dragging a weight tied to your bones.
Asari turned to Aicha. "We need information."
"We'll head for the nearest settlement."
"Not just any. A city of keepers. Somewhere records are still sacred."
Aicha's eyes lit with realization. "Then we need to find Velmara's Library-City. The one said to hold every piece of knowledge not yet erased."
"Exactly."
She opened her map—etched with Eather ink, reacting faintly to her touch. The ink swirled and revealed a new route. "North of here. Beyond the Whispering Plains."
Asari sheathed his blade. "Then we move."
They traveled for two days.
The land around them was quiet—too quiet. The skies bled red in the morning and turned pitch black before dusk. They passed hollow trees that wept sap made of glass. Rivers ran sideways in places, and birds had three eyes but no mouths.
Velmara was beautiful, but it wasn't sane.
On the third day, they found it.
A village—not large, but old. Built in the cracks between massive cliffs, with watchtowers made from bones and metal. The people wore robes stitched from paper and armor carved from obsidian leaves.
They were watchers.
Their leader greeted them with an empty gaze.
"You carry the scent of Ruin," he said to Asari.
"I carry truth," Asari replied.
The man nodded once. "Then you are welcome in Warthram. But be warned—the Library watches even those who seek it."
Asari's eyes narrowed. "You mean it's alive?"
"No." The man smiled faintly. "I mean it dreams."
That night, Aicha slept uneasily. Asari remained awake, watching the cliffs from the rooftop.
The Pulse in his chest stirred.
Something was watching them.
Not the villagers. Not a beast.
Something… older.
He rose. Silent as shadow. The Eather twisted around him.
A whisper licked the air behind his ear.
"Devourer of fates… do not forget the chain you broke."
He spun—but nothing was there.
Only the wind.
Only silence.
Only Velmara.
---
"In a land built on graves, even gods are forgotten. But the soil remembers."
– Chapter End Quote