The ruins of Cael'Belen smoldered in the twilight, a wound etched into the skin of the world.
Above, the sky stretched wide and merciless, stars bleeding pale light over shattered spires and blackened fields.
And from the heart of that devastation, the Tongueless One walked.
Each step carved silence into the air, a heavy void where once there had been songs, sermons, prayers.
Now, there was only him—a boy with no name, no voice, and a presence that made even the earth itself tremble.
Lazhar moved within him like a second heart, slower and colder than life, but infinitely more enduring.
"The world will notice you now," Lazhar murmured, his voice a thread of iron through the boy's veins.
"The bells of Heaven will toll, not in mourning, but in dread."
The boy neither nodded nor spoke.
He only walked, the hem of his tattered cloak dragging through ash and bone.
Ahead, the remnants of a once-great causeway stretched toward the horizon—a road built to connect Cael'Belen to the wider world.
It was cracked and broken, sagging in places, but it endured.
Just as he would endure.
Just as the Truth demanded.
---
Hours passed—or perhaps it was days.
Time bent strangely around him now, warping under the pressure of his existence.
Along the road, corpses lay where they had fallen in flight: pilgrims, priests, soldiers.
Some still clutched relics to their chests; others bore expressions of horror carved into their final moments.
He did not look away.
There was no shame here.
Only consequence.
"Pity them if you must," Lazhar said. "But remember: they were architects of their own doom."
The boy's hands, still bloodstained from the altar, clenched once, then relaxed.
He pitied no one.
Not anymore.
---
As the road rose into the hills, a figure appeared at the crest—a silhouette outlined in dying light.
The boy stopped.
The wind shifted, bringing the scent of iron and old leather.
The figure wore no armor, no robes of office.
Only a simple cloak, travel-worn and dusted with ash.
Yet they stood with the stillness of a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
The boy did not speak. He could not.
But his presence spoke for him.
The figure answered with silence of their own—a conversation woven from unspoken recognition.
---
After a long moment, the figure moved closer, boots crunching over broken stone.
Up close, they were older than the boy had expected.
Lines scored their face; silver threaded their hair.
But their eyes burned—not with fear, but with grim understanding.
"You are the one they warned of," the figure said, voice hoarse but steady.
"The one who wakes the old things."
The boy tilted his head slightly.
A shard of wind stirred the ashes between them.
"You bring the end of oaths," the figure continued. "The end of bargains struck in secret halls. The end of protection bought with prayers."
The boy said nothing.
But Lazhar stirred inside him, and the figure flinched—whether from memory or instinct, it was impossible to tell.
Still, they did not flee.
They reached into their cloak and withdrew something small and sharp: a dagger, its blade blackened with age.
Without hesitation, the figure pressed the dagger's edge against their own palm.
Blood welled, dark and vivid.
They extended the bleeding hand toward the boy.
"A new oath, then," the figure said. "One not written in lies."
---
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Above them, the sky deepened into full night, stars blinking open like wounds.
And then, slowly, the boy reached out.
Their hands met—blood to skin, silence to defiance.
A pact was sealed in that barren place.
Not with words.
Not with ceremony.
Only with will.
---
The figure smiled—a grim, broken thing—and stepped aside, clearing the path.
"Go," they said. "Others will come. Some to kneel. Some to kill. You must be ready for both."
The boy nodded once.
Then he walked past, the black road unfolding before him like the tongue of some vast beast, eager to carry him toward the bones of the world.
Behind him, the figure watched until he vanished into the gloom.
Then, drawing a heavy breath, they turned back toward the smoldering city—toward Cael'Belen—and the other fires that had already begun to rise on the horizon.
The world was awakening.
And it would not do so gently.