The air shimmered with heat and dust.
From the ridge above the canyon, a lone bystander stood — skin tanned, eyes narrow beneath a torn hood.
He spat once, the sound lost in the wind.
"The Kharuun, tribe of the west," he muttered, voice rough as stone. "Born from flame and ash… and now they send him."
Below, figures moved across the fractured earth — warriors stripped to their waists, their bronze skin painted in streaks of soot and ember dye.
Veil-fire flickered faintly across their scars, alive, restless.
And among them — walking quietly through the heat haze — was Gareth.
His skin had darkened like theirs, sunburnt and dry, his clothes torn from travel through the Wildzone.
He didn't speak, didn't look back.
The others gave him distance, whispering his name like it was something half-feared, half-sacred.
From where the bystander stood, it looked as if the earth itself bent slightly beneath Gareth's steps — the air around him rippling with a faint, unseen pressure.
"Never thought I'd see the day," the man said, shading his eyes as the canyon light bled gold and red across the horizon.
"The Kharuun walking beside a foreign ghost."
Gareth kicked at a loose stone, watching it tumble into the endless drop below.
"Gods, I hate this place," he muttered. "How big can one damn forest be? Forests aren't supposed to have canyons in them."
The sun glared off the jagged cliffs, the wind howling through the Vale like something alive. The ground trembled now and then — the Wildzone breathing.
Behind him, a grunt — then a thud.
One of the Kharuun warriors had slipped on the broken edge, hitting her knee hard against the rock.
Gareth turned back, extending his hand. "Easy—"
She smacked his hand away, glare sharp. "Don't touch me. I'm Kharuuniam. We don't need help. We're strong—"
She stopped mid-sentence, eyes flicking down, shame slipping through the heat of her pride.
"…Sorry," she said quietly. "Nerves got me."
Gareth shrugged, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "No worries. Happens to everyone."
He stepped past her, gaze lifting toward the horizon — the shattered canyon stretching endlessly ahead, glowing faintly with Veil light.
"Let's just hope the next cliff doesn't have opinions too."
Gareth brushed the dust from his hands, glancing at the distant campfires scattered across the canyon ridge.
"Alright," he muttered, "mind telling me why they dragged me all the way out here?"
The Kharuun girl paused, her dark hair whipping in the dry wind. She looked ahead for a moment, then back at him — eyes sharp, but voice softer.
"You really don't know, outsider?" she asked. "We're Kharuun. We don't sit still — we endure."
She picked up a small rock and tossed it into the ravine. The echo came back slow, hollow.
"The Kharuun have hated the East for longer than anyone remembers," she said, her tone carrying the weight of old scars. "It's not just politics or pride. It's blood. We don't forget what they did to us."
Gareth frowned. "And now you're fighting them again?"
A faint, nervous smile crossed her lips. "Yeah," she said quietly. "They want the Lake of Forgotten Dreams… and so do we."
She turned, eyes distant as thunder rolled far beyond the canyons.
"This time, it's not a raid or a show of strength." Her voice lowered. "It's a fight to the death."
Gareth stared at her — the dry wind catching the faint shimmer of the Veil in her bronze eyes — and for the first time, he felt the Wildzone watching back.
Gareth didn't answer.
He just stood there, staring past her — out into the open wild.
The view stretched forever.
Canyons split the land like the scars of old gods, their veins glowing faintly with threads of blue Veillight.
Mist drifted between the cracks, shimmering like ghostly rivers caught in sunlight.
Massive roots — thick as towers — coiled along the cliffs, gripping the stone like serpents trying to hold the world together.
Above them, the canopy broke open to reveal a sky painted in molten gold and dying crimson.
Flocks of black-winged birds cut through the haze, their cries distant, almost mournful.
And in the far distance, where the canyon ended, a faint glimmer shone — a mirror of silver light.
The Lake of Forgotten Dreams.
Gareth exhaled slowly, the wind brushing his face like a whisper from another age.
"…This place," he muttered, almost to himself, "feels like the end of the world pretending to breathe."
The trail opened suddenly — the last ridge falling away beneath their feet.
And there it was.
The land below stretched wide and endless, bathed in pale, shimmering light.
A massive lake lay at its heart — still, mirror-smooth, reflecting the broken sky above like glass.
Its waters glowed faintly blue, veins of light swirling beneath the surface like living stars.
And at the very center of it all — a tree.
It rose from the lake's heart, colossal, its roots plunging deep into the glowing depths.
Its bark shimmered like silver stone, its leaves dark and glinting with streaks of gold.
Each branch pulsed faintly, as though breathing — and the entire lake rippled in rhythm with its heartbeat.
