In the buried earth, night was no different from day—for there was no sun to mark the hours, no dawn to divide the silence.The ceiling of the world hung heavy above, a vault of dead stone, its ribs held by colossal pillars that chained the darkness in place. Beneath that eternal weight sat Kalin, upon the cold ground before the graveyard, waiting.
The dim glow of blue fungus spilled from the cracks in the cavern walls, casting ghostlight over his weary face, glimmering in eyes that refused to close. He waited—for his vision to come true, for the dead to rise, as they had in his dreams.
Hours passed like centuries. Nothing stirred but the whisper of wind between the tombs, and the faint scurry of rats among the stones. The graves slept soundly, and the earth, deaf and cruel, offered no answer. Fatigue crept upon him like a slow disease; his heart ached with the weight of waiting, as though his soul were being buried alive.
Sleep claimed him at last—heavy, fevered, filled with the stench of nightmares.In the dream, the dead clawed through the soil, their faces twisted, their hands reaching.He heard the grind of bone, the wet gasp of rotten lungs, the sound of his own voice echoing down black tunnels as he fled from something older than fear itself.When he woke, his breath was ragged, his skin slick with sweat.The cold had not left him.
A voice broke the silence, sharp as steel.
"Morkalin! Why are you here, sleeping by the graves? Do you wish to join them?"
It was the Worden, armored and still as a statue, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Kalin did not answer. His mind was trapped somewhere between the dream and the dark.
Later that day, he went to see Kaelor the Wise, whose eyes had dimmed with the weight of too many years. Kaelor listened as Kalin spoke of his visions, of the unease that gnawed at his chest.The old man sighed.
"Three citizens gone. No blood, no weapons, no witnesses. Only the heads… set upon a table."His voice trembled—not from age, but from the knowledge that something had awakened in the deep.
Kalin said nothing. He only stared at the open page before him, an old book telling of two lovers who dreamed of a paradise upon the earth—until one gave the other his own eye, a gift of devotion the other betrayed.Violence followed, and the land was drowned in greed and ruin.As he read, pain flared in his eyes again, sharp and burning, as if the story itself had found its way into his veins.
Kaelor noticed.He rose, fetched a vial of crushed herbs, and placed it in Kalin's shaking hands.
"Drink this, boy. You know what it does."Kalin obeyed. The bitterness clung to his tongue. The pain faded but did not die.It never did.
Far above them, in the gray tower of stone, Korith sat in silence.He had the look of a man who had seen too many truths.The crimes, the killings—these mattered less to him than the boy who dreamed them before they came.Every breath the child took seemed heavy with prophecy.
The Warden entered, voice low, eyes grim.
"Korith… the boy was at the graves again. Alone."
The commander's gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt older than both of them.
"Since the day of the three heads, I have feared his visions. I fear what will happen when they come again."
He paused, as if reaching for a memory buried beneath the years.
"Nine years ago, after the War of Surrender, I found him. There was no one left in that village—only a woman's corpse. I heard a child crying, but the sound came from within her. I cut her open, and there he was… alive, eyes bright as the buried sky. I named him the Bright Darkness. Morkalin. I raised him, though I knew he was never mine."
The Worden stood silent, unmoved, his words cold as the metal on his hip.
"Perhaps he is what we need, Commander.A miracle born from the rot.If he can leave this place… maybe we all can."
Silence fell again, heavy as the world itself.In the buried earth, hope was a dangerous sound.
That night, the boy returned to the graves.The cavern air was still, the pillars loomed like the bones of gods, and the shadows breathed around him. His eyes ached once more, the pain burning deeper than before. Sweat poured from him.He could feel something moving beneath the ground—a pulse, slow and ancient, beating with his own heart.
The Worden stood behind him, sword half-drawn, silent guardian between boy and darkness.He did not speak.He simply waited—just as the earth waited.