The world had begun to remember its pain.
From the scorched coasts of Vareth to the drowned towers of the Western Reach, the black veins surfaced through the earth like serpents rising from centuries of sleep. Every city that still clung to life felt it—an unseen heartbeat thrumming beneath the stone.
In the capital of Lys, the bells no longer rang for prayer. The priests had torn down their altars, for the idols wept black tears that hissed like acid upon the marble. Where the tears fell, the stone sprouted veins of its own. People whispered that the gods were not dead but rotting, and their decay had reached the living.
At the edge of the desert, a caravan vanished into a shimmer of crimson dust. Only the wind returned—carrying with it the sound of chanting, not in any mortal tongue. The nomads began carving circles into the sand, tracing patterns that glowed faintly when the moon rose. None could tell if it was worship or warning.
In the mountains, an order of Hunters—the last to bear the mark of the old world—gathered around a fire that burned black instead of red. Their leader, a woman with one golden eye, spoke softly:
"The power we hunted now hunts us. The world has turned its blade inward."
They listened as thunder rolled across a cloudless sky, a sound like chains breaking in the heavens. Each Hunter felt it within their blood—the faint awakening of something other, something that promised strength if they surrendered the last of their humanity.
And some… already had.
In the ruins of Daranth, where Kael once fought his first revenant, a child walked through the ashes. Her eyes shone silver; souls fluttered around her like moths. When she spoke, the corpses answered. They rose, gently, obediently. No malice. No hunger.
Just sorrow.
Far above, unseen by all, the night sky rippled. A faint red web pulsed behind the stars, echoing the veins below. The world had become a mirror between the living and the divine dead—and neither side could tell which reflection was real anymore.
In the archives of the fallen church, a scribe recorded the first prophecy in generations. His quill trembled as he wrote:
"The Vein has reached the Heart. The gods do not dream; they breathe through us. When the black sun rises, all names shall return to ash."
He sealed the page with his blood and set it aflame, as was tradition for forbidden scripture. The smoke rose, twisting into the shape of a human face before dispersing.
That night, across the broken continents, thousands dreamed the same dream:
A single figure walking upon an endless vein of light, carrying the last spark of the world in his hands.
They did not know his name.
But the dream always ended the same way
When he looked up, his eyes were red.
The world's heartbeat grew louder as Kael and Mira followed the black river through the night.
The air no longer smelled of ash but of rain and iron. The stars above shifted, dimming and brightening in strange patterns—as if the sky itself were watching.
Neither spoke for a long time. The silence between them felt sacred, or perhaps too fragile to touch.
The vein ran beneath a ravine now, thick with mist that glowed from within. Strange blossoms grew along its edges—petals translucent, feeding on the pulse of divine decay. When Kael brushed past one, it released a sigh, soft and human.
"Everything alive here," Mira whispered, "used to be something else."
Kael didn't answer. His thoughts were elsewhere—drawn by the thrum in his chest that echoed the rhythm of the vein. He could feel it syncing with his heart, adjusting, reshaping its beat. Every few breaths, he had to fight to keep it human.
They came upon a stretch of ancient pillars, broken and half-buried in the black dust. Faded glyphs covered them—shapes that twisted when looked at too long. Mira knelt beside one, tracing the carvings with her gloved hand.
"These aren't prayers," she said. "They're names. Lost ones."
Kael tilted his head. "Names of gods?"
She shook her head. "No. Of mortals who tried to become gods."
The wind swept through the pillars, carrying whispers that were not quite sound. Kael looked upward—at the line of the vein, stretching endlessly toward the horizon—and saw something move in the dark sky: faint silhouettes, vast and formless, writhing just beyond sight.
A cold realization passed through him. "They're watching us."
"Then we keep moving," Mira said, tightening her grip on her sword. "If the Heart lies ahead, we can't turn back now."
Hours passed, though neither felt time as real anymore. The land itself began to twist, folding inward as though gravity had forgotten its place. Every step forward seemed to echo backward, the same sound repeating from miles away.
Finally, they reached a plateau. Before them, the black vein widened into a pool—a slow, spiraling vortex of divine matter. It glowed from within, pulsing with the faint echo of a heartbeat that was not of this world.
Kael felt the pull immediately. The hunger. The promise.
He knelt by the edge. "This is it," he murmured. "The Heart's threshold."
Mira placed a hand on his shoulder. Her touch steadied him, drew him back from the pull. "If we cross this, Kael… we might not come back."
He met her gaze—eyes burning with the reflection of that living blackness. "Maybe we were never meant to."
The words hung between them, heavy and final.
A low rumble stirred beneath the surface. The pool brightened, rising like breath, and within its depths—Kael saw something vast and coiled, asleep. A single golden eye flickered open, staring through him.
Mira gasped, stepping back. "What is that?"
Kael's voice was barely a whisper.
"The first god."
The pool trembled, sending waves of black light through the ground. The pillars cracked. The air thickened. Kael's vision blurred as the soul-sight forced itself open—showing him flashes of a world before time, of beings made of thought and flame, tearing each other apart to build creation.
He screamed, clutching his head. Mira caught him before he fell, but his body pulsed with light—red and black veins spreading across his skin.
"Kael!" she cried.
He opened his eyes—crimson, unfocused. "It's waking… and it remembers me."
Deep beneath the broken sea,
The heart beats on—what once shall be.
When flesh and faith begin to blur,
The god shall speak, and man shall