The forest had become still, but not in peace. It was the stillness of something holding its breath, of something watching—lurking just behind the veil of shadows. Asari walked ahead of Aicha in silence, his footsteps mechanical, his eyes void of any light. Each step echoed within his bones, like drums of war marching toward something inevitable.
Aicha kept her distance, though her gaze never left him. The air around them was heavy with the stench of decay, and the trees themselves seemed to recoil from their presence. The further they ventured into Velmara, the more the land felt... conscious. It wasn't just corrupted; it was aware.
"You haven't slept in two nights," Aicha whispered from behind, her voice gentle, but wary.
"Sleep brings dreams. Dreams bring the past. I have no use for either," Asari replied without turning his head. His tone was cold, carved from stone. He wasn't trying to be cruel—he simply no longer knew how to be anything else.
They arrived at the mouth of a deep ravine that split the land like a scar. Down below, a black river oozed through the rocks, its surface thick and unmoving. The ravine was known in old maps as The Mourning Chasm—a place abandoned even by monsters.
A village once stood nearby, built by ancient tribes who worshipped Eather through harmony with nature. Now, only splinters of forgotten shrines remained, half-swallowed by the earth. Strange symbols were etched into the stones, glowing faintly under Asari's presence. The Stone of Gluttony pulsed within his chest.
Aicha felt her stomach churn. "This place is cursed."
"No," Asari said. "It's preserved."
Asari knelt beside a shattered obelisk and ran his fingers over the symbols. The runes responded to his touch, lighting up in blood-red veins. A ripple of Eather surged beneath the ground, and something deep below answered the call.
A sudden scream echoed from beneath the chasm. Not human. Not beast. It was something else—anguished and ancient. Aicha clutched her blade instinctively.
Asari stood calmly, looking down into the pit. "It heard me."
Aicha stepped closer. "What is it?"
He glanced at her, eyes haunted. "An echo from the past. A voice sealed away. A remnant of the first purge."
The first purge—the era when those who defied the divine Eather order were hunted, imprisoned, or slaughtered. Those who studied forbidden arts, or attempted to understand the primal chaos. It was said that the worst of them were locked away, not killed, because death would grant them freedom.
A rumble vibrated through the earth. Rocks tumbled from the cliffs above. The chasm split wider, revealing a stairway descending into darkness—made not of stone, but of bone and flesh, fused together in grotesque architecture.
"We shouldn't go down there," Aicha said, though her voice lacked certainty.
Asari began the descent. "We have no choice."
The stairs groaned under their weight. With each step, the air grew colder, denser, saturated with Eather twisted beyond comprehension. The Stone of Gluttony pulsed harder now—so loud Aicha could hear it thrum even from behind him.
They descended for hours.
When they finally reached the bottom, they stood before a gate fashioned from ribs the size of trees. A massive heart—long since rotted—was chained to the ceiling, still beating faintly, fed by some hidden source. Beneath it knelt a figure.
A child.
No older than ten, pale as snow, clothed in rags stitched with symbols. His eyes were shut, and an ancient sigil pulsed on his forehead.
Aicha's breath caught. "Is he alive?"
"More than alive," Asari said, his voice distant. "He's dreaming. And in his dream, this world is held still."
The child opened his eyes.
They were black—endless voids. And when he spoke, it wasn't with his voice, but with many.
"Another bearer of sin. Another devourer comes. You seek truth... but it is truth that shall undo you."
Asari knelt, placing a hand against the ground. "You know me."
"I remember you," the voices said. "The one who fed the Stone beneath the academy. The butcher of the tribunal. The cursed son of Dummer. You are not here by fate. You are here because you have become part of the wound."
Aicha stepped closer. "Who is he?"
The voices responded, "He is Adamas, the vessel of eternal thought. Born from Velmara's grief. He dreams what the world forgets."
Adamas looked directly at Aicha. "You should not be here. Your hope is too bright. It will burn in this place."
Asari's expression remained cold, but his eyes wavered. "Why did you call me?"
The walls trembled.
"Because you are incomplete. You have devoured strength, but not suffering. Until you drown in it, you will never rise beyond what you are."
Suddenly, pain erupted in Asari's chest. He dropped to his knees, clutching his heart. The Stone of Gluttony twisted within him, warping, screaming in hunger.
Visions assaulted his mind.
A forest of corpses. A burning sky. The face of a woman he once called mother—burning in agony. Saelan's smile as he fell. Aicha dying. Again. Again. Again.
"STOP!" he roared.
The visions faded.
Aicha knelt beside him, holding his face. "You're still here. You're still you."
But for how long?
Adamas stood.
"Velmara will not be kind. It will break you to build you. If you still wish to ascend, then carry this wound. Carry it until you understand why even gods fear it."
From his chest, Adamas pulled a shard—dark, crystalline, humming with ancient Eather. He handed it to Asari.
"This is the Memory of Grief. It will show you the truth of this land."
Asari took it.
And the gate behind the child opened.
The darkness beyond was not silent.
It was alive.
> "In darkness we are forged, and in pain we are tempered. But in grief—we find who we truly are."