The morning sun rose over Thornvale like a reluctant witness, its pale light filtering through columns of acrid smoke that still curled from the blackened thatch of ruined homes. The village, once a quiet cluster of timber-and-mud dwellings nestled against the edge of the Whispering Woods, now resembled a battlefield hastily abandoned by fate. Charred beams jutted like broken bones from collapsed roofs. Bodies lay where they had fallen—human farmers with pitchforks still clutched in death-grips, goblin raiders with their crude iron blades half-buried in the earth. The air carried the mingled stench of burnt straw, spilled blood, and the faint metallic tang of spent magic from the shaman's failed runes.
Asad Khan sat on a splintered log that had once been part of Old Man Harrow's fence. His borrowed body—sixteen years of lean peasant muscle overlaid with the mind of a seventy-one-year-old poet—ached in unfamiliar ways. Bruises bloomed across ribs that had never known such violence, and his hands, rough from years of imagined quill-work in another life, now gripped a goblin spear whose haft was slick with drying gore.
He stared at the translucent blue scroll hovering at the corner of his vision, a mocking apparition only he could see.
[Diwan System – Status]
Name: Asad Khan
Class: Verse Sovereign (Legendary – Unique)
Level: 3
Poetic Essence: 180/180
Skills:
• Ghazal Invocation (Rank F)
• Rekhta Resonance (Passive)
• Companion Bond (F) – Newly Unlocked Titles: Reincarnated Bard (+50% verse potency in despair) Active Quest: Survive the Raid – Complete. Reward claimed. Next Objective: Awaken the First Ally.
Asad—Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib, though the name felt both distant and intimate—let out a low, sardonic chuckle that turned into a cough. The smoke still lingered in his lungs. "Level 3," he murmured in the local Common tongue that his host body's memories translated effortlessly, though his thoughts remained laced with elegant Urdu cadences. "As if existence were a mushaira where the judges award points for couplets that kill. O Allah—or whatever eternal jest presides over this realm—you have outdone even the British in bureaucratic absurdity."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting fragments of his old life wash over him like verses half-remembered. The narrow gali of Ballimaran, the scent of attar and hookah smoke, the sting of creditors at the door. The rebellion of '57, when Delhi burned and poets were reduced to ash or exile. Seven graves too small for children who never drew breath long enough to cry. Umrao's quiet strength, her eyes holding oceans of unspoken grief.
And now this: rebirth into mud and blood, granted a "system" that quantified the soul's fire. He felt the irony like a well-turned sher. Had he not written, "Duboya mujhko hone ne"—my very existence has drowned me? Here, existence had pulled him from the grave to drown him anew in fantasy.
A soft footfall approached. Asad opened his eyes to see Lirael Sylvaine standing before him. The half-elf scout—daughter of the village herbalist, her mother long fled to the elven enclaves—had survived by virtue of being on watch in the treeline when the goblins struck. Her dark hair fell in tangled waves around pointed ears partially hidden by a hood of forest-green wool. Leather armor, patched and practical, hugged her lithe frame, and a short bow hung across her back. Her green eyes, sharp as new leaves, held a mixture of awe and wariness.
"Asad… you're alive. We all thought—" She stopped, glancing at the spear in his hand, then at the goblin corpses clustered unnaturally around the spot where he had stood during the raid. "They just… stopped. Dropped their weapons and wept. Like their hearts had been torn open. Was that you?"
He regarded her steadily, the ironic smile that had once charmed Delhi mushairas now curling on younger lips. "Call it a trick of words, child. The heart is but heart—not stone, not brick. Why should it not fill with pain when pricked by the right verse?"
Lirael tilted her head, ears twitching slightly. Something in his tone resonated with her, a faint vibration in the air like distant chimes. Unseen to her, the Diwan System flickered:
[Companion Potential: Lirael Sylvaine – Latent Verse Adept detected. Affinity: 42%. Proceed with awakening? Y/N]
Asad mentally selected Y. A subtle warmth passed from him to her, like sharing a secret over wine.
He rose, joints protesting less than they should—youth had its compensations—and gestured to the log. "Sit. The dead can afford patience; the living cannot afford ignorance."
She hesitated, then perched beside him, bow across her knees like a talisman. Villagers began to gather slowly—widows clutching shawls, children wide-eyed, the blacksmith's apprentice limping on a bandaged leg. They looked to Asad now, the boy who had sung death away.
He spoke softly at first, voice carrying the cadence of recitation. "In my… dreams, I walked another world. A city of red stone and dying emperors. There, words were currency when coin failed. A couplet could buy favor, mock tyrants, or console the dying. Last night, I spoke such words here. 'Dil hi to hai na sang-o-khisht, dard se bhar na aaye kyun?' It is only the heart, not made of stone or brick—why should it not overflow with pain?"
As he recited, the Urdu-infused line warped slightly in this world's tongue, yet carried its full weight. Lirael's breath caught. A soft glow—visible only as a shimmer in the air—rose around her like fireflies waking.
[Companion Bond Activated]
Lirael Sylvaine joins party as Ally.
Shared Buff: Echo of the Heart – +15% resistance to fear and morale effects when near Verse Sovereign.
Experience Gained: +80
Level Up! Now Level 4.