Gareth froze.
For a long moment, he couldn't speak — couldn't move.
The sheer size of it stole the air from his lungs.
"…That's not a tree," he whispered at last. "That's a world standing on its own."
The Kharuun girl stepped beside him, her eyes lowered in reverence.
"That," she murmured, "is the Heartroot. The lake belongs to whoever survives beneath its shadow."
Gareth said nothing.
He just stared — at the lake, at the ancient tree, and at the quiet pulse of the world's heart echoing through the wind.
Gareth's gaze lingered on the vast expanse — the glowing lake, the breathing tree, the faint shimmer of mist dancing above it.
He turned slowly, eyes tracing the rolling forests and canyons that stretched into eternity.
Even the wind felt older here, whispering names he couldn't remember.
He breathed once, quietly — and the world felt impossibly large.
Far away, beneath a dull red sky, the city of the East Tribe stirred with quiet dread.
A single figure walked through its gates — Janus, flanked by armored warriors whose steps matched the rhythm of war drums.
His face was calm, but there was a heaviness in his eyes — the weight of someone who already knew what waited beyond the trees.
No cheers followed them — only silence, and the rustle of banners in the wind.
They entered the forest.
The air grew colder, thicker, heavy with sap and age.
Janus slowed, his boots brushing against the fallen leaves — his gaze drawn to a clearing that looked carved by gods.
He knew this place.
Tall vineroots twisted skyward, their bark torn and blackened in places.
The ground was scarred — deep grooves cut through the soil like blades had danced there.
Janus knelt, tracing a single mark on a tree, feeling the faint warmth left in the wood.
It wasn't old.
"These patterns…" he murmured.
"The strikes came from one side only — the other never swung back."
His eyes narrowed, thoughts weaving like smoke.
"So, one fought like a barbaric warrior. The other ran."
He stood slowly, dusting his hand against his cloak.
"But whoever stayed… he didn't just survive."
Janus looked up at the wounded trees — their roots split, their leaves turned ash-gray.
"…He won."
The forest around him sighed, almost in agreement — and for a brief moment, Janus felt small before the ghosts of giants.
Janus pushed through the final curtain of vines — and there it was.
The Lake of Forgotten Dreams.
Its waters glimmered like molten glass, reflecting the vast roots of the colossal tree that rose from its center.
The wind carried the hum of unseen spirits, and for the first time in days, Janus smiled.
They had made it.
Safe. Alive. Whole.
He turned to the others — warriors wrapped in tanned leathers, their faces carved by sun and battle.
The air filled with low laughter, tired and honest.
Then — whack!
A firm hand slammed the top of his head, ruffling his hair until it stuck up like a wild nest.
Janus groaned, half-grinning as he looked up.
The culprit stood there — tall, bronze-skinned, eyes the color of molten iron.
"Don't look so soft, Janus," she said, smirking. "We're Vaelmir — the Silent Current, not lost hatchlings."
She raised her arm, revealing the sigil etched across her shoulder — a serpent coiled around a pale crescent moon, shimmering faintly with Veil mist.
The mark seemed alive, scales rippling under the faint light.
Janus stared at it — at the motionless serpent that seemed to breathe with the world itself.
He had seen it a hundred times before, yet here, beside this lake, it felt heavier.
Like a promise. Like a curse.
He nodded slowly.
"Yeah," he said quietly, a small grin tugging at his lips. "Vaelmir endures."
The others raised their weapons, their fog-colored cloaks stirring in the breeze.
Mist began to gather around their feet, whispering over the still waters of the lake.
The Silent Current had arrived.
Janus crouched near the edge of the hill, the mist curling around his boots.
He pulled out a strange, hand-forged magnifier — twin lenses wrapped in bronze rings, faintly glowing with etched Veil lines.
He adjusted the focus, his eyes narrowing as the world sharpened before him.
Across the vast front, through the mist and shifting light, he saw them — over twenty warriors emerging from the canyon's shadow.
Their movements were heavy, rhythmic, deliberate — like a single heartbeat thudding through the land.
Each carried blades scorched black, their bodies marked by burn-scars and crimson paint.
Janus exhaled slowly, recognizing the patterns.
"The enemies of the east the west tribe, The Kharuun," he murmured, lips curving into a thin smile.
The Flameborn had come.
He chuckled under his breath, low and sharp, the sound almost lost in the wind.
"So it begins."
Far across the lake, beneath the same crimson sky, Gareth looked up — as if hearing the same whisper carried by the wind.
Two Friends.
One battle.
And the Wildzone… watching.