Though unified in law, Bellacia remains a land of quiet partitions—each region shaped by its gods, geography, and tongue. In the center lies Aldinia, the kingdom's cultural seat, where language flows like song and the worship of Vanir, god of mirth, saturates daily life. Festivals are frequent, filled with music, dance, and elaborate displays of performance and pageantry. Here, joy is revered as sacred, the pulse that both sustains faith and strengthens the bonds of state— a binding force weaving together the diverse threads of Bellacia.
To the north, in places like Northgate, the air is colder, and so too is the speech—thick with clipped consonants, guttural turns, and an old cadence said to come from the highlands. There, reverence turns to Meris, the Goddess of Wisdom. Shrines built into cliffside chapels hold shelves of scrolls and stone-carved proverbs. Knowledge is earned slowly, not spoken quickly. Even in conversation, Northerners value restraint over rhetoric, and an outsider would be wise to speak less and listen more.
In the fog-veiled northwest, the Greyhallow region feels stranger still. Smaller, less traveled, and often overlooked, it exists more as a whisper on the map than a fixture of the realm. Its people speak plain Bellacian, yet their phrasing is... off. Sentences trail into suggestion, and answers often arrive in metaphor rather than fact. Faith is a mixture of pantheonic beliefs and… other beliefs. To outsiders, Greyhallow may feel less like a province and more like a forgotten memory, lost deep within the woods.
The trees thinned—just barely—revealing the faint orange flicker of torchlight ahead.
Not some thaumaturgic glow. Just real flame—crackling in the breeze, guttering whenever the wind pressed too hard. The warm light beckoned them. They moved through the underbrush, branches tugging at their clothes, until the treeline broke before them.
Kai slowed as they stepped through the last veil of hanging moss. Ahead, nestled in a cradle of stone and fog, was a village. Its shape half-lost to the mist, like a dream fading with the dawn. Wooden homes with slanted roofs dotted the stone ridges, rope bridges strung between the higher perches, and lit lanterns swaying from carved poles, casting halos in the fog.
The town had none of the artificial illumination he had experienced while traveling through Bellacia thus far. It reminded him of Vander.
But Vander had been warm and pleasant. This place was not. The silence was thick, almost aware, and no one came to greet them as they approached. However, Kai could feel more than a few eyes watching them.
"Well," Oro said, breaking the hush with a wry smile, "charming. Rather like a graveyard—only with better carpentry."
Rell gave him a sidelong glance. "The forest's been lookin' after yer delicate nobility just fine. I'm sure a little village won't break ya."
"I have standards," Oro replied overdramatically with mock indignation before smirking. He turned to Kai, his tone light but probing. "And what about you, quiet one? Think we'll stumble upon any friendly faces in this charming little patch of gloom?"
Kai didn't answer right away.
He'd been quiet for days, since they crossed the river into Greyhallow's deepest reaches. His mind was a crowded thing—filled with the weight of Branlen's fate, with training that bore no fruit, and the hunger that never came. Nights passed with him standing at the edge of camp while the others slept, sword in hand, waiting for something—anything— to stir within the blade, but nothing ever came.
He wasn't tired. The cold didn't touch him—not like it did Rell and Oro, who huddled close to the fire, cloaks pulled tight. Kai only watched, detached, wondering why the flame offered no warmth, why it all seemed so distant.
These thoughts tumbled though Kai's mind as he looked upon the village so reminiscent of his home. He finally spoke, voice low. "Let's just get what we need and keep moving."
"Gods, Kai, do let us stop for a proper meal," Oro groaned, dramatically clutching his side. "My legs haven't felt normal in days—and I'm fairly certain I stepped in something alive and wriggling not long ago."
Rell didn't disagree. She rubbed at her shoulder, fatigue evident despite her usual composure. "He's not wrong. The pace we've been keepin'… even I'm startin' to feel it."
Kai opened his mouth to argue—but his words faltered. He wanted to keep moving—needed to. With every delay, Branlen drifted further beyond reach. Part of him wanted to say that he would go alone from here.
But he didn't.
As much as the urgency gnawed at him, he didn't want to brave that fog alone. Not truly. He hadn't said much in days, but Rell and Oro's presence—their bickering, banter, even their complaints—had become a buffer against the worst of the spiraling thoughts that came in the silence. He wasn't ready to lose that yet.
