Fallen but not perished, rotted but not dead, taints of the bloody past, though forgotten but not lost, O great Rumi forgive him, for he shall rise, the Emanations must emanate the fallen shall rise, for the veils of fate shall again raze the sacred, and conjure it anew. Rise O fallen one, for the cursed one has.

11128th year of Ivenia, under the reign of King Anoshes,

Sector of Cliera, local sector of Menengqualoan, galaxy Basir, star Assal, Teonope, Zuqlin, Kenl.

Eira couldn't tell what blurred more—her tears or the smoke. Where once Baieliya stood, only ashes now remained. She watched the flames devour her 'Ma,' the woman who had been more than a mother, and who, with her dying breath, had left not riches or land, but verses. Words, as cryptic as they were poignant, clung to Eira like a haunting melody.

"Here, Ma, I added ginger ale today, to soothe your throat," Eira had offered, her voice trembling with the knowledge that this act of care might be her last.

Baieliya brought the broth to her lips, her hands as frail as the whispers of a forgotten time. "Eira, child, you have cared for me with a devotion that even the stars would envy. But nothing—no love, no loyalty—endures beyond the reach of time."

"Ma! Don't say that," Eira's heart pleaded, though her voice could barely rise above a whisper.

Baieliya's eyes clouded with the weight of years, fixed on Eira's. "Do you remember the verse?"

"Yes, Ma, but what of it?"

"Then it is to you I entrust this burden. Eira, you must find the fallen one. I could not, but you must, for the cursed one draws near."

"Ma, I don't understand. Who are the fallen one and the cursed one? How am I supposed to find them?"

"I wish I had the breath to tell you all, but time, my dearest, is a cruel mistress. Will you do this for your old Ma? Will you?"

"But how? Where can I even begin to find this fallen one?"

"I do not know," Baieliya admitted, her voice a mere shadow of what it once was.

"Then how will I recognize him?"

"Tell me, Eira, what is man's greatest fear?"

"I... I do not know."

"Death," Baieliya whispered, her eyes distant, as if peering beyond the veil. "When you encounter someone who instills a fear greater than death itself, you will know. Look into his eyes, Eira, and he will rise."

"But why me?"

Baieliya's gaze softened, and a small, weary smile touched her lips. "These eyes of yours... I have lived long enough to rejoice in them and to be honored by the truth they hold. You are no ordinary maiden, Eira, daughter of Queen Arselia."

"Ma…" The revelation struck Eira like a bolt of lightning, leaving her breathless.

"You must leave this house, my child. It is not where you belong. Do not linger, for they are already too cruel. And for the last, I know you may not heed my words, but should you ever choose to leave, beneath the fourth pillar of the shrine, you will find the favor I have left for you."

"Ma!" Eira's voice trembled, a desperate plea echoing in the void that already seemed to yawn between them.

Baieliya's breathing grew shallower, but her eyes, though clouded, held an urgency that pierced through the veil of fading life. "The time has come, Eira. The end of eleven thousand, one hundred, and eleven years. The curse has run its course. The Emanations have begun to stir, taking their first breath as I take my last."

***

Assal blazed high in the heavens, casting a searing gaze upon the endless sea of sand. The southern expanse of Zuqlin lay before them, barren and unforgiving, a wasteland where only the desperate dare to wander, where scavengers and scrappers hunt for remnants of a world long forgotten.

"Have you found it, my son?"

"Nothing yet, Father."

"Then search on."

"How much do we lack?"

"Our bounty is but a shadow, barely worth the blood we've shed."

"Here, in these forsaken lands, only ghosts remain."

The boy's gaze lingered on his father, eyes narrowed against the cruel glare of Assal, the star that scorched both sky and earth. Doubt simmered within him, yet he held his tongue, for the desert had no patience for hesitation.

"Father, what of the South? Dosk lies but a day's journey from here."

"No soul ventures to Dosk, and neither shall we."

"That is why we must go—there, no other will challenge our claim."

"Claim what? Death itself? Dosk is a graveyard, a resting place for the dead and their rusted dreams."

"And what do we seek here, Father? Dust and despair?"

"Keep searching, boy."

"Father... two days remain. If we do not gather enough, Mother will be lost to us."

"Do you believe the salkaras can bear the burden?"

"With water and will, they can."

"Then let us make haste, for the sands give no quarter, and time is a crueler foe."

After a day they finally arrived at Dosk, the sand thinned beneath them, as even the wide, sturdy feet of the salkara began to sink into the shifting earth. The winds turned cooler, whispering of the desolation that lay ahead—Dosk, the land of the dead. Upon reaching the edge of this forsaken place, the man and his son halted, their eyes straining against the horizon.

"I see nothing, son," the father murmured, his voice carrying the weight of doubt.

"Father, look there, far beyond," the boy urged, his hand trembling as he pointed toward a distant shimmer.

A faint glimmer danced upon the edge of sight, a mirage of hope in the barren expanse. In unison, both cried out, "Metal!"

