The sky was burning.
dandelions floated like snow through the canopy, caught in the damp breath of a dying wind. The trees, once proud and towering, stood warped and splintered — their bark blackened, their roots exposed like bones torn from the earth. The forest didn't groan. It didn't whisper. It only held its breath.
And in the center of it all, blood seeping into the soil like a sacrifice, lay a man.
His chest barely moved. His body was cracked, broken, and burned. Shadows flickered around him like dying embers, retreating into the charred ground, clinging to him protectively as if afraid to be separated. His right arm didn't respond. His left eye was swollen shut. And his soul — his Soel — throbbed faintly, barely tethered to his body.
Ex did not move. There was no room left in him for that.
But someone did.
A small figure stepped through the edge of the clearing. A boy — barefoot, cloaked in a simple white garment too clean for this ruined place. His hair was wet with rain that hadn't touched the rest of the forest, and in his eyes: oceans older than time.
He approached Ex with quiet steps, unafraid. And when he knelt, the shadows did not recoil. They stilled.
He placed a hand on Ex's forehead.
And for a moment, the broken man breathed.
The journey was silent.
The boy carried him through what was left of the forest — past a familiar waterfall, scorched roots, shattered stones, and trees split as though by heaven's own wrath. The world had been cleaved here. Something terrible had happened, something holy. And though the man was unconscious, every gust of wind sounded like it spoke his name.
Darkness.
No, not just darkness — something wet, heavy, clinging to his skin.
Ex felt movement. Arms beneath him. A slow, steady rhythm of footsteps. weightless, head lolling against a chest he couldn't see.
Eventually, the trees began to change.
The blackened ash gave way to green. Flowers bloomed along the roots. The sky, still heavy with stormlight, parted slightly — and in that light, the boy stepped through an unseen veil and entered a different place.
A village.
Humble, hidden, and silent. Homes carved into the stone, huts shaped from trees that still bore fruit. Wind chimes whispered in forgotten tongues.
And the people — cautious, watching, half-afraid — emerged from their homes at the sight of the boy.
They did not stop him.
He passed through the narrow paths with bare feet silent against the dirt, the body in his arms limp, blood trailing faintly like a broken thread. Heads turned. Doors creaked open, then shut. Shadows gathered in the corners of windows.
The boy reached the oldest home and knocked once. The door opened before his knuckles could strike again.
An elderly woman stood in the doorway, her hands worn from years of work, her hair braided with faded flowers. And her eyes, once sharp, softened when they found the boy.
"Oh," she breathed, voice catching like a prayer half-swallowed. "You've brought him."
The boy said nothing. He simply nodded, his arms tightening slightly around the bloodied man.
Her gaze shifted — to the figure in his arms — and something ancient stirred in her face.Not pity. But recognition, as though an old memory long buried had risen at last to the surface.
"Bring him inside," she whispered. "Quickly. Before the villagers start talking."
The room smelled of herbs, smoke, and time.
Ex lay on a low bed, stripped of cloak and armor, wrapped in linen that smelled of bitter roots. Ointments stung even through the haze of unconsciousness, threading through his broken skin like tiny flames. His chest pulsed faintly, as though something deep inside had yet to decide if it would cling to life or slip away.
The old woman worked swiftly. Cleaning. Binding. Pressing cool cloths to his fevered skin. Her hands were sure, her breath steady — but her eyes, now and then, flicked to his face with an unspoken question.
Because not all his wounds were from the outside.
Some were turned inward — the kind that left no blade, no burn, no scar, and yet devoured from beneath the skin.
Marks on the soul. Splintered veins of Soel twisted back upon the self, as if he had turned his power against his own body.
"His wounds are too deep," the woman murmured softly, half to herself.
a man, rough and edged with suspicion — spoke from the corner.
"He reeks of death, Ilsha. Whatever he is, he's dangerous."
The boy looked up. Calm. Unshaken.
"Dangerous that's for sure," the boy said quietly.
Ex's lips parted — a sound, a breath, a memory struggling to surface.
Blood on stone. Hands gripping his throat. Eyes burning like suns.
Her hands hesitated over his chest.