With that in mind, he let out a slow breath and gave a faint nod.
"Just a meal."
Oro perked up at once, eyes alight with hope. "At last. A roof over our heads, a seat beneath us, and—dare I dream?—a proper meal. Perhaps even fresh-baked bread!"
Rell snorted. "Assumin' they even got an inn," she said, glancing around the village. "... Or if they even got bread."
They passed beneath a sagging arch of woven branches and stepped into the village proper. The air changed the moment they crossed the threshold—thicker.
From this close, the mist no longer hid the village's features—timber huts with moss-covered roofs, stone hearths jutting from narrow walls, crooked sheds propped at precarious angles. Most of the houses had no windows; those that did were shuttered tightly. It was a place designed for necessity, not comfort.
Torches burned at every corner—fixed to walls, staked into the ground, even clutched tightly in the hands of passing villagers as they shifted between buildings. Firelight licked the fog, casting long, warped shadows that flickered against every surface.
The villagers stared wordlessly as they passed. No one challenged their presence as they made their way into the heart of the village.
Pale faces peeked from behind door frames and beneath heavy hoods. Their skin bore the washed-out hue of those who rarely saw daylight—if ever. Their eyes, bright in the firelight, tracked their approach.
More than a few carried weapons openly—short hunting bows slung across shoulders, wood-handled axes strapped to belts. One man leaned against a doorway, a hooked blade resting across his lap as he slowly wiped the edge with a cloth, lost in idle habit.
Only the soft scuff of footsteps and the crackling hiss of torch flames broke the silence. If not for the villagers visible in the gloom, one might have mistaken the village abandoned.
"This place is delightful," Oro remarked, his tone genuinely thoughtful. "I can't help but wonder what sort of history lingers in a place like this… how many years beneath the boughs it would take before silence became your mother tongue."
A short, surprised laugh escaped Rell before she could stop it. She cleared her throat quickly, forcing her expression back to neutral.
Kai kept them moving, tracing the main route as it meandered between crooked houses. Despite the heat of the torches, the fog clung low to the ground, curling around their shoes.
They didn't notice the man until he was already standing in their path, gliding out of the fog with a smooth, silent tread. Broad-shouldered, weathered, and dressed in a sleeveless leather tunic stitched with bark-colored thread.
"Welcome," he said simply.
His voice was rough around the edges but not unfriendly. He looked each of them over in turn—eyes lingering briefly on Kai, then on the sword at his waist—before offering a slight nod.
"Cain, I'm called. The village leans my way when it must."
"The village elder," Kai nods in respect.
"A village elder?" Oro murmured under his breath, brows raised. "It's as though we've stepped straight into the past."
Ignoring the remark, Kai addressed the elder. "We're passing through. Looking for some supplies before we move on."
"And a warm meal," Oro added smoothly, with a practiced smile. "If such a luxury still exists this deep within the woods."
Cain stared at him for a moment before nodding. "Not many find their way here through the forest. Roads and trails disappear beneath the forest's grasp, and most travelers fear what lurks in its darkness. But the longhouse breathes wide—offering room enough, if need stirs."
He gestured down a side path, toward a wider structure partially obscured by the fog.
"I'll send for supper. Best to speak while your hands are busy and your mouth full."
He turned, clearly expecting them to follow.
As they walked, Rell called from the back of the group. "How much?"
Cain didn't stop. "Coin's got no weight out here."
Oro raised a brow. "A barter system? How delightfully archaic."
Cain looked over his shoulder, the torchlight catching faint lines beneath his eyes. "Strangers don't often knock at our door. Been some time since the forest brought anyone our way."
He led them down a sloped path of packed dirt and uneven flagstones, where the torches grew fewer and farther between as they moved deeper into the heart of the village. At the end of the lane stood a long, low structure of dark timber—its roof steep and shingled in broad wooden slats. Though weathered, the frame stood solid. Smoke drifted from a stone flue at the far end, and thick hides had been hung along the sides to keep out the worst of the wind.
