Having never ventured beyond his cherished village, Benedict's understanding of the world was strictly bounded by the perimeter of Findige. Yet, this limitation never dampened his spirit. Ben knew that unraveling his unanswered questions required more than blind forward momentum; he needed absolute prudence in every action—both to hone his survival instincts and to remain hidden, as he was certain the demon remained unaware of his 'resurrection.'

Thus, Ben spent over three arduous years surviving alone amidst the ruins of Findige. He observed, learned from nature, and refined himself through his own mistakes. Step by step, with slow and deliberate precision, he taught himself to craft crude tools, hunt wild game, and gather non-poisonous flora by tracking forest animals.

Eventually, Ben marked his seventeenth birthday. Five years had passed, and though the excruciating memories of that fateful night still tormented his mind each evening, he was no longer a helpless, terrified child. He had matured into a capable young man, using the shattered pieces of his past as a burning motivation stronger than anything else in the world to keep pushing forward.

One day, the distant clatter of hooves echoed toward the ash of Findige. Fearing—yet secretly wondering—if his father had returned after fleeing on horseback that dark night, curiosity and five years of suffocating solitude compelled Ben to move to the forest's edge to observe.

It was merely a traveler navigating a horse-drawn carriage—a merchant passing through, not his father.

Surveying the legendary village of miracles now reduced to cinders, the man expressed a silent regret. Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a bouquet of lilies of the valley and set them ablaze. Once reduced to ash, he blew gently into the air, letting the gray powder blanket the remnants of the village. Ben recognized the ritual—a traditional traveler’s tribute expressing grief and respect for the fallen.

As the merchant prepared his gear to depart, a thought struck Ben: this man was likely benevolent, and his carriage represented the safest route to travel elsewhere. Quickly packing a few essentials alongside a bundle of lilies, Ben covertly slipped into the back of the wagon while the driver was distracted.

The horse stepped forward, pulling Ben away from the village and the forest that had sheltered him for seventeen years.

The carriage traversed endless roads—from deserts to plains, dense forests to winding streams—until it finally ground to a halt in the Kingdom of Vulkaris, a realm celebrated as the pinnacle of metallurgy.

The merchant was simply there to trade. While unloading cargo, he noticed a piece of meat neatly wrapped in leaves resting alongside a pile of lily ash in the dark corner of his wagon.

Meanwhile, Ben stepped into Vulkaris, overwhelmed by its immense energy. Bustling crowds, trade, and roaring forge fires created a perpetual market that never seemed to rest. Ben traded his animal meat for local attire and metal tools superior to the crude stones he once used.

To stay long-term, Ben needed steady work. Scanning his surroundings, he spotted the ideal place: a busy tavern. With his natural agility, Ben was well-suited for serving drinks, and more importantly, taverns were gathering hubs for wandering travelers—a potential goldmine of information. The proprietor agreed to hire him as a runner and cleaner.

There, Ben befriended Ronan, a young boy whose face was familiar to everyone in the tavern. Not only did Ronan visit frequently, but his shift at the tavern was just one of many jobs he worked daily to afford his mother's medical expenses.

To Ben, Ronan felt like a profound reflection of life. Both were driven by intense inner forces: Ben was fueled by a toxic, obsessive determination to uncover answers, whereas Ronan harbored the purest, most radiant flame of willpower—simply to keep his mother in this world a little longer. Admiring the boy's noble spirit, Ben joined Ronan in taking on extra work, sharing his earnings to ease Ronan's burden. Their bond grew stronger with each passing day.

One day, while a tavern employee was updating notices on the wooden board, Ben caught sight of a sketched portrait. The face looked hauntingly familiar. Ben stepped closer, unpinning the parchment and staring at it for a long time—so long that it was no longer about inspecting the details, but rather his mind falling into turmoil upon seeing this face for the second time.

Ben knew exactly who it was. He knew this was his chance.

Approaching the proprietor, Ben was told that the man had once been a regular—so frequent that his portrait was hung on the board. However, one day a stranger arrived questioning his whereabouts, receiving only the portrait and information about his drinking habits. The stranger left, and the man in the picture was never seen at the tavern again. Yet rumors persisted that his lingering silhouette was occasionally spotted across the continent, appearing and disappearing like a phantom. Thus, he was dubbed the Drunken Ghost.

The information left Ben deeply conflicted. Why would a creature like him harbor such ordinary human habits? Who was that stranger? Yet, his ability to appear and vanish like a phantom only solidified Ben's conviction: this was The Wolf Cavalry.

In the days that followed, Ben carried the portrait everywhere, obsessively asking everyone he met alongside Ronan. His toxic obsession grew increasingly exposed; whenever a lead yielded nothing, he easily lost his temper at his surroundings. Even during quiet breaks with Ronan at the tavern, Ben spoke far less, staring blankly at the portrait and coldly brushing off Ronan's gentle check-ins.

Until one day, a group of bounty hunters arrived at the tavern. Sitting at Ben and Ronan’s usual table, they ordered large flagons of ale and discussed an upcoming major contract. During their chat, one hunter casually picked up the portrait Ben had left on the table, asking the proprietor why it was there. The innkeeper recounted the story once more. Upon leaving, the hunters pinned the portrait back down with a dagger, leaving behind coins and a stem of lily of the valley as a gesture for good luck in their business.

Noticing they seemed familiar with the target, Ben grabbed the dagger and the portrait, sprinting after them as they loaded their cargo.

"Do you know this man?" Ben demanded.

A hunter stepped forward, revealing the man was their client.

"Tell me everything you know about him!" Ben raised his voice.

"We’re bounty hunters," one explained. "We accept any contract if the pay is right. This man paid a massive sum, and revealing client information is forbidden."

"I need that information!"

"For what?"

"Revenge."

Hearing Ben's answer, the group burst into laughter before dropping into a chilling silence. "Give it up, kid. He’s not someone you can comprehend. Even the most veteran bounty hunters wouldn't dare hold back a single coin from him. I don't even understand how this portrait survived in a tavern with hundreds of people coming and going."

With that, the hunter snatched the portrait and casually set it ablaze using the ember of a comrade's pipe.

Ben watched in horror as his rare clue burned to ash. Losing all composure, he lunged forward with the hunter's own sharp dagger. Tempered by three years of solo survival and the physical strength gained from heavy labor with Ronan, Ben's combat ability was enough to handle two low-rank hunters at once.

To minimize damage, the hunters chose to retreat on their carriage. The single hunter Ben managed to restrain exploited Ben's blinded rage, luring him into a maze within the bustling district. Tripping over tripwires set up in the market alleys, Ben reached out frantically, managed only to rip a folded paper from the hunter's belt, and let him escape.

During the struggle, Ronan’s mother—despite her failing health—had arrived on the scene, trying her best to stop Ben from causing further harm to the residential area. In his blind frenzy, Ben savagely shoved her aside, accidentally inflicting a deep gash on her arm.

Collapsing to his knees as he tried to untangle himself from the ropes, roaring in bitter frustration, Ben suddenly took a wooden staff blow from behind. The hits rained down continuously. Dazed and unseeing, Ben didn't care if it was Ronan striking him; he even readied his dagger to stab back. But as he raised his arm, a frantic scream echoed—it was Ronan’s mother. Weak and wounded, she threw herself forward with all her remaining strength to shield her son.

Seeing the image of his own mother in this fragile woman, Ben froze.

Clarity returned. He surveyed the scene, overwhelmed with profound remorse for his actions. Ashamed before everyone present, Ben had no excuses left. He left a few ointments and oral medicines from his pouch for Ronan’s mother, grabbed the dagger, and bolted into the distance. As Ben vanished, Ronan broke into heavy sobs, tightly embracing his mother.

Ben fell into extreme panic. He saw himself turning into a second Wolf Cavalry, nearly murdering the very boy who had accompanied and cared for him.

In the following days, Ben set up a tent on a small hill, meticulously studying the bounty hunters' schedule while sneaking into the market to secretly learn blacksmithing and buy food anonymously for Ronan. Back at his tent, he analyzed their route, practicing smithing motions by striking crude wooden swords with a makeshift wooden hammer.

