Long before kingdoms burned incense to forgotten gods, before ink and blade divided truth from legend, there existed a valley untouched by death — a place the wind itself dared not speak of.
That valley was called Tienra, known among monks as The Soul Fields.
It was said the ground there glowed faintly under moonlight, as if the stars themselves had fallen and taken root beneath the soil. The air shimmered like the breath of sleeping spirits. Every blade of grass bent toward the same invisible rhythm — a song without sound, old as the first dawn.
And at the heart of this quiet eternity walked the god who kept it so: Avaron, the Herding God.
He was no towering figure nor winged celestial; his form was a shimmer, a shape born of soft radiance. His hair fell like drifting smoke, his eyes pools of silver mist. In his right hand, he bore a staff carved from the rib of the First King, bleached pale and etched with forgotten scripture. It was called the Crook of Silence, and under its command even the restless dead obeyed.
Behind him trailed the countless souls of men — the lost, the broken, the unremembered. They followed him like a tide of ghosts, clothed in the dim glow of their fading selves. Each bore fragments of their earthly life: a child clutching the shape of a toy long crumbled, a warrior with a sword that no longer gleamed, a mother whose arms still curved around an invisible child.
Avaron guided them gently. He never spoke. He needed not — for every soul already knew its place beside him, as the river knows its descent.
At twilight, when the light of the sun bent low and the moon's first thread wove through the mist, Avaron would lead them to the Mirrowen, the River That Remembers.
It flowed not like mortal waters — it shimmered without sound, reflecting nothing of the world around it. Instead, it mirrored the truth of those who looked within. When the souls gazed upon its surface, they saw not their faces, but their lives unmasked.
Some wept and sank, dissolving into the current to begin their journey anew. Some smiled faintly and crossed, carried by unseen wind into another dawn. And some — the ones who clung too tightly to pride, hatred, or love — froze, unable to step forward or fall away. They became The Stones of Mirrowen, silent watchers lining the riverbank.
Avaron touched each stone as he passed, whispering blessings in a language older than heaven. The stones hummed faintly under his hand — memories still trembling within.
For eons, this order endured — calm, eternal, unchanging. The mortal world rose and fell above, but the Soul Fields remained untouched by the noise of ambition.
Yet nothing made by gods, however sacred, can remain untouched by curiosity.
---
One dusk, as Avaron tended his herd, a strange shimmer passed through the valley. It was not the light of the stars nor the breath of souls — it was something sharper, warmer… alive.
He paused. The Crook of Silence trembled faintly. From among the herd stepped a figure — a woman's soul, still radiant with color. Unlike the others, she was not fading. Her light pulsed bright gold, her form nearly solid. She met Avaron's gaze without fear.
"Why do you walk with the dead when your heart still beats?" he asked. His voice was soft, yet it rippled through the fields like thunder across water.
The woman tilted her head. "Because I dreamed of you," she said. "And in the dream, you called my name."
Avaron frowned. "The dead have no names. The river takes them."
"But I remember mine," she whispered. "Esera."
That name. It hummed like metal against air. The souls around them stirred, their silence breaking into low murmurs — the echo of a name not yet bound by death.
"Return," Avaron said gently. "The living have no place here."
Esera smiled. "If that is so, why do I feel more alive in your silence than in their world of lies?"
Before Avaron could speak, she stepped into the river. The Mirrowen hissed where her feet touched it, light flaring around her like dawn bleeding through storm. Her reflection appeared — but it did not move with her. It smiled separately, knowingly, and whispered something only the water could hear.
Then, in an instant, she vanished — drawn back into the mortal realm.
Avaron stood motionless, the sound of her name echoing through his mind like a bell. No soul had ever dared defy the pull of the river. No mortal had ever spoken their name within his fields.
He lifted his staff, tracing the air where she had stood. A faint golden shimmer lingered — her memory refusing to fade. It was impossible. Unnatural. Sacred.
For the first time since the dawn of time, Avaron felt uncertainty. The fields seemed colder, the souls restless. A whisper spread through them — a question none had ever dared ask:
> "If one can remember her name… must we all forget ours?"
The murmuring grew. The dead turned their hollow eyes to the god who herded them, waiting for answer. But Avaron said nothing. His silence, once a comfort, now felt heavy — like judgment.
That night, he walked the entire valley, seeking peace. But wherever he went, he heard that name — Esera, Esera, like wind threading through the reeds. He tried to bury it beneath his prayers, but it only grew louder, brighter, stronger.
By dawn, the Soul Fields had changed. The mist that once obeyed him now trembled with unseen energy. The river gleamed red beneath the first rays of light. And Avaron, standing alone on its bank, realized the truth he had long ignored:
Man had begun to dream of immortality — and dreams, once named, cannot be herded.
He looked toward the mortal realm, far beyond the clouds of Tienra. From that distance, the cities of men shimmered like embers scattered on dark cloth. He could feel their heartbeat — the pounding of countless lives that refused to fade. Their ambition fed the sky itself.
Avaron lifted the Crook of Silence. Its edge glowed faintly with power.
> "If mortals remember themselves," he whispered, "then the herd must grow restless. And the shepherd… must remind them of their place."
The staff pulsed, and the reeds bowed low. The souls of the dead fell silent again — but it was not peace. It was fear.
And somewhere beyond the veil of heaven, in the kingdom of Valein, Queen Esera awoke from her dream beside the Mirrowen's echo, her eyes reflecting the same gold as the god's.
She had crossed the boundary once — and would do so again, not as a wanderer, but as a challenger to heaven.
---
When dawn broke, the Soul Fields glimmered under a crimson sun. The wind carried a name the gods could no longer silence.
And Avaron, for the first time, felt the weight of his herd's eyes — not as followers, but as witnesses.
The cycle had begun to crack.