Cain pushed open the heavy double doors, revealing a wide, open hall lit only by firelight.The room was dimly lit by scattered torches set in iron sconces and a wide, shallow hearth that burned low in a trench running down its center. Smoke rose in loose ribbons through the slats of a split-beam ceiling, vanishing into the darkness overhead. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke, old leather, and something faintly acrid.
Rows of benches flanked either side of the hearth, and a broad table stretched against the wall, cluttered with bundles of dried grass, carved bone tools, and what appeared to be preserved roots. In the corners, animal hides had been spread out for bedding.
As they took in the building, Kai noticed faint markings—etched runes and ancient symbols—that had been carved into the beams overhead, though several were suspiciously recent, their lines clean and unweathered.
The spacious hall was cozier than expected, its walls well insulated against the chill of the fog. The heat from the central fire was enough to draw out the damp that had begun to cling to their cloaks.
Cain motioned toward the benches. "Ease your weight where the wood welcomes it. I'll see that the table stirs."
Oro gave a low whistle. He traced his fingers along one of the carved support beams, eyes following the carvings as they spiraled upward like vines.
Rell moved to the bench closest to the fire and sat without a word, stretching her legs out in front of her. She watched the flames in silence, but the tension in her shoulders made it clear—she hadn't let her guard down.
Kai stood a moment longer, listening as the flames crackled in the hearth trench. This place was similar to Vander in more ways than one. But something ran deeper than memory, a connection he felt rather than understood.
Cain returned then, a leather-bound jug in one hand and a small tray balanced on the other. Without prompt, Oro turned to him.
"This place… it's remarkable. What's the story behind it?"
Cain paused for a moment, his expression unreadable as he searched for the right words. Then he set the tray down and spoke.
"Laid out like the Womb. So life might not forget where it crawled from."
"Come again?" Rell asked in surprise.
"Not a woman's," Cain clarified. "The forest's. That's what our ancestors believed. That Greyhallow was once the cradle of something old and deep. When the trees whispered louder and the stars hung lower. The first builders shaped their homes to honor that. The longhouse is more than just shelter—it's a place of beginnings."
Oro moved closer, clearly intrigued.
Cain poured a steaming, dark liquid into the wooden cups—something herbal, bitter-smelling—and handed them out in silence. For a moment, the only sounds were the hiss of the fire and the creak of the beams above.
"They say Leviathan first stirred beneath these trees." he said.
Oro paused, his cup hovering midway to his lips. "I don't recognize that name. What is it, exactly?"
Cain gave a faint smile. "No. You'd not know it. Leviathan's not something you meet. It's something that was, and maybe still is—spread thin, deep beneath all things. Vast and divine."
Rell shook her head. "It ain't one of the Pantheon."
He gestured upward, toward the ceiling where long curves of etched wood spiraled above the fire trench, curling inward like coils.
He poured a pinch of powder from a small pouch into the hearth. The fire flared in response—first gold, then blue—casting wild shadows that danced across the curved ceiling above. For a fleeting moment, the etchings came to life in the glow: a vast leviathan coiling around the heavens, its jaws open wide as if to devour the stars, while the gods stood defiant along its spine, weapons raised beneath a burning sky.
"Leviathan curled round the world in a hush. When she opened her eye, it poured fire into our hearts—truth, a gift. Gave us names and the weight to carry them. The gods, they saw us standing tall and turned cruel."
"So… a divine serpent bestows knowledge upon mankind, and the gods respond with a tantrum?" Oro laughed, the sound rich with amusement. "I've heard many fables in my time, but never one quite so dramatic."
Cain ignored the interruption and continued, his gaze distant. "They sent no men—only forms chiseled from rage. Divine hands molded them hollow and filled them with purpose. We call them the Miraii."
Kai's eyes snapped up sharply, his breath catching in his throat.
He hadn't heard that name spoken outside of Vander. He had sensed that this place was different, but he would have imagined that this stranger would have knowledge of his people.
Whether Cain noticed the shift in him or not, he said nothing.
"They came hunting. Set fire to all we'd raised—stone, song, and blood alike. Drove the tribes to the winds. Left nothing breathing as they spread across the land. And Leviathan… slipped from the world. Or maybe She was never there at all. Some say we dreamed Her—and were punished for dreaming too deep."
