Varkai: Arc I — Ashes of the Shatterworld
The last light of Varkai's fractured sky waned behind them as Thren led Vrakon and Saelin through winding canyons of stone and broken root. The Pulse-rich fog had thinned, but its residue still clung to the edges of Vrakon's senses, like whispers waiting for a voice.
Mourndusk was not a city. It was a scar stitched into the land.
Jagged spires of blackstone jutted from the earth like shattered bones. Makeshift shelters were built between them—old tents reinforced with Pulsebone frames, ancient ruins repurposed into forge-cloisters and healing dens. It was quiet, watchful. No marketplace laughter. No cries of children. Only the sound of wind and breathing.
A warped emblem made of bone and ash marked the entrance: three split rings surrounding a jagged spiral. The symbol of the Fractured Kin.
"Don't speak unless asked," Thren warned.
Vrakon didn't respond. His eyes roamed the strange settlement. Ragged figures moved through the mist—warriors, scavengers, healers. Their armor was mismatched, their faces veiled in soot or cloth. All bore weapons at their hips. All bore scars.
Saelin leaned close. "They don't trust outsiders. Even I'm only tolerated because I bleed beside them."
A narrow path opened into a basin where a dying fountain spilled green-tinted water into a shallow pool. Vrakon paused, sensing something. Not danger. Resonance. The water carried low-frequency Pulse echoes—not hostile, but old. Wounded.
Thren gestured. "Wash. You smell like lake-death."
Vrakon knelt, cupping water in his hands. It stung his cuts, but the ache grounded him. He looked into the surface and saw not just his reflection—but the fractured light of his Genesis Core faintly pulsing within his chest. Still green-blue. Still spiraling.
Saelin tossed him folded garments. "They're clean. Not new. Nothing's new here."
He dressed silently—rough-woven shirt, charcoal trousers, boots reinforced with leather stitching. He felt lighter, less like a hunted beast. Not whole. But masked.
---
They entered the inner halls of Mourndusk—stone corridors lit by Pulse-embers mounted in skeletal sconces. Symbols were carved into the walls—stories, names, deaths. One caught his eye: a woman kneeling before a tree split by lightning, her hands pressed to its heart. Beneath it, a phrase:
All roots break in the end.
Thren pushed open a set of double doors. "Speak only truth. The Gravewalker doesn't entertain lies."
They stepped into a wide chamber. At its center stood a man cloaked in layered bonecloth, eyes shut, surrounded by incense smoke and chalk runes.
Theryn Hollowvein, the Gravewalker.
He was tall, gaunt, but his voice rolled like stone collapsing.
"You've brought a lake-born Core-Born here, Thren?"
"He survived the Silt Echo and the Verdant Surge. Fought beside us."
Theryn opened his eyes. They were pale—not blind, but distant, like he was always seeing something beyond the room.
"Name, child."
Vrakon hesitated. "...Vrakon."
"That is not your true name," Theryn said. "But it is the one your soul wears now. Very well."
He approached, hand outstretched. Vrakon flinched, but Theryn simply tapped a finger against his chest, over the Core.
"Green-blue. Feral-born. Echo-marked. Your Core formed in trauma, not training. You are dangerous."
Vrakon met his gaze. "So is everything else in Varkai."
A pause. Then a dry smile from the Gravewalker. "Let him rest. The Hollow Trials will come soon."
---
In the days that followed, Vrakon moved like a shadow through Mourndusk. He saw more of the Fractured Kin: children training with blunt spears, old men repairing scavenged relics, women binding wounds while humming to fractured bones.
He learned their creed: Survive, but remember.
He saw the way they honored the dead—not with graves, but with stories etched into stone or sung into the ash.
And he noticed the looks.
Thren watched him like a hawk. Saelin hovered but never pushed. Others whispered: "lake-born," "unbound," "wild-core."
It didn't matter. Vrakon didn't seek acceptance.
He only listened. Learned. Waited.
Because something stirred beneath Mourndusk—something ancient and cracked and calling. And Vrakon's Genesis Core pulsed every time he walked near the sealed lower chambers.
Soon, the Hollow Trials would begin.
And Vrakon would descend again.