The land before them is dead. Not in the way of fallen kingdoms, where ruins crumble beneath creeping vines and the ghosts of men linger in stone and story. No—this is a world truly lifeless, stripped to its marrow. A desolate expanse of ashen dust and jagged remnants, where even memory has long since withered away.

Towers of blackened stone claw at the sky, their spires twisted and broken, as if the land itself tried to resist its inevitable decay. Bridges, once grand, now stretch across hollow chasms, their arches fractured, their purpose long forgotten. The skeletal remains of a city loom in the distance, its cathedral-like structures cracked and crumbling, bathed in the dying light of a sickly sun.

The sky churns, heavy with smoke and ruin, shifting like old parchment left too long in the damp. The air is thick, stagnant, clinging to the skin like something living. The rivers that once fed this place have run dry, leaving only deep scars of cracked earth, where the echoes of a world that once was still linger.

There is no wind. No breath of life.

Only silence.

There was the distant glow of dying embers, flickering among the ruins—like the last gasps of a world that refuses to let go.

They stand at its edge, four figures wrapped in quiet. They are the last to walk this road.

Aedric the Hollowblade shifts his weight, boots grinding against brittle rock. His rusted armor, patched with scavenged pieces, creaks under the weight of age and regret. A long-bladed sword hangs at his side, its edge dulled by time, yet his grip still lingers near the hilt—a warrior's habit.

Age lines his face, battle-worn and weary, but his eyes burn with stubborn defiance. A name that has outlived its deeds. He is now reduced to a mere mercenary, traversing this road in pursuit of one last legend before his bones dissolve into dust.

He watches the Dead One—that unmoving, inhuman thing—and does not speak.

The Dead One does not acknowledge him. It does not acknowledge anything.

A nameless wanderer, neither truly alive nor dead. Cloaked in tattered robes, its form is little more than a husk—something that should not move, yet does. Its face, when glimpsed beneath the hood, is a ruin of flesh, something long-decayed but never at rest.

Its voice, when it speaks at all, is distant, as if carried across centuries. A whisper from a forgotten past, or an echo of something that has yet to come.

Lirian "The Crow-Tongue" speaks first. Their voice is smooth, layered—one voice, yet many, like a chorus speaking in unison. The cadence of their voice is reminiscent of a storyteller, even though the only audience present is the dust and the fading light.

Their patchwork cloak, stitched together from ancient parchments, shifts with the wind; the faded ink of dead languages whispers in the twilight. A satchel at their side clinks softly, heavy with scrolls and relics of forgotten worlds. Their eyes never rest—always searching, always remembering.

"The legends call it the final threshold," they murmur, running fingers along the brittle pages of a tome bound in skin. Their eyes gleam with something deeper than curiosity—hunger, perhaps. "No man returns from the Door. No kingdom claims it. No gods watch over it. Beyond it is..."

They trail off. Not for effect, but because even they do not know.

Veyne, the Hollow Smirk, laughs. The sound is dry and brittle, much like the bones half-buried in the dust at his feet. The grin on his face is a thief's, all teeth but no mirth.

Lean and wiry, he wears mismatched leather, a patchwork of scavenged armor and stolen cloth, adorned with trinkets pilfered from dead men—rings, pendants, things that once meant something to someone. His smile never reaches his eyes. It never has.

He claims to seek the door for riches, but there is something else lurking beneath the façade. Something unspoken. Something running just as much as he is.

"Then let's hope it's worth something, aye?" Veyne nudges a skeletal hand with his boot. The fingers crumble into dust. His grin falters.

The silence swallows them again.

Aedric exhales slowly and measuredly, his breath heavy with resignation. His rusted armor shifts as he turns his gaze toward Veyne, the firelight catching on the worn, dulled edge of his blade.

"It matters not."

Veyne raises a brow, but there's less bravado in it now. "Doesn't it?"

Aedric does not look away. His voice is flat, stripped of anything but certainty.

"Whatever you seek. Whatever you run from. It makes no difference now." His grip tightens on the sword hilt. The weight of it, of all the years behind it, settles in his hand. "We follow that cursed abomination into oblivion, or we wait for dust to take us. That is the choice."

Lirian shifts, parchment whispering as they roll a brittle page between their fingers. Their expression is unreadable, but when they speak, there is something close to amusement in their voice.

"That is what the prophecy foretold, after all." Their eyes flicker toward the Dead One. "The Dead Ones do not return."

The fire crackles. The warmth does not reach them.

No one speaks after that.

They turn to the Dead One.

It has been silent. Always silent.