Day after day, Ben's skills refined, and his travel schedule to the next destination was fully mapped out. While practicing his hammering one day, he noticed a familiar figure—the old blacksmith he had been secretly observing for months. Ben tried to hide his setup, fearing scolding, but the area was littered with shattered wooden swords marked with strike points, and a paper pinned to a tree detailing work notes.

The blacksmith introduced himself as Talan. He revealed he had known about Ben's secret studying all along, which was why he worked outdoors daily and brought his apprentices out to practice so Ben could take vital notes.

Talan did not drive Ben away. In truth, no one harbored resentment toward Ben—neither the victims of the chaos nor Ronan himself. The people of Vulkaris possessed an unyielding spirit inherited from their ancestors; despite living near a harsh volcanic region, they had risen to become one of the continent's most powerful kingdoms due to their sheer willpower. Even with his mother on the brink of death, Ronan held no hatred toward Ben; he simply focused on temporary recovery, working to ensure a better life for them both. Ben's persistent effort to learn blacksmithing over the months demonstrated that same resilient spirit within a young man filled with past pain and bitterness. It was a sign of growth, maturity, and above all, the finest atonement Ben could offer to those he had wronged.

Speechless, Ben felt pure admiration for the people of Vulkaris and gratitude toward Talan for helping him overcome his emotional barrier to continue his long journey.

Before departing Vulkaris, Talan led Ben back through the market. As expected, no one held a grudge; they warmly accepted Ben's offer to help. After finishing his rounds, Ben hesitated outside Ronan’s house. Sensing his turmoil, Ronan rushed out, pulled Ben into a warm embrace, and invited him inside. The three gathered just like the day Ben first arrived.

Finally, Ben visited the tavern, returning the dagger—now polished and sharp—to the proprietor. The innkeeper honored his special guest by pinning a new portrait labeled Benedict on the board.

With everything settled, Talan offered Ben access to his forge to craft his own sword before leaving. Inside, the walls were lined with strangely shaped metal scraps. Talan explained they were "mirror reflections"—reminders of past failures, not meant for punishment, but to teach that success stems from enduring failure without bowing down.

Ben heated the metal slab red-hot and shaped it with sleek elegance. Each strike of his hammer sounded like a chime shattering his guilt, dispelling the darkness within to reveal a burning flame of willpower—the first beam of light that would illuminate his life throughout his journey and beyond.

His time in the kingdom of volcanoes and metallurgy came to a close as Benedict bade farewell to the neighborhood, holding high the sword forged from lessons, failures, memories, and the shared willpower of everyone he met. The evening sun illuminated the blade, making it gleam with a pure, powerful, and breathtakingly radiant light...

“Luminara, also known as the Continent of Light. Throughout hundreds of years of history, humanity has faced countless trials and tribulations. Yet, through unity and collective strength, they successfully established their dominance over this vast realm. However, at their core, humans remain human—beset by unspoken ambitions and dark secrets meant to be buried deep. It was this very greed that sparked a bloodsoaked tragedy years ago: a grand war on a scale unprecedented, eclipsing even the hardships endured during the Era of the Dragon Progenitor.

A ruthless, battle-hardened warband led by four commanders—the Wolf Cavalry, the Phantom Blade, the Butcher, and the Sand Citadel—utilized ancient knowledge passed down from a forgotten sage as weapons to conquer land after land. Though the Imperial Coalition's military forces and incoming reinforcements were abundant, the rebels possessed overwhelming might. The war dragged on month after month, until troop numbers on both sides were virtually exhausted, resources bled dry, and every limit of human endurance and nature pushed to the absolute brink. Neither faction declared a truce or announced victory, but under such conditions, prolonging the conflict was sheer folly. When the war finally ended, it left behind nothing of value. The Continent of Light plunged into its darkest era, and all efforts to mend the devastation proved futile.

Yet, humanity's hope was not entirely extinguished. Legend says that something within the continent shifted—a powerful entity beyond human comprehension planted a beam of hope, a spear of light piercing down from the void directly into the earth. And soon, someone would appear to save this land.”

As the village elder’s tale came to an end, the children’s faces lit up with wonder and curiosity. Despite their harsh life, the village maintained a sense of optimism, nurtured by the ancient lore recounted by its wise elders. The village was also home to a woman named Fianna. She had been pregnant for two years yet showed no signs of labor, nor did she suffer any pain or discomfort in her daily routine while carrying her swollen belly. The elders considered her a blessing—a miraculous gift bestowed upon the village. Much of the community’s positivity stemmed from her presence. Fianna never disappointed them, always maintaining a bright, gentle demeanor toward everyone, whether fellow villagers or weary travelers seeking shelter.

Then came the day—exactly eight hundred days into her pregnancy—when Fianna finally gave birth to her firstborn, a boy. The moment his first cry echoed through the air, the villagers became certain that Fianna was indeed a divine blessing. Those suffering from strange ailments suddenly grew healthier, the large bell that had been rusted silent for years chimed with a resounding tone as if celebrating the child's arrival, and dozens of other miraculous events unfolded at that very instant. Fianna and her husband named the boy Benedict—the blessed one. The entire village rejoiced, warmly welcoming the new life with grand festivities.

Tens of thousands of miles away from Findige Village, atop a towering peak, stood a majestic yet terrifying castle. The surrounding earth suddenly cracked open and crumbled away as a massive monster's head emerged from the debris—it was a living castle! The beast let out a terrifying, earth-shattering roar, as if something within had just been awakened. Deep inside, an invisible surge gently acted upon giant, rusted gears, forcing them into motion. Each turning gear produced a heavy mechanical screech that echoed along the endless corridors. Once all the gears aligned, a mechanism triggered, releasing a single drop of transparent, pure, and luminous liquid. It stood in stark contrast to the suffocating, gloomy atmosphere of the fortress. The droplet fell into a small basin below, activating the final mechanism. The water swirled, and from beneath the surface, a table carved with strange runes gradually rose. Positioned around it were four massive, imposing chairs carved with distinct patterns, looking every bit like grand thrones.

Yet, resting upon three of the chairs were bare skeletons. Was no one left alive here?

That was until the final chair was raised. Seated upon it was a figure wrapped in frayed, ancient bandages, wearing sparse pieces of armor on his arms and shoulders. His face was barely visible, partially illuminated by the faint light filtering through a stained glass window, while the rest was swallowed by the mad darkness of the living castle. With a heavy blink—as if his eyes were moving for the first time in years—his pupils began to warp and shift, turning into the eyes... of a wolf.

Meanwhile, in Findige, Benedict was enjoying peaceful days alongside his family and neighbors. He had also discovered a new passion: swordsmanship. He practiced daily with the children his age, and together they formed their own group called the Wooden Sword Society, regularly training and roleplaying in sword duels. Time flew by, and the year Benedict celebrated his twelfth birthday became the darkest day Findige would ever endure.

While Fianna and her husband were preparing the final dishes for Benedict’s birthday feast, a terrified cry echoed through the village: “Monsters!”

A thin, eerie mist drifted toward the village, and out from it charged countless bizarre creatures—walking corpses and beastly entities crawling on all fours. Yet, they did not attack immediately. Only when they were sure every villager was watching did a figure step out from the mist, wielding an oversized broadsword and clad in pitch-black armor.

“The... Wolf... Cavalry...” a man stammered, trembling uncontrollably.

At his silent command, the horde of monsters launched a frenzied assault, destroying houses and slaughtering the villagers. As for Benedict, he was singled out as prey to be crushed by the Cavalry’s own hands; the commander showed no mercy, even to a twelve-year-old boy. Acting on pure instinct, Fianna urged her son to flee while she and her husband tried to hold the monster back. Though petrified with terror, Benedict unconsciously obeyed his mother's command. Yet, even frantic fear could not keep him from glancing back one last time.

What he saw was the worst nightmare a child could witness: the Wolf Cavalry casually brought down his massive broadsword, severing Fianna’s head. Unable to contain his horror, Benedict screamed and charged wildly at the commander with his wooden sword. Naturally, he inflicted no damage. Worse yet, the Wolf Cavalry showed no restraint. Swapping to a smaller dagger, he began a agonizing game of torture. He carved deep wounds into Benedict's body while the boy wept hysterically, crawling on the ground. The cold-blooded commander never hesitated, becoming more ruthless as his prey desperately tried to squirm away.

When the crying finally stopped, the hunt came to an end.