He sipped from his cup, prompting Oro to drink as well. Rell eyed the contents warily before taking a cautious sniff of the brew. Her nose wrinkled at the strong bitter scent.
"Truth's a slippery thing. But the memory endures. Passed from tongue to tongue, long before my time."
The fire crackled, casting long, spiraling shadows along the curved beams above.
Kai sat in silence, hands resting on his knees—calm at a glance, until one noticed the tension in his jaw.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Cain drank in silence, eyes fixed on the fire, as though the flames held stories no voice could bear.
"They weren't monsters," Kai said quietly.
His words catching even him by surprise.
Cain looked up. So did Rell.
Oro blinked. "What?"
Kai shifted, suddenly aware of the silence he'd broken—but the words poured out, driven by something deeper than thought.
"The Miraii weren't weapons. That story—it's wrong. It's…"
His voice faltered.
"They wouldn't do that."
Then Oro, softer than usual, asked, "How do you know?" There was no mockery in his tone, no disbelief. Just a friend trying to understand.
"I…." Kai started, but stopped himself from telling the truth, "It's not the stories I was told."
Oro said nothing, watching Kai with quiet focus. Meanwhile, Rell tilted her head just a bit, a wary look crossing her face as she reevaluated him.
Cain didn't respond.
Kai felt the weight of their stares and took a moment to gather his thoughts.
"The stories I was told never spoke of gods or wrath. The Miraii are spirits of this world—quiet, thoughtful beings, not cruel," he said.
He glanced up, meeting Cain's gaze.
"Whatever your ancestors saw—it wasn't the Miraii I was told of."
Cain studied him for a long moment, curiosity and contemplation in his expression.
"Could be. Or maybe time just carves truth into different shapes." He scratched at his chin. "Stories breathe different. Not like folk do."
Rell spoke next. "Ephydra wouldn't condone somethin' like this—she loves the land and its people. So what's that make this place? A shrine to a lie?"
Cain gave a faint shrug. "Could be. It could start with a word twisted in the telling and over the years, the shape of it was forgotten."
The door creaked open, breaking the momentary silence, revealing two women carrying wide wooden trays. Neither spoke as they moved between the fire trench and the benches, setting down plates and bowls carved from polished bark. Steam rose from the dishes, thick with unfamiliar aromas.
The tension broke—not with words, but with Oro's clear, bright laugh of delight.
"Is that bread?" he asked, eyes fixed on a pale loaf nestled beside a spread of assorted roots and dark stew. Without hesitation, he snatched it up and tore off a bite.
He chewed once. Twice. Then stopped.
Slowly, he stared at the half-eaten wedge in his hand. He turned it over. Sniffed it.
"What… what did I just eat?"
The two women exchanged glances. One of them—the younger of the two—let out a small, amused huff. "It's food, traveler."
"I didn't mean—" Oro started, mouth still full, struggling to swallow the bite without gagging.
The older woman's cold glare lingered until he swallowed hard. Once she was satisfied, the older woman relaxed and looked away.
Cain cleared his throat and gave them a sharp glance. The two women nodded curtly, collected their trays, and slipped wordlessly back through the door.
Cain turned back to the group. "That'd be krolma. Grows in beds carved from split trees. Nothing fancy. Just mash, steam, and a baked slow. Fills more than just the gut."
Oro looked down at the wedge still in his hand. "Ah… Mushloaf."
Cain gestured across the spread. "We take what the land gives—vesk-beetles for strength, fenroots boiled 'til they bend. Greytoads smoked hollow, river fish still kissed by the morning mist."
Oro immediately reached across and snatched a fish from the platter, eyes gleaming. Digging into it with gusto.
Rell approached the meal cautiously, taking small bites of each dish. She made no comment—just a quiet evaluation: slight wrinkle of her brow here, a subtle raise of her eyes there. Still, she said nothing in complaint.
Kai lifted a carved sliver of fenroot and took a bite. It was slightly firm, but he tasted nothing. He chewed slowly, searching for even the faintest note of flavor—there was none.
Oro noticed the grimace flicker across his face.
"Try the fish," he said, nudging the plate toward him. "Surprisingly decent. Tastes like… well, fish. More or less."
