The Wodr scout had been dead for two days.
And still, the village held its breath.
Miners worked faster. Children whispered in shadows. Even the birdsong in the jungle had quieted, like the trees themselves expected reprisal. The Wodr were not known for patience—or mercy.
Kaelara had warned them: "If one of their Seekers dies, the rivers remember."
Tavin stood at the edge of the shrine platform, morning mist curling around his legs. The jungle beyond shimmered with dew and silence. Beneath his skin, his brand pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.
"You're brooding."
Kaelara's voice broke the stillness. She strode up beside him, water clinging to her skin like mist refused to leave her. She carried the scent of the wet forest and metal.
"I'm thinking," Tavin replied.
"Same thing."
He looked at her. "You said that Wodr priest you fought… used folding magic?"
She nodded. "He controlled pressure. Not gravity—hydropressure. Like you'd find at the bottom of the ocean."
She flexed a scarred hand. "He tried to crush us from the inside. Collapsed lungs. Burst blood vessels. Water magic at its cruelest. We fought in a rainstorm. My blade couldn't touch him. I only survived because I fell into a mudpit and played dead."
She turned to him, face grim.
"When you pulled the scout into that void, I felt the same thing: the pressure, the collapse. But colder. Cleaner. It wasn't a spell. It was space obeying you."
Tavin swallowed. "I didn't mean to—"
"You'll need to mean it next time," she said. "The Wodr don't forgive. They send Watchers through the water veins. Fog that whispers. Drowners that walk in wet skin. We're not safe."
She paused, glancing toward the distant tree line.
"But we're hidden—for now. You should know, the Wodr don't actually know where our village is. Not precisely. They think we're just a forgotten mining camp that pays tribute. Which we are… sort of."
Tavin frowned. "But we give them ore. Someone delivers it."
Kaelara nodded. "I do. And a few others, when it's safe. We trade through a smuggler's route into the edge of Phusis territory. The Phusian border lords don't ask questions as long as the ore flows—and we don't bring trouble. They're more tolerant than the others. Neutral, mostly. As long as we stay useful."
"So, Wodr lets you move freely?"
"Not freely. They assume we're indentured, scavenging scraps for them. I've let them think that. It's the only reason our village hasn't been purged."
She stepped closer. Her voice dropped. "But if they trace that dead scout back here, our 'usefulness' won't matter anymore."
She pointed down the shrine steps. "Ema'Tari's waiting. The Gate's stirring again."
Inside the Elder Hall:
The hall smelled like rain-soaked ash. Ema'Tari sat alone, a bowl of obsidian liquid on the floor before her.
"You have felt the Gate's hum," she said.
Tavin nodded. "It's louder now."
"It will keep growing. The Wodr's god has killed what was meant to anchor you. You are a broken circle—and so the Gate shows you its own pain."
She dipped her fingers into the ink. It shimmered with pulses of violet and blue, like stars drowned underwater.
"This is Oblivis Ink. The memory of the Gate. Drink, and see what never was."
Tavin hesitated. "Will I survive it?"
Ema'Tari smiled. "No one survives it. They only return… different."
Before he could argue, she pressed a thumb to his forehead.
The Memory of the Gate:
Darkness. Then stars.
Tavin stood in a void—floating stone steps spiraling downward, surrounded by a sea of water that flowed upward into nothingness. The sky bled purple light. The sound of waves echoed in reverse.
"Welcome, creator."
He turned.
A version of himself stood across the void, clad in dark armor laced with runes. His brand glowed like constellations, and his eyes reflected a sky he'd never seen.
"Who are you?" Tavin asked.
"What the Gate dreamed you'd be."
The air around them shifted. Pools of memory shimmered into view: priestesses kneeling at a shrine, a Gate glowing with incomplete power, the sea roaring around an unfinished ritual.
"Seven were chosen. Ten trained for you. Nine were silenced."
The vision shifted again. A massive wave, frozen in time, swallowed a burning temple. A figure cloaked in seaweed and bone stood over a broken body.
"The Wodr god left only echoes. But echoes can still be found."
Tavin looked down. Beneath the platform, faint silhouettes floated in the water: faces, arms reaching upward, voices singing through the deep. One of them shimmered with violet flame.
"Niah," he whispered.
"Find her. Bind her. Through memory, awaken resonance. Each lost priestess holds a gate-key."
Tavin felt himself sinking.
"What about Kaelara?"
"The strong do not reach upward. They pull others with them. Her gravity is yours to master—when she lets you."
The vision fractured.
The sky cracked. The sea boiled upward.
Tavin screamed.
Back in the Hall:
He woke choking, the taste of salt on his lips. His brand glowed furiously, the ink on his skin rippling like water in a basin.
Niah was already there, crouched beside him.
"You were out for hours," she said. "You kept muttering... about the sea."
Ema'Tari approached slowly, staff tapping the floor. "You saw it. The broken birth. The drowned shrine."
"The Wodr didn't just stop your arrival. They washed away your foundation."
Tavin stood shakily.
"I have to rebuild it. Through you. Through Kaelara. Through anyone whose blood still remembers."
[Dark Creator – Level 2 Unlocked] New Ability: Mass Pocket – open spatial field for storing multiple objects or absorbing environmental materials. Memory Fragment Recovered: Skotos Priestess 1/10(Niah)*
Ema'Tari's eyes narrowed.
"Then move quickly. The Wodr send Tidebinder when they suspect a threat. And the rivers are restless."