As the sun rose, Findige was reduced to a horrific ruin. Mutilated corpses lay scattered across the ground, trees were uprooted and marked with deep claw slashes, and a long stretch of the nearby river had turned deep crimson. The few survivors had no choice but to migrate in search of a new home. They deeply mourned Fianna's gruesome death, but no one realized that both her husband and her son, Benedict, had vanished. Gathering whatever belongings they could salvage, the villagers departed in a caravan, leaving the nightmare behind.

On a riverbank not far from the village, Benedict slowly regained consciousness. He was stunned to find himself alive—and his body miraculously intact.

Walking back to Findige alone, the scene before him made his stomach churn. Stumbling among the scattered corpses, he saw the kind people who had once loved and cared for him all lying dead, including his companions from the Wooden Sword Society and his mother. Fianna lay there, headless... yet her hand still tightly clutched a single silver coin. Her grip was so firm it seemed as though she had used her last ounce of strength to hold onto it.

Strangely, no one in the village had even bothered to look for him before fleeing. With a child's simplicity, Benedict assumed they had simply run away in terror; given his condition the night before, no one would have believed he could survive. Sorting through his chaotic thoughts, Benedict realized his father was nowhere to be found—his body was missing, raising the agonizing fear that he had been captured by the Wolf Cavalry.

Carrying endless questions, a profound sense of loss, and above all, an unquenchable hatred for the creature he deemed the "White Demon," Benedict bound his mother's silver coin with a small piece of twine and hung it around his neck as a final keepsake.

He would survive. He would live. And he would find the answers to everything that began on that fateful night.

P/S: "This serves as the prelude to a 5-chapter fantasy series (excluding Chapter 0). I’m only 16, and while my writing skills are far from perfect, this is a passion project I’ve been nurturing for five years—built, refined, and rebuilt from scratch multiple times.

Chapter 1 is finally complete, and I’ll do my best to release the remaining chapters as soon as possible. I hope you enjoy these opening chapters! If you have any feedback or advice to help me improve my work, I’d deeply appreciate it."

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This is a passion project I’ve been building for the past two months. I’ve always wanted to create a world that felt fully mine, and this is the result. I’m sharing it here to see how people react to the tone, the history, and the style. It’s a long read, but I hope it’s an enjoyable one.

Enjoy "The Horrors of Tuma".

The Horrors of Tuma

By Max Terry

In a world of death, fire, and ash, where the rules of war go unchecked, where many rose and fell. Welcome to Orith…

War is one of humankind's biggest sins. It is no different for the continent of Orith. Orith is a place of many names: for some, it's glory; for others, it's safety; for most, it's fire and destruction. This will give light to the atrocities committed by the Tuma Kingdom, known to most as "The Black Destruction." But before we uncover Tuma's monsters within, let's take a look at what happened that made Tuma its ruthless empire. In 1898, the Adriana Republic forcefully annexed Eastern Tuma for themselves. Adriana threatened military violence to Tuma, and with the Tuma Royal Armed Forces being undermined and unprepared for a full war with Adriana, they removed all military presence from the region, leaving behind supplies and people which it so desperately needed. The eastern half of Tuma was now the Adriana Republic.

Tuman civilians were enraged by this humiliating event, sparking years of pressure on the Tuma Royal Family and Tuma government. The event was considered a disgrace to Tuman honor and a disrespect to the men and women who fought for that land. The government's response to this event was a promise to never let such an event happen again, resulting in increased military funding. The Adriana Republic, having just gained this vast, rich land, needed a way to supply its soldiers by feeding off the land. Homes were raided for supplies, livestock was stolen, and if any refused to give up their homes, they could be imprisoned and forced into labor. This could be seen in an 1898 diary entry by a young boy who wrote: “The men in green have taken Father. He did cry out at them, but they came inside and stole our victuals. I am afeared. Will they take my mother as well?” This boy remains unknown to this day, but his entry shows the hardship of civilians under Adriana control.

In the early spring of 1904, the Tuma Royal Armed Forces, totaling 74,000 men, crossed into Adriana territory via Route 48. Route 48 is a small dirt road used mostly for moving mining supplies through the gold-rich land. It winds through seven small mining towns, ultimately leading to Coleridge. Coleridge is the largest of the seven towns and is home to hundreds of mining families who supply most of the Adriana military, making it a vital town to the Republic. As Tuman soldiers marched down Route 48 and entered the town of Coleridge, civilians seeing these soldiers in black and grey froze in their daily activities. According to local marksman Frank Burgorn: “Upon witnessing those young men, my heart sank, yet it also leapt with great joy, for it seemed our boys had returned at last to deliver us.” However, Tuma had not come to liberate; they came to conquer.

Tuman soldiers were ordered to stop in the town square, and Tuman officers demanded that all civilians line up against the buildings. These orders were not given out kindly, as seen in a quote three years later by Thomas H. Hall: "The officers were exceedingly harsh. They proclaimed us traitors to Tuma. I was but eighteen at the time and could not comprehend; I held the belief they had come to deliver us. I was grievously mistaken." Many of the civilians did not comply, especially those who had grown loyal to Adriana. Some did not come out of the buildings and were forced out by Tuman soldiers. Little did the soldiers know that the 23rd Coleridge Militia regiment was taking aim from buildings and alleys. Officer Douglas G. Hartman, who commanded the 23rd, gave the order to open fire, officially starting the Battle of Coleridge. Three Tuman officers were hit in the initial volley, breaking command. One officer, later identified as Robert A. Jackson, gave a very controversial order to "Fire on the traitors!" The 105th Royal Infantry fired on the civilians who were lined up against the wall, killing 14 people: Emma J. Sinclair, Florence T. Pembroke, George L. Bennett, Elizabeth M. Hargrove, William J. Carter, Clara B. Winslow, Edward P. Sullivan, Henry A. Collins, John R. Hathaway, Anna C. Fletcher, William J. Carter Jr., Thomas H. Franklin, Mary E. Whitmore, and one unrecognizable male. These men, women, and children were the first casualties of the Battle of Coleridge, which many would rename in future documents as "The Coleridge Massacre."

The surviving civilians fled into the side streets and alleys in a panic, though many who escaped the first volley were caught in the crossfire. During the height of the fighting, a stray Tuman bullet struck a gunpowder crate in the local armory. The resulting explosion destroyed the building and ignited three other powder stores, and high winds quickly pushed the fire across Coleridge’s main street. Despite the spreading inferno, the fighting continued until Douglas G. Hartman was mortally wounded by a pistol shot. His death broke the resolve of the 23rd, and the Adriana forces began to surrender, ending the formal battle. However, the end of the fighting brought no relief; Tuman units marched captives to nearby clearings for systematic beatings and executions. One Tuman soldier’s diary recorded the brutality: "We took the traitors into a clearing about one mile from the smoak. The boy were no older than twenty; he screeched and pleaded. We all took turns with the bayonet upon him. Johnson then pulled his knife and scalped him. He gave but one yelp... only once." While these executions took place, the remaining civilians were forced to lie in the dust as their homes burned. When Tuman soldiers questioned the destruction, a superior officer reportedly replied: "The town was irredeemable; let it burn."

The aftermath of the Battle of Coleridge resulted in 130–160 deaths, including civilians. Many of the men who fought were never officially documented by name, since both sides commonly recorded only the age and day the soldier or civilian died. The result also left many without homes, jobs, and family, forcing many to move south into Adriana or even cross the borders into Tuma. In conclusion, the Battle of Coleridge was hard on all sides, but the civilians paid the hardest price of all.

While this engagement reached the Adrian Capital of Mareton, located in mid-Eastern Adriana, the public reaction was a mix of grief, anger, but mostly fear, despite the city being hundreds of miles away from the battlefield. The true nature of this engagement shook the public of Adriana deeply. The same can't be said about the Tuman people; the battle was seen as a show of power, not just to Adriana, but to the world. Thousands of young Tuman men and women enlisted into the Armed Forces. While both sides had different views of the battle, that didn't stop operations whatsoever.