Kai hesitated, then picked up a flaky piece of the fish and took a bite. Nothing. The same void. The same blankness. He sat still, staring at the fish in his hand. Just like everything else he couldn't taste it.
Just as he couldn't feel the warmth of the fire, nor the chill against his skin, the small things—flavor, temperature, comfort—were slipping away one by one, leaving him to wonder what might vanish next.
Smell? Sight? Would his voice go hollow? Would he one day reach out and not feel his own fingers? Was he dwindling into a shadow of himself, hollowed by something he couldn't name?
He sat still, silent, staring into the hearth until the weight of his own thoughts became too much to bear.
Then, with a sharp motion, he rose—quick enough to send a cup rattling against the wooden bench.
"I need to leave."
Rell's brows furrowed as she glanced over. "Already?"
"Come now. We've only just sat down. What harm could there be in staying a few hours?" Oro said incredulously.
Kai's voice was low, but firm. "The two of you may stay, but I have to go further north."
As he headed for the door, Cain's voice called after him in warning.
"North don't welcome folk no more."
Kai paused, turning to glance back at him.
Cain rose from his place by the fire. "I won't bar your steps. But the northern path's shut. There's something in the fog—waiting. It's taken more than a few of us. None saw it clear. But we've heard enough."
Rell straightened. "Heard it?"
"The sound's like something sucking marrow from mud," Cain said. "Seems like it'll never stop—that noise. Then it does—too fast. You turn your head, and the ones you came with… aren't there anymore. As if the forest swallowed its due."
He stepped around the trench and gestured toward the western exit of the longhouse.
"If you've set your mind to leaving, take the western run. Keep to the forest's edge, ride the ridge, then bend north again. Adds days, but keeps your name on folk's lips."
Kai didn't answer right away. Time was against him..
"I'll deal with it," he said flatly.
Cain's eyes went wide. "What?"
Kai squared his shoulders. "The creature. Whatever it is. I'll take care of it. I don't have time to go around." There was no bravado to his words. Just a grim certainty, as if he'd already resigned himself to whatever came next.
Cain shook his head. "Alone? Into that fog? Some folk call that brave, but it sounds more like longing for a grave to me."
"I'll be fine." Kai said simply, as if survival was a given, not a question.
"No, I don't think so," Cain said. "Something's gnawing at your soul, sure as rot in wood. But it won't hold your hand when the dark comes calling."
A heavy silence hung between them before Cain spoke, "Word's been sent. Help's on the wind. Should be a Hunter by morning—one with Warden ties. Best you face it with them at your side, not without."
Kai's expression softened, filled with quiet rage—not directed at anyone, but at the shadow he was becoming.
"Might be any manner of thing," Cain said. "But it's the not-seeing that makes it worse. No tracks or scent—just the sound… and the vanishings. If you mean to face it, fine. But wait. One night won't break you."
Oro raised a hand from where he sat, still clutching a half-eaten fish. "For what it's worth—if I can manage a single decent night's sleep without mud in my shoes, I'll gladly lend my aid as well."
Rell nodded slowly, arms crossed. "Monster huntin' ain't a solo venture, Kai. Waitin's the smart call."
Kai didn't sit back down. But he didn't walk out either. He stood still for a long breath, face impassive.
The fire popped, breaking the silence with a sharp crack as a log split.
Finally, he nodded.
Cain turned towards a side door, already moving to leave. "I'll see someone sets out space for rest. Separate quarters, of course—with a lady in your number."
Rell shook her head. "That won't be necessary," she said. "I'll stay with 'em."
Cain paused—but gave a short nod and continued on his way.
Oro looked as though someone had just handed him a rare gift. "Well, would you look at that—progress." He nudged Kai with an elbow, grinning broadly. "She likes us now." He ignored the eye roll that followed.
Kai didn't respond. He wasn't so easily convinced.
He watched as Rell turned away, her gaze subtly sweeping the room, registering exits and watching shadows. He knew about the dagger tucked in her cloak and how she quietly saved rations at each meal.
She didn't trust them. But whatever she noticed about this village unsettled her more. And Kai couldn't blame her—not in a place where the fire's light trembled beneath a starless sky.