The mist advanced low to the ground, like cold fingers, enveloping the twisted roots of dead trees and concealing the steep slope of the hillside. In the silence, only the whisper of the wind cut through the air—a distant sound that made each step echo as if in ancestral chambers.
Elder Syrial and her apprentice Merial moved cautiously, wrapped in gray cloaks whose hems brushed against the mossy stones. The words of power tattooed on the elder's body pulsed rhythmically, like heartbeats. Merial observed them with sidelong glances, wondering when she would have so many engraved on her skin.
Unlike the simple apprentice markings that adorned her forearms—three foundational runes that all Sylarei received during their initiation—Syrial's body was a living testament to decades of magical mastery. The words flowed across her skin in intricate patterns, each one earned through rigorous study and ritual. Some glowed with a soft silver light, while others remained dormant, waiting to be activated by her conscious will and the precise mental resonance that would bring them to life.
Both knew they weren't there out of mere curiosity: the Dead Zone of Velh'Ciriand had appeared just days ago, and the growing fissures in the Dome alarmed all seven races.
"This is a terrible idea," whispered Merial, frowning as she remembered the warnings: not even the Verithil risk coming here without an army.
Syrial lightly touched the Shyrr bracelet hanging from her wrist. The black crystal glinted under the diffuse glow of the mist. The fragments of the Dome, or Shyrr stones, were the only protection against the Dead Zones.
"Do you believe everything they say?" she asked, her voice hoarse. "As long as we have Shyrr, we'll be safe. Our magistrates ordered the study of these new Dead Zones. The fact that all seven races agreed on this only highlights the gravity of the situation."
Merial nodded, though her apprehension remained. She had spent the last five years at the University of Ny'theras, immersed in the theoretical study of Words of Power. The living runes that marked her skin were few but potent—each one representing hundreds of hours of meditation and mental discipline. Unlike other magical traditions that Drew power from external sources, the Sylarei magic required a perfect fusion of mind, word, and intent. Each rune was a conduit between thought and reality, activated not by mere utterance but by achieving a specific mental state that resonated with the word's true meaning.
Her instructors had often remarked on her unusual aptitude. Where most apprentices struggled to maintain the mental focus required for even basic runes, Merial could slip into the necessary state of consciousness with remarkable ease. Her mind seemed naturally attuned to the vibrational patterns of the Words of Power, allowing her to access deeper meanings that even some elders found challenging.
"Do you remember how the Seven Kingdoms under the Dome are divided?" asked Syrial, without looking back.
Merial, with her silver hair fluttering, responded promptly:
"Verithil, in the Mountains of Mist, masters of hidden vision; Sangor, in the Red Desert, bearers of Blood Magic; Zhyren, in the Volcanic Jungles, dominators of the four elements; Naruun, in the Plains and Woods, with their Anirû; Arenya, in the Frozen Mountains and underground, champions of strength and regeneration; and, at the heart, the Olkhar, diluted heirs of all gifts."
Syrial smiled, slowly and warmly.
"Exactly. If this were a formal test, you would only need to mention our own race: the Magic of Words of the Sylarei."
The pupil relaxed, a flash of complicity lighting up in her eyes.
The political landscape had grown increasingly tense in recent months. The alliance between the Sylarei and Verithil, formalized through the joint operation of the University of Ny'theras, remained strong on the surface. Yet whispers in the University's halls suggested that the Verithil Council had begun withholding certain discoveries from their Sylarei counterparts. The golden-eyed seers had grown more secretive, their visions apparently revealing something they were reluctant to share.
Meanwhile, reports from traders indicated that the ancient conflict between the Arenya and Verithil had intensified. The underground excavations of the Arenya had uncovered rich deposits of Shyrr in territories they claimed as their own, but which the Verithil considered part of their ancestral lands. Skirmishes had broken out along the borders, with both sides reluctant to engage in full-scale warfare but unwilling to cede their claims.
The Sangor kingdom was experiencing its own internal strife. Rumors spoke of growing resistance against the blood donation regime imposed by the Valaryen dynasty. The rebels, emboldened by prophecies about the Bearer, had begun sabotaging blood shipments and freeing donors from collection facilities.
Amidst all this turmoil, the Olkhar struggled to maintain their traditional role as mediators. Their declining power made it increasingly difficult to command the respect needed to broker peace between the other races. The Crystal Council meetings had grown more contentious, with representatives often storming out before consensus could be reached.
They then reached the top of an escarpment: before them, the ground displayed an irregular fissure nearly ten meters long, surrounded by Shyrr flakes that pulsed with a trembling light. The air seemed to escape through there, and no trace of magic dared to manifest.
"Here," ordered Syrial, extending her hand. "Feel the void."
Merial approached and touched the ground. The cold rose up her arm and her heart raced. She felt disconnected. Empty. Since her initiation, when her mind had awakened to the words of power, she had felt connected to everything around her. Even as an apprentice, she sensed the energetic pulse of the world—and could interact with these forces. The words that emerged in her mind were her way of communicating with the world. But here... nothing. No sensation. The void was terrifying.
For a Sylarei, whose entire existence was defined by the constant communion with the magical vibrations that permeated Inhevaen, a Dead Zone represented more than just danger—it was an existential horror. The Words of Power that formed the foundation of their magic required a responsive universe, one that acknowledged and reacted to their carefully crafted mental states and verbal commands. In a Dead Zone, that fundamental relationship was severed. It was like suddenly going blind, deaf, and mute all at once.
Syrial frowned and narrowed her eyes. The runes on her skin glowed slowly. She used the words of power to sharpen her senses—and, instinctively, prepared her body. The runes, hearing her call, awakened one by one, operating like an orchestra in harmony.
Merial watched in fascination as her mentor's tattoos began to illuminate in sequence.
Unlike her own limited repertoire, Syrial possessed dozens of Words, each one representing a different aspect of reality she could manipulate. The activation process was beautiful to behold—a cascade of light flowing across skin as each rune resonated with her focused intent. Some Words glowed brighter than others, indicating Syrial's particular affinities and strengths.
"We need soil samples, records of corroded runes, and any evidence of ritual. This circle is not natural."
Before they could collect the first sample, the ground trembled. Something heavy was approaching. Its steps resonated through the void.
"Merial, behind you!" shouted Syrial.
The young woman spun. She instinctively activated her master rune. After her invocation, her mental space vibrated with life. And then she felt it. Something was approaching. Coming from the shadows. The footsteps—firm and colossal—resounded like hammer blows on raw stone.
A creature emerged: a Child of Silence, or so they were called. Body sewn together by dry roots and black plates, eyes glowing like embers. It looked like a colossal wolf. Or perhaps it had been one day. The Children of Silence were born from the void of the Dead Zones. Little was known about them, except for their extreme ferocity and aggression. Its roar made the ground tremble, bringing Merial back to reality.