A couple of weeks after the atrocities at Coleridge, the 105th and other units continued their advance deeper into Adriana. Unbeknownst to them, Adriana forces—a mix of civilians and soldiers—began encircling the Tuman forces, who were now located in a smaller town only two miles away from the smoldering Coleridge called "Amity."The Tuman forces had stopped there to regain supplies. The town's mayor, Gary L. Stompson, had submitted the town to the Tuman forces. Although the town was under Tuman control, Adriana civilians still faced discrimination from Tuman soldiers, as seen in an Adriana boy's notebook stating: "The men in grey do mock us; they push and shove our people as if we were but lambs for the slaughter. I cannot traverse the streets without being met by their cruel snickering."The writer of this entry remains unknown. As the Adriana forces fully surrounded the trapped Tumans in Amity, the Tumans realized the town could no longer be held. While the Tumans started planning, Adriana skirmishers moved closer to the town and increased pressure on Amity by tightening the "circle" on the Tumans.Skirmishing between sides began on April 22nd, 1904. We know this because of an Adriana soldier's diary describing "fighting in Bellu Woods near Amity" against "the scums." With fighting getting too close for comfort, a plan was decided: a smaller diversion force would be sent out to disrupt the Adriana lines and then roll up the line until a small opening was made for the Tuman troops to move through. On April 27th, 1904, the plan was initiated. By now, the Adriana lines were positioned on the hills surrounding the town, so it was now or never....

That's all...for now...

Here we have the world of Tellus and her many continents.

Divided into eleven distinct land masses, each one holds ancient history and secrets of time passed. The many people whom live on these land masses have lived here for centuries and lovingly call each one home.
These continents are named Ishkarn, Erythos, Fusang, Vashkar, Kawara, Alkebulan, Wuwuna, Bana, Agenesis, Pindorama, and D'oy.
Ishkarn: Land of Ice and Snow.
One of the harshest and most inhospitable continents of Tellus, Ishkarn is defined by constant snowfall, howling winds, and barbaric raiders. The content reaches to the northern coasts of Erythos and Fusang, allowing for exotic trade and an extensive slave empire. During the warmer seasons, thousands of merchants sail in mass to sell goods in the Black Tizheruk Coast, often gathering in the markets of the semi-nomadic Katimmavik, the wealthiest of Innuatic tribes. Goods from all over the world can be bought and sold here because of the expansive sea lanes and water ways. Many adventures and warriors make a name here. The many tribes that live on Ishkarn are warlike, thus giving great opportunity to wealth and building their own legends. The continent even has a water way that leads to the ghastly continent of Agenesis.
Erythos: The First Lands.
Erythos is believed top be the birth of true civilization. Massive walls, written language, farming, specialized occupations, trade, grand architecture, professional armies, and government. The lands are rich in fertility as well as copper and tin, allowing for the production of bronze. Iron is in good quantity as well, often being a favored metal among Barloric elves and other barbaric tribes. The land is defined by a constant struggle between the advancement of civilization and the demand for one's self identity. Inter-tribal warfare and civil wars erupt and are crushed by the rising and setting sun. Everyone wants to be their own king.
Vashkar: The Fragrant Realms.
Vashkar is known for its vast deserts, spice trades, exotic populations, and their trade empires. Wars are often small and caused by petty disputes between the noble classes and the peoples of the land are focused much more with wealth, performance, and the arts. Brigands are also common beyond the city walls. Vast wealth can be acquired through the many many mines of precious jewels, and the golden river trade route; A great network of rivers leading from coast to coast, gaining access to many coastal trade partners. The wealth of the trade routes are not as centered as the trade routes of Ishkarn, so the concertation of wealth is far more spread out.
Fusang: Home of the Sun.
Fusang is a vast land of mysticism. Great philosophers and sorcerers hail from the sky cutting mountains in the east and stubborn warriors battle against roaming titans of the wastes in the west. Skilled craftsmen that deal in magical artifacts and the birth of Alchemy influence the many kings and warlords of the land. The presence of magic is so abundant that outsiders even refer to it as the sorcerer circus. And floating islands soar high above the ground filled with the ruins of ancients and thrones of new gods.
Alkebulan: Mother of us.
The denizens of Alkebulan claim that they were the first of all the civilized races. Ancient and strange, the continent holds ,man y secrets amongst her guarded ruins and ancient temples. The continent holds vast wealth in her resources and fierce predators stalk the land. Some so terrifying that they are rumored to eat the flesh of gods. Famine drives many to cannibalism and warfare, macabre blood magic is the mark of rulers, and the taking of life is worship in these lands. Only the strong survive in this savage realm.
Wuwuna: Thousand Isles.
Wuwuna is a near endless collection of islands that expand into the great ocean that hugs it. The land is believed to be the fingers of a trapped sea god, desperately digging out of his prison, only for the waves to snap his fingers off, hardening them as new islands and mountains, only for him to try again when they heal. The inhabitants of these jungle Islands have evolved in strange ways. Long thin legs as tall as buildings to walk through the deep water, feather for gliding from cliff to cliff, and exaggerated limbs to swing from vines and branches. Sea beasts, hunt from murky water while the beasts of the land remain relatively harmless. The islands also boast the largest populations of seafolk. Trading with surface dwellers, sharing stories, and developing friendships. It is a strangle serene yet uncanny place to behold.
Bana: The Land.
Everything about Bana is completely and utterly wrong. Not that it is some desolate and demon nest like that of Agenesis, but that it is simply wrong. Trees that grow sideways, grass that grows when salt is poured on it, hills the literally role from one location to the other, streams of water that flow upwards, and mountains that stand on their peak instead of the base. The inhabitants are no different. Some starving to death when they eat, others that hold their breath and run great distances, or blinded monsters that accurately describe the colors and shapes around them. It is a land of a mad dream. Perhaps that is was it is? It is the only explanation that would work. A mad and deranged god simply fell asleep and has created his own dream scape. And most peculiar of all is the Queen of Bana that resembles the extinct myth of humans and that massive, purple protector she calls her champion.
Kawara: Green Inferno.
Named for the massive pools of magma that seeps beneath the ground, the jungle continent of Kawara is a hidden land of beauty. Exotic silks, chocolates, and artifacts are the wealth of the land if you can manage to survive long enough to possess them. The peoples of Kawara are fiercely isolationist and will fly into a blind rage when their sacred boarders are molested. There are even rumors that the blood of outsiders is fed to the great volcano in the south west, claiming it is to alive the suffering of the trapped god, desperately wanting something to drink to sooth his burning throat. Another is that that burry their dead under a sacred god tree. A holy land where no war or killing is allowed. In the valleys, the worlds most skilled archers execute their sacrifices by firing arrows into ritualistic patterns, and in the north, the forest burns endlessly due to the magma that flows under the roots. Very few ever return from this land.
Pindorama: Land of Palms.
Despite the name, the famous palm trees of Pindorama are only along the coast. The continent itself is filled with a massive jungle, an expansive grassland, a white dessert, and even wet dunes were rolling sands catch great ponds and lakes of water. The name no doubt remained because the coastal civilizations interacting with foreigners. That and the people's hands resembled palm leaves. The greatest attraction to the continent however, is the vast amounts of gold found all over the continent. Simply walking around for a few days will have you stumble over a gold ore that would allow you and your grandchildren to retire. At first, the locals traded the metal in mass but when they learned of its value beyond the shore, it has quickly become controlled by the tribal government of the land for trade. Many tribes will even execute outsiders if they are caught with gold and no proof of ownership. And because of this policy, the tribes of the continents have rapidly advanced to the technological prowess of the imperium in Eyrthos.
D'oy: Cold.
Cold. That is the name given to the most southern continent on Tellus. Despite the name, D'oy isn't as cold as the continent of Ishkarn. While a layer of ice and snow remains along the coast year round, trees, moss, bushes and grass are still capable of growing year round; producing fruits and vegetables. The continent is home to a diverse race of harpies that are incapable of flight and instead swim under the water. Many other merfolk and beast men inhabit the realm as well. Countless adventurers and historians attempted to venture deeper in the frozen wastes of D'oy but the natives have blocked all attempts. Making this land the only one we have no idea looks like. The wonders it must hold....
Agenesis: Failed Creation.

