Far in the distance, the drenched and disgruntled grave rat was ascending the ramp onto the wooden Blackroot Town streets. He was blissfully unaware of the presence behind him. To onlookers around him, it was as if the man had suddenly suffered a mysterious ailment, his face turning pale before collapsing face forward onto the muddy planks, lifeless.
Talus glanced towards Blackroot, watching specks representing the townsfolk scurrying over to the fresh corpse, attempting to resuscitate him. Talus looked away from the scene, the only one in the wagon to even notice the execution.
Hours passed, and the grave rat was immediately forgotten. A minor distraction in comparison to the countless wonders and hurdles experienced by the Fae Monarch. His shade assassination reunited with them shortly after completing its task.
Talus silently watched out into the marsh. With Thalora's magic drying the road, they made quick time. The marsh reeds were replaced with larger vegetation, like trees, ferns and low-canopy creepers. Towering weeping willows sprang up beside their path, the wet forest casting gloom over the road dried by Thalora's magic. The air smelled of old bark and brewing rain. Moss hung in heavy curtains from the trees, swaying gently with the breeze and unseen things.
Thalora sat cross-legged at the front of the wagon, her fingers twirling a red-coloured Cipher, the cube-shaped catalyst for her spell, toying with it in lazy arcs above her lap, glowing softly. The horses snorted, their massive hooves squelching against slick roots and sodden loam. Brambled mumbled curses from the driver's seat, scratching at his auburn beard as he guided the reins. The wheels jutted over a stone, signifying the marsh was falling further behind them. The atmosphere around them shifted as they crested a shallow ridge.
Up ahead, a weathered shrine stood at the intersection of a crossroads, half-swallowed by moss and lichen. Its stone carvings, worn with age, were difficult to make out, but the basic outline still remained. It was the most basic symbol to represent a person that could be imagined, a small stone for a head stacked atop a longer one for the body.
Talus remained still, his hands folded over his lap, the pupils of his eyes subtly spinning. His gaze stayed on the deepening shadows, attuned to things the others could not perceive. In the Mirror Realm, the air here pulsed with Mana. It was becoming thicker as they travelled closer to civilisation.
"A wayshrine. Very old. Stories say that leaving an offering would grant a blessing. Nonsense, of course," Thalora said, noticing Talus staring at the shrine. At its base rested a small offering bowl, filled with dried petals, buttons, and gnawed food bones.
Bramble brought the wagon to a stop, tossing aside the reins and hopping down from the driver's seat. He braced his hands on his lower back and stretched his spine with a grunt of relief. He took a copper square from inside his coat and tossed it into the bowl. A few of the grave rats watched the coin with avarice but wisely remained in their seats.
"Just in case," Bramble said, dusting off his hands. He hauled himself back into the driver's seat and picked up the reins. He gave them a flick, and the draft horses resumed their journey. "They say the old Monarchs are gone, driven out by the shard towers. But it never hurts to pay the toll. Hasn't steered me astray yet. Consider it charity, some beggar might have use of the coin."
Talus recognised the shrine as one built to perform offerings to his people from the days of mankind's infancy. When the two races were at peace with one another. One of the grave rats spat over the side of the wagon.
"That thing's cursed! My cousin left bread there once and couldn't speak for a week," The man said. Before anyone could respond, the grave rat's voice grew frantic and higher in pitch. "See, what did I tell you? Forests shouldn't hiss!"
The trees did hiss. Softly, like the wind through a reed flute. Something stirred among the vegetation. Talus looked up, his eyes seeing into an expanded spectrum. His lips pursed together, a slight frown creasing his brow. A creature Talus didn't recognise stepped onto the road. Or more accurately, one of its legs did. An enormous leg, gnarled like tree bark, belonging to a beast reminiscent of a stick insect, blocked the wagon as Bramble pulled back on the reins.
"Woah! Swamp Strider overhead. Stay in your seats and don't move, we don't want to spook it!" Bramble instructed. Holding still and looking up at the underside of a giant stick insect with gnarled bark-like texture, moss and vines drooping down like a moving forest canopy.
Talus remained quiet, his gaze fixed upward, tracking the impossible creature as it stepped over them. The swamp strider's leg creaked like ancient timber under strain, shell crackling with faint pops as it shifted its weight. The wagon vibrated from the immense size of its passing. From above, soft chimes hissed and clattered, not just from the wind, but also from motion.
"Ascendants watch over me!" The superstitious grave rat exclaimed, jumping from the wagon bed and scrambling underneath for shelter. Talus's gaze snapped to the man as he uttered his prayer, immediately understanding the man was calling upon the forebears of the Corrupted Fragment. People moving atop the creature distracted Talus and brought his attention back.
The swamp strider's body passed overhead. Bundles of woven rope swayed gently along its underbelly, interwoven with clusters of lanterns that glowed with soft, pulsing light. They cast shifting colours onto a series of scriptures and the road below as they clinked together. A tangle of vines entwined the network of rope, hanging cloth talismans painted with eerily familiar symbols. Talus intently stared, reading the words.
Humanity's first written language, scribed in ash and bone dust.. The letters do not lie, though they forget who taught them, attributing it to my brethren when it is only mortals who need such trivial records. They speak of a time before sun and moon, when the Spirit Realm poured its eternal light across the land. Of radiant beings, mistaken for ancestral ghosts, who offered gifts not meant to last. My people.
Then the tale turns. As it always does. Elidion, the great betrayer. His name is etched clean, but the wound he left was not. It shows how he reached across the veil and twisted love into a weapon. From his theft came the first shape of human magic… and the first shadows in a world of engulfing light.
Varathis followed, forging the Mirror Realm, that impenetrable divide between flesh and spirit. They name her Destroyer and Bringer of Night, but it was not destruction. It was exile. A prison wall meant to punish and keep my people out. My people's greatest secret and shame is not recorded here. Varathis's wrath was not entirely unprovoked. She was the unwilling surrogate for the first Accursed, her womb a vessel for an experiment of the unholy union between realms, to give flesh to spirit. I have felt the echoes of her consuming rage embedded within the Corrupted Fragment.
There is mention of a mortal erased from the scrolls, his name unable to be recorded. I remember him. Ephraem. The fool who sought to bind the vast empty skies in rhythm, to birth stars and moons to mimic the light that had been. Balance, he called it. But forced harmony is still chaos. It could not completely drive out the night brought about by our absence…