Pain licked up his spine, a slow sear, as though his own veins were burning from the inside out. His Soel snarled under his skin, a beast caged too long, gnawing at the bars.
His fingers twitched, scraped weakly at the linen. His mouth parted. A sound rose — half-breath, half-moan.
"He's… breaking inside," she murmured, voice thin as thread.
The boy, quiet in the corner, only watched.
The rough-eyed man stirred, scowling. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Ilsha whispered, "he's killing himself."
His mind surfaced, then slipped under — a body caught in undertow.
The scent of fire, the sound of steel, the weight of his own heartbeat crashing in his ears.
The woman leaned in again, brushing damp hair from his brow.
"You are not dead yet," she whispered. "But you are close — closer than you know."
A sound — distant, muffled — water against stone? A voice, thin as thread:
"Not dead yet?"
Or was that his own voice?
Outside, the night deepened.
somewhere in the haze of his minds voice drifted through the smoke and ruin: "Silbrah….it all began in Silbrah."
Ilsha's voice floated, distant, like a memory:
"He's creating a new root memory."
His breath hitched. His brow dampened. Somewhere, far away, cloth rustled, a basin was set down, a voice murmured over him —
and then rain
The scent of smoke. The weight of a dying man in his arms.
Ex knelt in the mud, his fingers tight around the man's collar, trying to force meaning into his fading eyes.
"Where?" Ex's voice was rough, cracking from exhaustion and smoke. "Where are they holding it?"
The man's lips were torn, his jaw trembling as he forced the words out.
"North… beyond the gorge… a village… they call it Silbrah now. It's—" His eyes rolled back, but Ex shook him once, sharp and brutal, dragging him back from the edge.
"Tell me."
The man choked on a laugh, a wet, broken sound.
"You'll know it…
His head lolled. Ex let go.
The rain buried him.
Days later.
The buildings gave way to filth.
Ex stood at the edge of the village — or what passed for one.
Silbrah was a place no map cared to remember. Houses stacked like rotten teeth.Mud streets carved into choking alleys. Men and women watching from doorways with eyes sharp as knives, children darting like flashes under the eaves. The smell was worse than rot — it was hunger, desperation, and sin baked into every plank and stone.
Ex pulled his cloak tighter.
He moved slowly, eyes half-lidded, body aching. Even healed, he was a wolf on broken legs — but his mind was sharp. Every corner was noted. Every eye marked. Every whisper filtered through the humming tension in his chest.
A woman leaned against a post, her dress loose, her smile looser.
A butcher hacked meat in a stall that smelled of nothing you'd eat.
Boys ran past, laughing too loudly, eyes flicking to his belt.
Pickpockets. Don't bother.
He caught the smallest boy's eye just long enough to kill the thought.
On the corner, a man with a soldier's stance leaned against a post, gaze pinned to Ex like a nail. His hand toyed idly with the hilt at his side.
Voices murmured as Ex passed:
"We don't welcome strangers here boy."
"Leave him. another voice said "The chapel will take care of him."
Ex walked on.
In the center of town stood an old chapel.
Once, maybe, it had been beautiful. Now the spire was cracked, the door hung on one hinge, and the stained glass was nothing but jagged holes. Yet people still gathered near it — rough men in dark coats, whispering in corners, their hands never far from their weapons.
By the time Ex reached the chapel, the village was still talking behind him —
but the tension hummed under his skin like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Above the door, half-buried in grime, the symbol of a twisted sun.
"The Chosen rituals."
Ex took his time.
He moved through the market. Watched. Listened.
A drunk muttered about disappearances.
A merchant sold charms against the "unstable plague."
A boy cried in the alley when his sister didn't come home.
The corruption wasn't loud. It was woven into the village.
And beneath it all, Ex felt it — the faintest pull of Soel, like a heartbeat under the floorboards. Old. Rotten. Calling.
Night fell.
Ex stood in the shadows, watching the chapel doors swing open.
Hooded figures emerged, their robes marked with, their faces hidden. One by one, they moved into the alleys, slipping into the night. And when the last light died inside the chapel, Ex's hand closed around the hilt at his side.
Time to see how deep this rot goes.