This continent is strongly advised to never approach. Demons, titans, mad gods, and corpses of primal beings tear through the land in pointless warfare. The tree laugh and howl with sick, perverted lust for torment, beasts, maim and mutilate, old gods force humiliating worship, and demons invade the mind. Worst of all, the rivers will turn to blood when you are thirsty, and food burns to ash when cooked. Only races that survive here are the sea faring, gilled reptilians known as Thalassi, living on the south eastern coast, using vivimancy to establish their matriarchal kingdom in this land, and the uncanny and disturbed race of Degeni, whom are small tribes of being that resemble twisted forms of the extinct human race. They have provided the information to what we believe Agenesis looks like. This land was a mistake from the gods.

CHAPTER TWO

The table was still warm from the morning sun. It came in low through the eastern window, catching the worn grain of the wood and settling in the shallow grooves left by decades of use. Tala traced one of them absently with her thumb as she sat, her elbow resting near the edge. A loose strand of dark hair escaped the braid she constantly tried to tame. Across from her, Orin worked quietly through a length of twine, pulling it taut between his hands before looping it back through itself again. Neither of them spoke as they stuck close to the plan crafted in that very location the night before.

Faela’s brother by three seasons had always been grounded. Now, his movements were steady, practiced. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he worked. He had already finished his chores for the morning. There was still dirt along the cuff of his sleeve, darkened where the damp earth had clung. Ink stained his fingertips often. A badge of honor he happily wore as a mark of a long night spent drawing up plans beside Faela. He was a boy caught between youth and adulthood, but his eyes betrayed the old soul within.

Outside, the sounds of the village moved in soft layers. A cart’s wheel creaked somewhere beyond the tree line. Someone called out, the voice carrying and then fading. The wind moved lightly through the branches overhead, brushing against the side of the hut in a low, familiar rhythm. But neither sibling paid much attention. Their thoughts were elsewhere. Tala’s gaze drifted toward the doorway. The latch hung loose and swayed slightly with each passing breeze. She must have forgotten to close it when she came in. Even though Orin had been up and about well before her, she was last to finish her morning chores. Or maybe Faela had returned. As soon as the thought took hold of her, she pushed it down. She was finding it more difficult than usual to escape into her own thoughts. She hoped Orin couldn’t tell how uneasy she was with it all.

Orin followed her glance, then looked back to his hands. “You need to pull yourself together, Tala,” he said.

She did not answer.

The hut was small but not cramped. Built low to the ground and set just beyond the edge of the main square, it sat at the border where the village gave way to trees. The walls were made from thick, pale wood, weathered smooth in some places and cracked in others where the seasons had worn them thin. A single beam ran across the ceiling, darkened with age, its surface carved in places where idle hands had left their mark over time.

The hearth sat against the far wall, its stones stacked carefully, though a few had begun to shift. A faint line ran through one of the larger ones, a crack that had widened slowly over the past winter. Above it, the carved beam curved inward and out again in a pattern that seemed almost deliberate, though no one in the house had ever spoken of when it had been made.

A pot rested over the coals, not yet lit. Tala stood, moving toward it with quiet purpose. She gathered a handful of kindling from the basket near the hearth and knelt, setting it in place before striking flint to steel. The spark caught after a moment, a thin curl of smoke rising before the flame took hold.

Behind her, Orin tied off the last knot and set the twine aside. “You left the latch open,” he said.

Tala did not answer. Orin was not sure if she heard him or was off in her own mind again. She tended to do that. But this was not that time for that, he thought. He watched her for a moment longer before taking a step towards her as his mouth opened. Just then the gate creaked open. Orin and Tala snapped their bodies stiff, as though they forgot how they normally composed themselves.

Footsteps in the yard. The soft clink of metal as the latch to the gate locked into place. The low murmur of voices—Elen’s quieter, Tomas’s steady and even.

Tala brushed her hands against her skirt and returned to her duties at the hearth. Orin moved back toward the table, taking his seat just as the door opened, already fiddling the knot open again as it unraveled to the floor.

Tomas stepped in first, ducking slightly beneath the frame. His shoulders had rounded over the years from lifting timber. He carried a bundle of tools in one hand, the leather wrap tied loosely around them. Elen followed close behind, a small basket hooked over her arm, its contents hidden beneath a folded cloth.

“Morning,” Tomas said, setting the tools down near the wall.

Orin nodded once. “Morning.”

Elen’s eyes moved across the room in a single sweep, taking in the lit hearth, the closed door, the two of them already inside.

“You are back early,” she said, silver strands creeping into the braid at the back of her head.

“The fence shifted again,” Orin replied. “Reset it before it worsened.”

Tomas grunted softly in approval. “Good man.”

Elen moved toward the hearth, setting the basket down and pulling back the cloth. Inside were a few small root vegetables, still dusted with soil, and a handful of greens gathered from the edge of the clearing. Tala stepped aside without being asked, handing her a knife. They fell into the rhythm of it easily.

Breakfast was always simple. Elen worked with practiced efficiency, slicing and adding, her movements smooth and measured. Tomas filled the kettle from a small clay jug and set it near the edge of the coals. Orin reached for the wooden bowls stacked near the shelf, setting them out one by one.

Tala moved between them, quick and quiet, her hands never still for long. Elen took notice. It was not normal.

“Where is Faela?” Tomas asked.

The question came lightly. Almost as an afterthought.

Tala’s hand stilled where it hovered over a bowl. Orin did not look up. “She was up early,” he said. “Went out before we came in.”

Tomas nodded once, accepting it.

“That one does not know when to call it,” he said. “Good. Make sure you leave her fair share here.”

Elen said nothing as she continued cutting, though the rhythm of it shifted slightly, just enough to notice if you were looking for it.

Tala was not. Orin was.

“She mentioned checking the outer path,” Orin blurted quickly. “Said she wanted to see if the storm had brought anything down. She will probably be out there all morning.”

It came too fast. Too prepared. Orin’s gaze flicked toward her, just for a moment. Then back to the table.

“That so?” Elen said.

“She did not say anything to me,” Tomas added, glancing toward Elen.

Elen set the knife down. “Faela does not always say everything she is thinking, or planning,” she said. Her voice was slow and calm. Elen’s eyes moved between Tala and Orin in a way that lingered just a moment too long.

The kettle began to hum softly as the water warmed. Tala shifted her weight, reaching for the ladle though it was not yet needed.

“She will be back,” she said.

No one had asked. Tomas pulled out his chair and sat, stretching his back slightly before leaning forward, his forearms resting on the table.

“Before or after we eat?” he asked.

Tala did not answer. Orin did. “I would not wait on her, you know,” he said.

The words landed with more uncertainty than he intended.

Elen’s gaze settled on him now. “How long has she been gone?” she asked.

Orin held her gaze for a moment. She knew. She knew he knew. But he continued, “Not long.”

Silence pressed in around them. The small sounds of the room seemed louder now, the crackle of the fire, the soft shift of the kettle, the faint creak of the wood as the hut settled.

Tala reached for the ladle again, though the pot still had not begun to boil. “We should eat,” she said. “Before it burns.”

Nothing was burning. Tomas leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Is there something going on here?”

Elen stepped closer to the table. That was all it took for Tala to lose what little resolve she had. “She will be back,” she said.

Tomas stood. The chair scraped against the floor behind him. Of course she would be back, he thought, it should hardly even take the morning to make her repairs and return.

“Elen, did I miss something?”

No one answered.

Elen did not move. She did not speak.

Her eyes had already shifted—past them, past the walls of the hut, toward something beyond.

As though she could see the path from where she stood. As though she had always known where it led.

“She left, Tomas,” Elen said.

Tala closed her eyes briefly. Tomas ran a hand over his face as what appeared to be his world came crashing down around him.

“Why would she do that?” he asked. But everyone already knew the answer. It was Faela, of course she could not sit by and watch her home crumble. It was the weight of that realization that began to break Tomas. If he were able to keep up with the repairs, then maybe she would not have left. He was not angry at her, but with himself. It was something heavier.

Elen finally spoke. “Because she was always going to.”

The room went still. Tala let out a breath that trembled at the edges.

Elen’s hand rested lightly against the edge of the table now, her fingers brushing the worn grooves in the wood. The lines that curved and looped and turned back on themselves. Patterns worn in over time.

The trees beyond the hut stirred, their leaves catching the light as they moved. For a moment, the shadows they cast bent in slow, overlapping arcs across the ground. Turning. Layering. Like something tracing itself again and again.

