We walk through the silent forest, the air thick with an unsettling stillness. The ground is slick with black, tar-like Var, its color a stark contrast to what we've known before. Until now, Var had no hue, but here, its darkness is suffocating. Every breath feels heavy.
The continent sprawls beneath the sky in a twisted symmetry, each corner of the land hosting a different monstrous race.
In the north, the Fallen Angels hide in the mountains, their presence nearly invisible
To the south, the vampires make their home among crumbling castles.
Once grand, their strongholds are now broken, their power fractured, with threats lurking both outside and within.
Their realm is one of decay, yet still, they hold a dangerous might.
In the east, wild beasts roam, creatures whose strength is matched only by the land itself.
And at the center, where all paths converge, lies the core of it all.
A place of great power, but one that no one has ever fully controlled. It is said that the balance of the continent itself hangs in the balance here.
As I move through the land, I can feel the weight of the past pressing down.
Death after death, a memory long buried but never fully forgotten, echoes in my mind.
This place feels like death itself, given form. The Var follows me, pulsing with an eerie glow, as if it remembers me too.
The Var here is wrong. It shouldn't have a color. It never has before. But here, it's black, gleaming under the dim light like fresh oil. Like something alive.
I keep walking.
Dying never got easier.
The pain, the struggle—it was always the same. Like being torn apart, drowned, crushed, burned, shattered. Over and over again.
I to fight for my memories, clutching them like weapons, like proof that I was still me. Proof that I was worth something.
They don't deserve to be trapped in my hands, twisting into something sharp. I'll hold them close, not as something to wield, but as something to protect.
A branch snaps.
The sound is sharp, cutting through the thick silence. My body tenses before my mind catches up. I exhale, shaking off the old instincts, and glance to the side. Ryllie walks beside me, her gold eyes sharp and focused
I break the silence first. "The wolves. What are they, really?"
Ryllie glances at me, then ahead, as if the answer is somewhere in the trees. "Dragons."
"Just one?"
"There are thirteen." Her voice is steady, certain. "The wolves are the thirteen dragons. The twelve clans that shape our continent."
" They decide who holds power, who lives, who dies."
"They set the rules," I echo, testing the weight of her words. "Then who enforces them?"
She smiles faintly, like I'm missing something obvious. "The world does, We do."
I stare at her. I wait for more, but she just keeps walking.
"That doesn't explain anything,"
I say. "What does that actually mean? How do they control—"
"You ask a lot of questions."
"You answer them like they're obvious."
She laughs, shaking her head. "Because they are. You just don't see it yet."
Something about that makes me uneasy. "You talk like you've always known."
"I grew up with this knowledge," she says simply. Then she looks at me, eyes sharp, studying.
"Sometimes I forget how young you are."
I frown, the words settling uneasily in my chest. You're young.
How can she forget that?
To me, I still look like a child—barely ten, maybe younger. My body doesn't match my memories. When I look at Ryllie, she seems eighteen, maybe twenty at most. She carries herself like someone older, like someone who understands things I don't.
The difference between us isn't so vast.
I've died more times than the years she's lived.
How does that still make me young?
Does she see the world differently than I do?
I press my fingers against my arm, against my own skin, as if that will make something click.
It feels stranger, it feels this world, this var, this pearl.
I've died over and over again. I've fought and struggled and clawed my way forward. I should feel older by now, shouldn't I? Shouldn't all that experience mean something?
And yet, when she looks at me, she doesn't see it.
She sees a child.
A part of me wants to argue, to make her understand that I'm more than that. But another part of me hesitates. Because what if she's right?
What if I really am still young?
I've been growing stronger. Every step forward has changed something in me. I've felt it, little by little. The world doesn't look the same as it did before. Maybe that's why she sees me differently.
The thought lingers for a moment. I push it aside when a shadow passes overhead. A wyvern.
Ryllie's face lights up with excitement, her golden eyes wide as she clasps her hands together. I follow her gaze. She watches as the wyvern soars above us.
It doesn't look like a dragon. Or any I've seen before.
It's pure beast—sleek scales, two strong wings, and a long, twisting tail slicing through the air.
It's pure beast, driven by instinct.
Then, something changes.
A shimmer of Var twists in the air around it. A shield forms, thick and uneven, dripping like the Var was ripped straight from its body. From its wings.
The wyvern lets out a sharp cry. It notices us.
Its body twists midair, then it dives straight for us.
I brace myself, breath caught in my throat. Ryllie doesn't move. She just watches.
The wyvern opens its jaws.
I shut my eyes. I wait for the pain.