Beneath the scorching sun, dunes stretch endlessly, swallowing history whole. Among them lies the wreck of a ship—its wooden ribs jutting from the sand like the bones of a long-dead beast. No water has touched this place for centuries.
A lone figure moves toward it.
His name is Akhen, he is wearing a cloak, tattered and sun-bleached, flutters like a dying breath as he approaches the wreck. His posture is efficient ,every step measured, every motion calculated to waste nothing. Not energy. Not time.
And certainly not the dead.
Akhen crouches beside the wreckage, his ocean-blue eyes scanning the shadows. Something is here. Something wrong.
Buried beneath splintered wood and rusted nails lies a corpse.
Its skin is hardened, leathery, preserved not by embalming but by something far older—something that stinks of power. No rot clings to it. No insects dare feast upon its flesh. It is as if death itself hesitated to claim this one.
Akhen exhales slowly. He has seen this before.
He takes a long breath and starts to perform the ritual, The hardened crumbles, flaking away like ash in the wind.
He gathers the skeleton, wrapping it in faded linen before placing it into his satchel. He continues his journey through the desert.
The sun hangs low, a sickly orange smear across the ashen sky, casting long, twisted shadows over the cracked road. The air is thick with the scent of decay and something fouler.
Akhen moves silently, his boots scraping against the broken stone. He has reached the city of ASHVALE.
The city lies smothered beneath an eternal grey sky, as if the sun itself has abandoned it. Once a thriving metropolis, now it's a hollowed carcass of cracked concrete, twisted steel, and buildings that lean like they've given up on standing tall.
The road winds closer to Ashvale, and with each step, the city reveals itself in glimpses of suffering.
A child , no more than bones wrapped in parchment skin, crouches in the dust, gnawing on something blackened and unidentifiable. Their hollow eyes track Akhen as he passes, but they do not beg. There is no point.
Dark alleyways exhale the stench of cheap narcotics and sweat. Figures lurk in the gloom, their dealings quick and furtive. A man with a bloodied nose stumbles out, clutching a small pouch, only to be kicked back into the shadows by a sneering brute. No one intervenes.
A woman sits against a crumbling wall, her dress torn, her gaze vacant. A merchant yanks her up by the hair, inspecting her teeth like livestock. She does not resist. Nearby, another rocks back and forth, whispering to a bundle of rags that may have once been a child. Laughter rings out—cruel, sharp. A group of armored thugs surround a trembling old man, forcing him to his knees. One raises a club. The sound of breaking bone follows. No one stops. No one cares.
Akhen's grip on his satchel tightens, just slightly. His face remains hidden beneath the shadows of his hood, but his steps do not falter.
Akhen has finally reached at his destination, "The Hollow Covenant"
The building stood apart from the filth and decay of Ashvale—not in grandeur, but in a kind of quiet dread. Its walls were blackened stone, its windows narrow and barred, exhaling a thin, greasy smoke that clung to the air like a curse.
Akhen stepped inside.
Men in stained leather aprons paused in their work, their hands slick with grave resin and powdered bone. Their eyes followed him, not with curiosity, but the wary tension of wolves circling a stranger in their den. The sight inside isn't any better than what Akhen saw outside .
He walks to the nearest counter and slides his satchel onto it. The attendant, a gaunt man with fingers stained yellow from handling reagents glanced down. His bored expression flickered. Then froze.
Without a word, he hurried into the back.
A moment later, he returned with the Head of the covenant. The man was tall, his face half-hidden behind a leather visor streaked with old blood. His hand plunged into the bag, retrieving the skull. He turned it slowly,
Then his mouth twisted not in disgust, but in something far worse: recognition.
When he spoke, his voice was low,
"Where did you find this ?"
Akhen said nothing.
The air grew heavier. The workers exchanged glances.
The attendants hurried with the satchel to the inner rooms. Minutes passed by as the head kept close watch on Akhen. Finally, they returned with a small pouch filled with a white powder along with a few gold coins. The head leaned in, his breath smelling of salt and slow decay:
"Next time, speak. Or the desert might keep you too."
Akhen pocketed the payment and proceeded to walk out of the building . He turned toward the exit, his fingers tightening around the pouch of bone dust. His face was unreadable but his eyes burned with something bitter.
A wall of muscle slammed into him, sending him staggering back. The gold coins scattered across the floor. The man loomed over him a mountain of scar tissue and fury, his breath reeking of cheap liquor.
"Watch where you're going, rat," he spat.
The head of the covenant hurried on hearing all the commotion. Akhen pushed himself up, slow, deliberate. One coin. Then another. His silence was a provocation.
The brute swung.
Akhen's arm snapped up blocking the blow, but the man grabbed his wrist and whipped him into the ground like a ragdoll. Fabric tore.
Something hit the floor with a soft, metallic clink.
A silence so deep it swallowed sound whole.
The brute froze. His face twisted, not in anger but in dawning horror. His lips moved, but no words came out.
Akhen rose, his sleeve torn away, revealing the tattoo coiled around his arm. The brute gagged, collapsing like his bones had turned to water. The head who threatened akhen moments ago stood there petrified :
"Y-You're—"
Akhen picked up the last coin. He didn't need to finish the sentence.
The mark said it all...