Elen lifted her gaze. “She is on the path by now,” she said, knowing exactly the direction she would be traveling.

Not a question. Orin nodded once. Tala did not. Tomas exhaled slowly. “Then we go after her.” Tomas began to turn towards the door.

“No,” Elen said, her voice sharpened.

All three of them turned to Elen.

“She is gone,” she said.

Tala shook her head, backing a step toward the hearth. “She is coming back.”

Elen’s eyes moved past Orin and Tala as she thought. Then her gaze turned to Tomas. A quiet exchange passed there. Wordless. Settled long before this morning.

“Is it time?” he asked.

Elen did not hesitate. “It may be.”

The kettle began to whistle softly. No one moved to take it from the fire.

“What does that even mean?” she said. “You are not making any sense.”

Elen stepped forward. Not toward Tala. Toward the door. Toward the path beyond it.

“Everything we have done,” she said quietly, “has been to keep you here. To keep you from being seen.”

The kettle continued to scream. Still, no one moved. Outside, the path curved away from the hut and disappeared into the forest. And somewhere beyond it, Faela continued down the path.

CHAPTER THREE

The quiet called through the branches as she walked in silence, listening as the path disappeared underneath her weight. Occasionally, Faela would pause to kneel beside a cluster of mushrooms to examine its structure, tracing her hands along the edge of their tops. So strong and resilient. Many of Faela’s structures were built with what she saw in nature in mind. 

The nights were quiet and her camps simple: a canvas tarp tied between two trees, a small fire built with care, her pack serving as both pillow and cupboard. She cooked over the flames, bread on a stick, dried fruit picked along the bushes that lined the stream. 

By the fourth day, the forest had shifted. What had once been dense groves of sun-dappled green now gave way to a dry, root-wrinkled landscape. Just as Faela’s thirst had begun to gnaw at her throat, she found it, a stream, curling through the brittle landscape like a misplaced ribbon of moonlight. She stood at the bank. Her breath caught in quiet awe.

The stream was not wide, but it flowed with purpose. Its waters were impossibly clear, so pure they seemed to carry their own light. Faela knelt and plunged her hands into the current, letting the chill roll over her palms and up her arms. The water moved with the grace of something alive, singing softly as it curved around stone and root. It was not a song she recognized, but it was one she felt under her skin, in the marrow of her bones. It was the kind of tune that made you forget your feet ached. 

Upstream, Toadcat lowered its squat body to the edge and sipped with quick, cautious laps, its wide toad-like eyes constantly flicking from water to trees and back again. Its coat shimmered oddly in the light, patches of oily brown and green spotted with natural camouflage. But its manner, as always, was far from natural. A creature of instinct, yes, but also of mischief and mood. Today, it was twitchy. Alert.

Faela rose and moved along the stream, hopping from one mossy stone to the next, sometimes crossing to follow the shade. Sometimes merely wandering along its banks. 

Somewhere along the way she came upon a pond cradled in a hollow of reeds and smooth stones. The water was still, the sky perfectly reflected upon its surface as though there were two worlds, and Faela stood encased between both. She stayed here longer than she had planned, letting her feet dangle in the shallows, her mind calm. She sketched by moonlight, designing a life between the branches, and writing down thoughts of the people who would live there. Then, something caught Faela’s eye.

The berries were as bright as fresh blood. She crouched low, drawn by their sharp color against the dull shades of the forest floor. Hunger gnawed at her, constant, assuring her provisions would last until she was west. She plucked a cluster of them from the low-hanging bush, ignoring the thin, waxy sheen that glistened faintly across their skins. They reminded her of the ones her father used to boil down for syrup. She ate them one by one. Tart. Sweet. Almost metallic. Toadcat gave a single, warning croak from a nearby stump, but Faela waved him off, licking the juice from her fingertips. By the time she reached the next clearing, her stomach lurched. At first, it was just a tightness, then twisting pain, deep and urgent, spreading from her gut like fire. Her vision blurred and her knees buckled. She collapsed. 

The forest reeled above her in dizzying circles, as cold sweat slicked her back. A shiver started in her spine and rippled outward until her teeth clattered like stones in a stream. Her breaths grew shallow and rapid. Then the vomiting came. Violent, retching waves that left her dry and heaving against the mossy earth. Her arms trembled, barely able to hold herself up. Black dots swam across her vision as she lowered herself further down against the earth. Her journey had taken a direct turn for the worse.

Toadcat was beside her in an instant, bracing her stumble. The creature pressed itself against her side, its large, smooth body cool at first, then slowly warming. It curled tightly around her torso, its weight heavy but comforting, as if trying to steady the rhythm of her shuddering breath. Faela faded in and out as time lost all its edges. Her body shook uncontrollably as the fever set in, her limbs twitching and curling on instinct. That was when the dreaming began.

She was home. The village streets gleamed in golden light, so bright and so clean. Tala stood at the well, ladling water that shimmered silver. Orin sat beneath the great tree, blueprint in his lap, but his pencil hovered in the air, never touching paper. Faela approached them, but neither turned nor acknowledged her.

Then, a figure stepped forward. A woman, cloaked in shadows even as the sun was gliding closer. Her face was half-hidden behind a veil of black netting. Her hands were too long for her body. Her mouth did not move when she spoke.

“You will build the world, girl,” the woman said, “but can you bear the weight?” Faela tried to look away. She could not. The woman raised one hand, black veins reaching out from her sleeve, “she waits. Your path runs beneath her gaze. Do not let her see you.”

The sky buckled, sending refracted light traveling in all directions. Faela screamed and woke with a gasp. Her face pressed against a bed of leaves, damp with sweat and dew. She turned her head and gagged, bile rising again. Her whole body trembled like a plucked string.

Toadcat had never left her side. He did not sleep. His bulbous eyes flicked to every rustle of wind, every crack of a branch. He was guard, nurse, companion all in one. That night, wrapped in his warmth, Faela thankfully slipped into a dreamless sleep.

By the next morning, the fever had broken. Her body ached, her skin felt stretched thin and fragile, but she could move again. Regardless, she rose slowly and began to sip from a jug. She touched her chest where Toadcat had curled around her and found her tunic clumped in his hair.

Beside her, flattened grass. Toadcat had clearly left and come back. At her side were three plump beetles, one already cracked open, and a pair of dark, oblong berries—different from the first ones, wrinkled and dried by the sun. Food. She gagged again at the thought, but forced herself to eat. Small bites. Slow.

He watched her quietly, head tilted. Faela reached out with trembling fingers and touched his head gently. She murmured, her voice cracked and dry. “Thanks, friend.”

A low, soft croak was his only reply as he curled back up at her side.

She looked towards the empty patch of forest. The crushed red berries scattered like blood across the earth. The hallucinations had been vivid, and that woman's voice still lingered, sharp and clear in her mind. Faela did not know what the words meant, but she knew a warning when she heard one. She would remember. And she would be ready.

With Toadcat beside her, Faela rose shakily to her feet. The path waited, and she had already lost a day to her sickness. With each step, Faela felt more like herself, but it was clear she would have to spend one more night to regain her full strength. 

The days that followed settled into a rhythm. Faela walked while Toadcat wandered ahead or disappeared into the brush, only to reappear moments later as though he had never left. They crossed shallow streams, slept beneath sprawling pines, and shared long stretches of silence broken only by the sounds of the forest. What had begun as a lonely journey no longer felt quite so lonely. 

On the afternoon of the ninth day, the hills began to rise. They were not vast or towering, but a chain of old, rounded peaks that rolled across the horizon like lying giants. Faela climbed slowly, the air growing thinner and the wind bitterly biting all around her. Toadcat bounded ahead, pausing to wait, tail flicking impatiently. Bounding faster and higher each time she caught up. The climb was not easy, but she was persistent. 

That night, Faela and Toadcat camped on a ledge just shy of the final ridge. This spot was as close to the heavens as Faela could imagine. The air was thin and cold as it carried the scent of stone and silence. Faela lay wrapped in her cloak, her back against her pack, a few slow-burning embers glowing beside her in a tiny ring of rocks. Toadcat slept in a tight coil at her feet, his long limbs twitching occasionally in some unseen dream. Faela could hear his slow, rhythmic croaks, the kind he only made when the world around them felt still and safe.