It was a straightforward stride. The tattered cloak shifts, its edges blackened by age and something older than rot. There is no hesitation, no sign of decision—only movement, as if it was never a choice to begin with.

One by one, the others follow.

They step into the wasteland.

And behind them, the last remnants of the world fade into shadow.

There are others here.

Not in the flesh. Not in spirit. Instead, they exist in fragments, as evidenced by the brittle bones half-swallowed by the dust and the rusted blades thrust into the earth like grave markers. They had walked this road before. They fell here.

Now, they remain only as ruins of men.

Aedric scans the land with the caution of a soldier apprehensive of an ambush, despite the absence of an enemy and no war to win. His hand brushes across the shattered remnants of a shield, its crest long since scoured away.

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"They came prepared for battle," he mutters. "But what did they fight?"

No one answers.

Lirian kneels beside a skeletal corpse, its fingers curled tight around something—a strip of parchment, blackened at the edges. He pulls it free, handling it with reverence.

The ink has long since bled into decay. Whatever was written here is forgotten, the last words of a nameless pilgrim carried away by time.

"Lost words, lost men." Lirian's voice is quiet. Their fingers trace the brittle page. "How many have sought the Door? How many have been left unmarked?"

The Dead One walks ahead, unbothered.

A gust stirs the dust, and the sound that follows is not wind. It is voices—thin and distant.

Veyne halts abruptly. His grin vanishes, swallowed by a shadow of something close to fear.

"You hear that?" he mutters. His voice is low, as if speaking too loudly might call something closer.

Aedric grips his blade. The whispers continue. They are not words, but something deeper—like memory, like longing.

Only the Dead One does not react.

Ahead, monoliths rise from the dust.

The black stone, jagged and ancient, is scarred with inscriptions too weathered to read. They stand like sentinels along the path, watching, waiting.

Aedric places a gauntleted hand against one. The stone is warm.

Lirian studies them, but he does not speak.

Veyne keeps his distance.

And the Dead One does not stop walking.

The whispers grow softer.

The dust begins to settle.

They continue forward, stepping over the remains of those who walked this road before.

No one looks back.

The path does not end. It only descends.

The land tilts downward into a skeletal ruin, its remains half-consumed by the Dust. Shattered pillars rise like broken ribs, their stone darkened by age and the weight of something unseen. Staircases, cracked and crumbling, spiral into the depths below.

Once, this was something great. It was a city, a refuge, a place where men stood and prayed to Great Ones who had long since abandoned them. Now, it is nothing but ruin.

They make camp in what was once a temple, though no name remains to claim it.

The walls are adorned with murals.

Lirian runs their fingers across the faded stone, eyes flickering with recognition. "This was a place of passage."

The figures carved into the wall stand in silent worship before a monolithic door. Their faces have been scraped away, erased as if their memory was unworthy of being preserved.

Lirian tilts their head. Their fingers trace the final mural, following the worn etchings of an inscription barely visible beneath the weight of time.

The words are ancient, brittle like the ruin itself—but they remain.

"Four damned souls shall walk the path."

Lirian's breath stills. Their gaze shifts to the figures.

Three.

The others all stand before the door, but the last figure is missing. Not damaged. Not worn away. Simply absent.

Aedric sits apart, sharpening his blade against the remnants of the past. The whispering of steel on steel is the only sound that does not belong to the ruin itself.

"A temple." His voice is distant. "A place for men to kneel. Pray. Seek something beyond themselves."

He exhales. The whetstone slows. "And yet they left nothing behind but broken walls."

His words do not carry bitterness. Only understanding.

Veyne does not look at the murals.

He does not sit near the fire.

He stands at the temple's edge, arms folded, watching the ruins at the Edge of Nothing crumble. His gaze flickers toward the distant stairwells, toward the shattered columns.

Something shifts beneath the stone.

It is not a movement. Not truly. It's more like the ruins themselves have shifted in their sleep.

A single grain of dust rolls down a staircase that leads to nothing.

Lirian looks up from the murals. Aedric grips his blade.

Veyne does not turn. He only whispers, "We are not alone."

But nothing emerges.

The fire burns lower.

The temple walls do not change.

The faceless figures remain, forever waiting.

The fire crackles, but the warmth does not reach them.

It is the only sound now. The whispers of the ruins have faded, as if the temple itself is listening.

They sit around the embers, shadows stretching long against the broken stone. Four figures, and yet it feels as though there are more.

The night does not rest. And neither do they.

Aedric breaks the silence. His voice is low, but there is weight in it. His voice is akin to that of a warrior.