The sand beneath them crunched like the brittle bones of the long dead and scattered about lay remnants of those who had perished—bones of all manner and kind, strewn across the forsaken land. The chill was an enigma, neither of the wind's breath nor the view's expanse, yet it lingered like an unshakable frost. Not a single bead of sweat dared to falter as they pressed on. With each advance, the beasts grew more resistant, their struggles intensifying. Yet, they reached the heap of metal, securing the beasts to it, and commenced the labor of gathering the scrap. The salkaras, with their ears pricked high and nostrils flared, emitted frequent screechy snorts, their senses alert to the unseen.

"They can scent it," the man murmured, his voice as rough as the desert sands.

"And we, too, feel its presence," the boy replied, glancing around with wary eyes.

"Earlier this winter, I heard tales of Vful's lads who ventured here for the metal. Only one returned—a scout who spoke of nothing but 'parasite.'"

"Parasite?" The boy's curiosity was piqued.

"Aye, that's what he uttered. But what puzzles me is the sand's peculiar porosity."

"It's the bones," the boy ventured.

"Bones? Why, lad? It's as though the sand itself harbors emptiness," the man's voice carried a note of suspicion.

"Father, why do so few come here?"

"Why would they? This is a place for the dead, not for salvage. Yet, often these dead leave behind treasures more valuable than a cartload of scrap."

"Then isn't it odd for such metal to be amassed here? It seems as if it were gathered by some hand," the boy mused.

"Or perhaps for some purpose," the man's tone grew grave.

Both knew the implication well.

"A lure," they whispered in unison, the weight of the realization heavy upon them.

"Let's leave, quick—this is more than enough," the man muttered, though the urgency in his voice could not hasten their movements. They hurriedly loaded the scrap onto the salkaras, but their haste was too slow, too clumsy. The beasts beneath them sensed it first—the tremors in the sand, the weight of something lurking just beneath the surface.

In times like these, the wise run swiftly, but man, in his folly, stays.

The sand rippled, then shifted violently, and from its depths, something rose. At first, it was merely a finger, then a whole hand clawed its way free, and soon enough, a skeleton stood before them. But this was no ordinary remnant of the dead—no, it was clothed in strange metal, a prosthetic eye patching over its hollow socket, engraved with cryptic symbols that seemed to pulse with an eerie light.

The man and his son, bound by some twisted fascination, should have been miles away by now. Yet they stood rooted, watching in awe—or perhaps horror—as the skeletal figure loomed before them.

"Run, quick, son!" the man bellowed, snapping out of his trance, and yanking the reins of his salkara. His son followed suit, and the beasts—terrified beyond words—burst into a desperate sprint, their hooves tearing through the sand with wild abandon.

But the skeleton was only the herald of doom. The sand beneath them quivered again, and with each pulse, more horrors emerged. First one, then two, then four—a swarm of venkars, giant worms of the Dosk region, creatures that feast upon the dead. Their colossal bodies slithered and twisted through the sand, circling their prey with practiced ease.

The salkaras twisted and turned, frantic for escape, but all they found was the tightening noose of the venkars' encroaching bodies. Hopelessness hung in the air as thick as the dust stirred by their futile flight. Not long for the beasts to give up their wits, and so did men later, the beasts sunken to knees and men(their hearts deep in awe of death), for what lies is an enclosure of these venkars, cornering them even around further.

"This is it I guess father."

"What else could be said."

The carvings began to glow, ancient etchings ignited by an unseen force. The skull's socket twisted and widened, revealing an eye—a fierce, burning orb, like the heart of a dying star. It blazed with a fury that could incinerate even the unyielding heat of Assal. In an instant, the air crackled with raw energy, and the venkars, once towering and formidable, turned to ash, their cries swallowed by the unforgiving sands. More creatures burst forth from the ground, only to meet the same fate, consumed in an inferno that swept across the barren expanse. Dosk became Dosk—the land of death living up to its cursed name. The man and his son stood rooted in terror, their limbs as heavy as stone. They had heard of such powers in the tales of old, whispered among the cautious and the fearful. They knew the ancient sorceries had awakened with the birth of the miracle, the harbinger of doom and redemption. Yet to witness this—no mere illusion, but a force so real it shattered their understanding—was beyond any nightmare they had ever conjured. This was no simple magic; it was a reckoning. It was a force potent enough to avenge the torments inflicted by the goons of Halsa, perhaps even to bring Halsa itself to its knees. And they knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that they might be next to feel the searing wrath of that unblinking, cosmic eye. So, they did the only thing left to do: they fell to their knees upon the scorching sand, heads bowed low, trembling, pleading for mercy from a power beyond their comprehension. At that moment, all pride and defiance melted away under the unforgiving blaze of that unearthly gaze.

"Have mercy on this mere being and his child."

"We stand innocent, unaware of the laws abiding this land, we shall leave now peacefully for if the lord wishes."

The skeleton gazed at them, then the surroundings, and all he could say or rather ask was, "Where am I?".

"My lord, you stand on the soil of Dosk."

The skeleton looked up at the sky, glared at Assal, studying the star, and spoke, "Where exactly is Dosk? What is the sector?"

"The sector is of waste."

Both could sense it, the sudden resentment in the skeleton, the skeleton asked with a tense tone, "Who reigns now?"

"We are under the 11128th year of reign, under King Anoshes."

Though the face failed to show it, one can always know what goes in the heart of another, they could see the stunned stance and the hard bony fist getting clenched.