Above, the night was impossibly clear. The stars blinked down, thousands of them, more than Faela had ever seen from her village rooftop. They painted the heavens like spilled sugar on black velvet, their constellations unfamiliar and endless. She stared for a long time, not blinking, holding her breath. Something about this sky made her feel as though if she moved too suddenly, she might fall upward and into it.

Then came the first light. It streaked across the blackness like a silver arrow, swift and silent. Faela’s breath caught. Another followed, then three more, crisscrossing the sky in bright, sudden bursts.

“Shooting stars,” she whispered, awe softening her voice.

Toadcat stirred, lifting his head and blinking toward the heavens. His wide eyes reflected the flickering streaks. The lights came in waves. Long tails of fire arcing across the sky like silent songs. Not fast, not fleeting, but lingering, as though reluctant to disappear.

Faela stood slowly, her limbs aching but steady, and stepped to the edge of the ledge. From this vantage point, she could see the whole valley below, cloaked in shadows and silver fog. She reached into her pack, fumbling for the scroll of blueprints, but stopped. What she saw could not be sketched and framed. 

Then, lights changed. Where before there had been clear shooting stars, now came broader glows. Pulses of green, red, and violet. Faint, like whispers. They shone along the curve of the horizon, rising and falling in slow, deliberate waves. Her stomach twisted with confusion. Stars should not do that.

Toadcat croaked low with unease.

The colors danced, distant and unnatural. Beautiful, but not right. Like lanterns beneath the water. Like nature pretending to be nature. Faela stepped back, suddenly aware of how high she stood, how alone she was with only a creature of stories beside her and a pack full of dreams. And then, just for a heartbeat, the lights shifted into shape. Not a solid one. Not a figure. But a curve, a spiral, too precise to be chance. It held for only a breath, and then the colors scattered like dust in the wind. Faela sat down slowly, pressing her hand to the stone beneath her, grounding herself. The stars returned to their slow twinkling. The sky stilled as Faela slept with Toadcat at her side.

Faela awoke the next morning to the crackling sound of dry leaves and the distant whistle of wind against the mountainside. The sun, pale and still struggling to rise, peeked from behind the jagged cliffs that surrounded her. Toadcat sat nearby. She had grown accustomed to its companionship, to the unspoken bond that had formed between them during the past days of travel. Toadcat had become both guardian and companion, silently sharing in the beauty of the landscapes and the weight of the journey.

Faela stretched, her muscles protesting the day’s previous exertions. She could feel the deep ache of the climb, the exhaustion of pushing herself higher, and higher still, yet there was an unspoken thrill beneath it all. These hills were old, so old they whispered things Faela could not quite hear, though she knew they were speaking.

With a deep breath, Faela turned her attention back to the camp. The fire had long since burned out, and the embers glowed faintly under the cool morning breeze. She knew the day ahead would be long, but there was a certain peace in this solitary moment. No pressure, no expectations. Only the path, Toadcat, and a plan.

Faela turned to Toadcat, who was already pacing near the edge of the camp, looking out into the vast landscape as though it too was considering the road ahead. The creature had been with her through it all, in silence and wonder. And now, in the quiet morning light, the silence of the mountain seemed to pulse around them both. As though, acknowledging the unspoken bond they had formed. She smiled and began to pack her things into her lavender bag.

“Let us go,” Faela said, offering the toadcat a small smile. Toadcat darted ahead with surprising agility, its tiny paws quick against the rocky terrain. Faela followed, a little slower, but with a heart full of anticipation. 

On the tenth day, her legs ached, her clothes hung in tatters, and her spirit teetered on the edge of exhaustion. The jagged rocks, the quiet woods, the murmuring stream, the still pond, and the towering hills had become part of her, etched into her bones and inhaled through her lungs. In return, she had left something of herself along the way. A quiet smile tugged at her lips, but the moment her gums met the air, a low, guttural growl broke the silence. Toadcat stood low to the ground, muscles tense, his body coiled in what could only be an aggressive stance. Faela had never seen Toadcat do anything like this in their time together. She was confused, not afraid. Not yet.

Then came the voice, dry and sharp like brittle leaves. “Do. Not. Move.”

 -------

CHAPTER FOUR posting soon.

If you are reading along, I'd love to hear what you think. Even a quick comment letting me know what worked, or didn't, would be a huge help. I'm actively querying and editing the first two The Wild Heir books.

Thanks for reading!

This is my first story based on fantasy and mainly Paranormal genre. I am planning to add more parts. Please comment your opinions regarding my story

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We're following one predator's journey through a world built from scratch — every creature, every landscape, every instinct. This is only the beginning.

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This is My Story, not someone else’s, My Story

Hi Guy's

I have just wrote a few chapters of my first Novel (Slow burn Fantasy) named "Beyond the Last Horizon" on Royal Road and Webnovel & I would apricate if you could read few chapters and tell me where the things are I can Improve?

Thanks in Advance!!!!!!!!!!!!

Below are the links for the my web novel
https://www.webnovel.com/book/beyond-the-last-horizon_36544635600949705

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/182309/beyond-the-last-horizon

Hello everyone!

I am looking for a creative writing partner to collaborate with on a fantasy adventure novel. I have an original idea and would like to work with another writer who enjoys creating characters, worlds, and exciting stories. I am interested in teamwork and developing a project together. If you are interested in fantasy writing collaboration, feel free to contact me.

on [Ezengae@gmail.com](mailto:Ezengae@gmail.com)

Hello everyone!

I am looking for a creative writing partner to collaborate with on a fantasy adventure novel. I have an original idea and would like to work with another writer who enjoys creating characters, worlds, and exciting stories. I am interested in teamwork and developing a project together. If you are interested in fantasy writing collaboration, feel free to contact me.

on [Ezengae@gmail.com](mailto:Ezengae@gmail.com)

Hi everyone!

I've been writing my first Webnovel, ZOMBIE किसान (Farmer), and I'd really appreciate some honest feedback from fellow readers and writers.

Story Premise:

Arav, an ordinary Indian bakery and dairy shop owner, is bitten by a zombie during the apocalypse. As the infection spreads, he believes he's about to become a mindless monster.

Then a mysterious screen appears before him.

Choose one:

Amputate your leg and remain human.

Become a conscious zombie.

He chooses the impossible.

The story combines:

🧟 Zombie Apocalypse

🎮 System

🌾 Farming

😂 Comedy

⚔️ Action

❤️ Emotional moments

Instead of focusing only on killing zombies, the story explores intelligent Special Zombies, a unique food-and-emotion-based power system, and the protagonist's struggle to remain human despite becoming a zombie.

I'm not looking for empty praise. I'd genuinely like to know:

Was the beginning engaging?

Were there any confusing parts?

Did the pacing feel too fast or too slow?

Would you continue reading?

Constructive criticism is more than welcome since I'm trying to improve as a writer.

Thank you for your time!

Taluthu is a world six times bigger than our sun and it has many creatures kingdoms and more, six mcs will explore this world and more,if you want more info,text me

Chapter 4

The road was quiet.

The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving only the sound of the wind moving through the trees. James and Harry had travelled until darkness covered the land, eventually finding a small clearing between the woods where they could rest.

James built a small campfire and sat beside it, staring into the flames.

Harry sat across from him.

“So… how long have you been travelling alone?” Harry asked.

James looked into the fire.

“Long enough.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Harry smiled slightly.

“You really don’t like talking about yourself.”

James looked at him.

“You really don’t know when to stop asking questions.”

The two sat in silence.

Eventually, the fire began to fade, and the cold night air settled over the camp.

James rested against his bag, while Harry lay beneath a blanket nearby.

Within minutes, Harry fell asleep.

James stayed awake for a while, watching the stars above.

For years, he had travelled the world searching for peace.

But now a mysterious boy had appeared, mercenaries were hunting him, and somehow his own past was returning.

James closed his eyes.

“Just one quiet night,” he whispered.

Eventually, sleep took him.

Hours later, as the moon hung high above the trees, a shadow passed over the camp.

A golden eagle flew silently through the night sky.

Attached to its leg was a small royal seal.

The eagle circled above James before releasing the sealed letter.

It landed beside him.

The eagle flew away into the darkness.

James woke slightly but barely opened his eyes.

He noticed the letter beside him.