"I should have died on the battlefield."

The others say nothing. He does not expect them to.

He drags the whetstone along his blade—the same blade that has outlived kingdoms. The edge glints dull in the firelight.

"It was the last Great War of the South. I fought for a king whose name I no longer remember. I killed men whose faces I never saw. And in the end..." His jaw tightens.

"Victory belonged to no one."

His grip on the blade is firm, but his knuckles have turned pale. Regret does not belong in a soldier's hands, and yet it lingers there.

"Only I remain."

His gaze flickers toward the Dead One, who does not look at him.

"Now I seek a battle where I do not walk away."

Lirian exhales, shaking their head. A crooked grin ghosts across their lips, but something uneasy lingers behind their eyes.

"You chase your death, Aedric." Their voice is almost amused. "I chase something greater."

They lean back against the cold stone of the temple, rolling a fragment of parchment between their fingers. A piece of something old.

"The Door is real." Their voice is quiet, almost reverent. "We have seen it."

Aedric narrows his eyes. "Then why do you walk this road?"

Lirian's grin falters.

They do not answer immediately.

"Because I do not remember."

A pause.

"It is lost memories, carried by those within."

They close their eyes. "But I will."

Veyne laughs. But it is different this time.

There is no bravado, no bite. There is only a subtle hint of bitterness.

"You both chase something noble in your own way." His voice is quieter now. "Death. Knowledge. Legends and memories."

He shakes his head. The fire casts deep shadows over his face.

"But me? I run."

Aedric watches him carefully. His expression does not change.

"From what, thief?"

Veyne meets his gaze. And for the first time, he does not smirk.

"As you said, does it matter?"

The fire crackles.

They turn to the Dead One.

It has been silent. Always silent.

Veyne exhales, running a hand over his face, before nodding toward the unmoving figure.

"And what about you?" Something unreadable edges his voice. "What do you chase?"

Aedric scoffs.

"The dead chase nothing." His tone is firm, certain. "They only follow."

Lirian tilts their head, watching the Dead One with something like curiosity.

"Not quite. According to my studies, the Dead Ones simply walk the Path." Their voice is quiet, distant. "They do not seek wealth, nor redemption, nor absolution. Only the Door."

They glance toward the fire.

"The Door at the End of Everything."

A pause.

Then, the Dead One speaks.

"It has always beckoned me."

The words are flat. Hollow. As if they have been spoken before. As if they will be spoken again.

Aedric stiffens. Lirian leans forward. Veyne's fingers twitch toward the dagger at his hip.

No one asks what it means.

The fire burns out.

The temple does not sleep.

The wind starts whispering again in the distance.

Dawn breaks, but the sun is no comfort.

A dull, grey light creeps over the ruins, chasing away the fire's embers but not the cold. The night has passed, but its weight lingers.

They rise in silence, fastening straps and securing what little they carry.

Aedric tightens the worn leather of his sword belt.

Lirian slings their satchel over one shoulder, adjusting the strap.

Veyne stretches, rubbing the stiffness from his limbs before tossing a pack at the Dead One's feet.

"Might as well be useful, aye?" His grin is thin, but the others do not argue.

One by one, they strap their burdens to the Dead One—satchels, rations, supplies worn thin by time.

It does not react.

It does not shift beneath the weight.

It simply waits.

No one speaks of the night before.

Nobody discusses the remarks made.

There is no need.

The road does not wait for them. It never has.

They walk.

The Veil of Thorns looms ahead.

Blackened trees twist toward the sky, their limbs gnarled and unnatural.

A forest that does not welcome.

A forest that does not let go.

Lirian is the first to whisper it.

"A cursed place."

Veyne scoffs under his breath, but he does not argue.

Aedric only grips his sword tighter.

The wind shifts.

It does not howl.

It does not wail.

It speaks.

Thin voices coil through the air, words just beyond understanding—whispers too faint to be fully heard.

A hymn of the lost.

A lament for the nameless.

Behind them, the ruins tremble.

The cracked stone of the temple splinters.

The ground quivers, as if something holds its breath.

And then—

The earth devours it.

The temple collapses into dust; the ruins are swallowed whole.

Not all at once. Slowly. Deliberately.

It was as if the world itself was waiting.

As if the past must vanish now that they have stepped forward.

There is no return.

There is only the path ahead.

Aedric watches, his expression unreadable.

Lirian does not turn back.

Veyne does—just once.

The Dead One doesn't even glance at anything.

The wind stirs the ash.

The whispers fade.

They step forward.

And behind them—

The world ceases to be.