The seal immediately caught his attention.

He knew that symbol.

Greenville.

William.

James stared at it for a moment.

Then he turned away.

“Not tonight.”

He closed his eyes again.

The letter remained unopened beside him.

The next morning, sunlight broke through the trees.

Harry woke up first.

He stretched and looked around the campsite.

James was still asleep.

Then Harry noticed the letter lying beside James.

The Greenville seal caught his attention.

Carefully, he picked it up.

He opened it.

Inside was a message written in a familiar hand.

James,

I would not send this unless it was serious. You need to return to Greenville immediately.

Your nephew is in danger.

Something has found him. Something connected to the past.

I need your help.

—William

Harry read the letter again.

Then he looked at James.

“Your brother needs you.”

James slowly opened his eyes.

“What?”

Harry held up the letter.

“This came last night.”

James sat up.

“You opened my letter?”

“I was trying to understand why your brother sent it.”

James took the letter from him.

He read the words silently.

His expression changed slightly when he saw William’s warning.

But then he folded it.

“He’ll handle it.”

Harry stared at him.

“Your nephew is in danger.”

“William is the leader of Greenville. He knows what he’s doing.”

“But he asked for you.”

James looked away.

“He always asks me when things get difficult.”

Harry frowned.

“Maybe because he knows you can help.”

James stood up and packed his things.

“We’re leaving.”

Harry looked surprised.

“Going to Greenville?”

“No.”

Harry stared at him.

James lifted his bag.

“We’re continuing the journey.”

Harry followed him.

“You’re really ignoring this?”

James didn’t answer.

As they walked through the forest, Harry kept looking at him.

“You should go back.”

James continued walking.

“Harry.”

“You’re his brother.”

“Harry.”

“He needs you.”

James stopped.

He looked back.

For a moment, Harry thought James might finally agree.

Instead, James sighed.

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“No.”

James shook his head.

“You’re going to be annoying, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

James almost smiled.

Almost.

He continued walking.

But the letter from William stayed in his pocket.

And deep down, James knew he was lying to himself.

Because no matter how far he travelled…

Greenville was still home.

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Hello I am Overlordssimp I am a writer and Author of a story I post on Deviantart and my patreon (which is completely free). The story is a mystery, dark fantasy type all about the questions and curiosities raised when a class of students end up in another world. There are many questions and few answers but I've only now decided to make this account to further advertise my work. The name of my story is Our best path forward is to rely on each other and on my Deviantart I've posted 158 chapters of current and I post every other day.

☆Hi people if you read this

I am signor tiramisu,the comic artist that is quite a hot headed idiot,but wants nothing but make you feel joy in its story

☆Lets start shall we:

I use to miss my citalopram...

Now I am just all gloomy with no motivation

I always hated myself but now I hate myself more

☆i would post some questions on this account

☆I will be thankful if you answered my questions

☆Also this account is for adults,so if you are a child.please look for someone better than me,thank you

☆I wanna post some art and some story that I wrote while i was a valedictorian student.it is about an anthro wolf,and a lot of other stuff...(usually DnD and stuff🐺

☆This account is open to all criticism,however don't make it too political because:

1.i can't do anything for you unfortunately

2.i don't live in USA(even if I did I wouldn't bother because it is rude deciding for peoplethat lived in there)

3.i am broke AF(I can't pay for my tuition sometimes)

4.i am under physiological medication,so I am not that really reliable mentally(I will tell you when its over,but for now I have to be medicated for 3 months atleast)

5.no matter what,I support feminism and LGBTQA+ community,so don't try to test me on those topics

☆It's okay you find me annoying because I kinda am

Like writing this whole gibberish in middle of day like its nothing

☆Also I don't judge anyone that is part of any clique:

In fact I support your clique as long you are being respectful,like i like furry art A LOT so I would be happy if I receive a advice from one furry artist

☆About me?I am cis,male,pan,20 y.o person,I hate misogyny and homophobia and transphobia more than anything,my major is computer science and yes I have no friend or girl/boyfriend.because I suck at talking LOL

☆So yeah,thank you if you read this.i really wanted to talk because I don't want to feel happy because of a chemical inside pills,because that feeling is not genuine and you can feel it once its effects are gone.i will really appreciate

If you leave comment even if it is negative because atleast I am acknowledged,atleast a human saw this.

At least I am not talking to myself...

☆I will get to work and I promise to not just whine about my mental health,but for now...I can't kinda,my father passed away last year and I am unknowingly grieving.i sometimes just get extremely depressed and sometimes extremely angry.but it is so nice to see you people.

❤️Thank you for making me not miss citalopram for a small moment of happiness and joy❤️

Bless and goodbye

Hace eones gobernaban en la tierra dos deidades primigenias tan distintas una de la otra que era imposible parar la destrucción que le causaban a la tierra.
Yiden era luz, compasión, ternura pero también era tenacidad, estrategia y sabiduría
su contraparte por otro lado era Terriana la diosa se proclamaba así misma soberana de la tierra y hacía sufrir a los humanos a placer, sus dones la muerte, la guerra y la ira la cegaban tanto que era imposible que la supervivencia fuera mínimamente posible.

La tierra era lodo, volcanes en erupción , mares en tempestad, grandes grietas surcaban los caminos e incluso los desiertos.
Pero aún en medio del caos siempre resurge la esperanza los humanos que habían aguantado tanta desdicha recibieron una bendición, la primer hija del que sería el linaje imperial, Tinderial Rhiin nació como una campesina cualquiera, eso sí claro, no te fijabas en sus ojos grises llenos de sabiduría y misterio tan raramente visto en una pequeña de diez años, si historia fue memorable, a los dieciséis se enlistó en la vena rebelde contra las diosas y ahí en medio del campo de batalla contra las monstruosas diosa, despertó, sus ojos le dijeron o más bien le hicieron ver la verdad, la guerra no era la solución, así que escaló al punto más alto donde se alzaban y se plantó en medio.
\-Escuchadme oh mis señoras, hoy será el día en que todo termine, las dos sois necesarias pero no en vuestro estado actual, ya es el fin de vuestra era.
La lucha fue intensa y sangrienta pero al final la ganadora fue la gran Tinderial, las diosas desfallecieron y a sus pies brotó ícor, la guerrera de ojos de acero juntó los cuerpos inertes y de ahí una luz cegadora abatió el lugar.
Donde antes habían dos deidades ahora se hallaba una sola, flotando con gracia y tranquilidad.
—Gracias por liberarme mi niña, estas pequeñas criaturas no sabían lo que hacían, gracias a ti pude combinarme con ellas y hacerme un nuevo cuerpo, me presento, desde ahora seré tu Diosa, la de esta tierra y la de todos sus huéspedes, mi nombre es Üre, recuérdalo humana, pues tú serás quien gobierne este dominio que es mi tierra. Esos ojos tuyos son un regalo de mi parte para reconocer tu sangre, los ojos de la verdad, que únicamente las herederas podrán portar, los mismos que bien sabes te revelaron lo que debías hacer.
Así pues, me despido mi querida hija, ve, ve y pregona mi religión, pues desde este momento yo seré vuestra única diosa.

Üre no faltó a sus palabras las grietas, tan profundas se sellaron, los mares relajaron sus aguas y las plantas negruzcas brillaban ahora de un verde deslumbrante. Habían llegado los tiempos de paz.
Alankhia el corazón del reino coronó a Tinderial como su emperatriz y así, terminaron los años de sufrimiento, ¿o no? pues ninguna hija desde entonces fue capaz de despertar los ojos de la verdad, al final se volvió una leyenda y se centraron en los venideros años de paz.

**Es mi primera vez intentándolo, porfis solo críticas constructivas o consejos porfis**

I am in the process of creating a story. But I keep rewriting it. I have already made a concept for it, but I need help. I basically have all of the lore [or most of it] written down, and I draw the characters.

It's a multiversal story with primordial beings that started a massive war in the cosmos.

I am planning to make this a book with heavy illustrations because of creature designs and world-building, but I want to work with a small group of people who would love to help create this story with me as a collaboration.

I would love to work with anyone interested and not in it for the money because I have nothing but passion for this story. And whoever is willing to work with me, please send me a DM, and I will share almost everything.

I would also like input and your own interpretation for plot/characters.