Poetic Essence increased to 220/220.
Lirael blinked rapidly, touching her chest. "I felt… something. Like a song I almost remember." Her voice trembled with wonder. "Teach me."
Asad's smile softened, genuine this time. "In time, beti. First, we survive what comes next."
As if summoned by the words, hoofbeats thundered from the east road. A rider in the livery of Lord Varyn—silver hawk on blue—reined in a sweating destrier. The man was young, barely older than Asad's body, face pale beneath his helm.
"Thornvale stands?" he called.
"Barely," an elder replied. "Goblins. Two score at least. The boy sang them down."
The rider's gaze snapped to Asad. "You. The lord summons all able-bodied to Fort Harrow. A larger force masses in the hills—goblin warband under a shaman with fire-runes. If Thornvale falls silent, the road to Aetherhold lies open."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Fear, exhaustion, resignation.
Asad stood. "Then we do not go as sheep to slaughter." He looked at Lirael. "Gather what you can—arrows, herbs, food. We travel light."
She nodded, already moving.
He turned to the villagers. "Bury your dead with honor. Those who can fight, come. Those who cannot, hide in the woods. The Muse favors the bold—and occasionally the foolish."
Within the hour, a ragged band formed: Asad, Lirael, three farmers with scythes and courage born of desperation, and—unexpectedly—a broad-shouldered dwarf who had been passing through on his way north from Khazadun forges.
Grom Ironvein stomped forward, hammer slung across his back, beard braided with iron rings. "Heard ye sang goblins to tears, lad. Never liked rune-mages meself—too stiff. If yer words cut better than steel, I'll stand with ye. Name's Grom. Fled me guild fer… reasons."
Asad eyed the dwarf's scarred arms and grim expression. "Reasons named ale debts or politics?"
"Both," Grom grunted. "Mostly politics."
[Potential Companion: Grom Ironvein – Affinity: 28%. Build trust through shared combat.]
The group set out along the rutted road, Whispering Woods to their left, rolling hills to the right. The forest lived up to its name—leaves rustled in half-formed melodies, branches creaking like old poets reciting to themselves. Birds with iridescent feathers sang fragments of tunes that tugged at Asad's memory, echoes of ghazals from a world away.
Lirael walked beside him, bow ready. "You speak strangely. Words within words. Like elven bard-tales, but… heavier."
"Heavy with centuries," he replied quietly. "In my dreams, I was old when empires fell. Here, I am young again. The jest continues."
She glanced sideways. "You believe these dreams are real?"
"I believe reality is what wounds us deepest. Whether dream or truth, the scar remains."
Their conversation was interrupted by a guttural snarl from the treeline.
Ambush.
Six goblins burst from the underbrush—scouts, leaner and faster than the raiders, armed with jagged shortbows and poison-tipped arrows. One loosed immediately; the shaft hissed toward Lirael.
Asad moved without thought. Poetic Essence surged like wine through his veins.
He raised a hand, voice ringing clear:
"Zulf ke sar hone tak, yeh dard-e-ishq na jaane
Tere bin jeena bhi to maut si lagta hai jaane"
(Until the hair reaches its end, this pain of love knows no bound
Living without you feels like death itself, understand.)
The words twisted reality. Illusory vines—black as grief-stricken hair—erupted from the earth, tangling the archers' limbs. Arrows veered mid-flight, caught in invisible sorrow.
Lirael loosed her own shaft, piercing a goblin throat. Grom roared, hammer sweeping in a brutal arc that caved a skull.
The farmers charged clumsily but bravely.
Asad pressed forward, another couplet forming:
"Har ek baat pe kehte ho tum ki tu kya hai
Tumhi kaho ki yeh andaaz-e-guftagoo kya hai"
(At every word you ask, 'What are you?'
You tell me—what is this style of conversation?)
The lead goblin shaman—smaller, adorned with bone fetishes—raised a staff glowing with crude fire-runes. Flames roared toward Asad.
But the verse landed first. The shaman's own question echoed in its mind—"What are you?"—and doubt cracked its focus. The fire faltered, turning inward, scorching green flesh.
[Ghazal Invocation successful – Metaphor Forge triggered: Doubt as Flame.]
Enemy morale shattered.
Experience Gained: +320 (group share)
Level Up! Now Level 5.
New Skill Unlocked: Verse Armor (F) – Wrap self/allies in metaphorical shields (reduces physical/magical damage by 20% for 30 seconds).
The remaining goblins broke, fleeing into the woods with howls of terror.
Breathing hard, Asad lowered his hand. Lirael stared at him, awe plain. Grom wiped blood from his hammer, muttering, "By the Forges… words like that should cost extra ale."
As night fell, they made camp in a sheltered hollow. Fire crackled low. Asad sat apart, staring into flames that danced like forgotten muses.
Lirael approached, offering a waterskin. "You saved us again."
"I merely reminded them of pain," he said softly. "Pain is universal. Even goblins have hearts—small, twisted, but hearts."
Grom joined, settling with a grunt. "Ye talk like a philosopher who's seen too many winters. Lad, how old are ye really?"
Asad smiled into the dark. "Old enough to know that empires fall, lovers die, and poets endure through verses alone."
The dwarf snorted. "Then ye'll fit right in at Aetherhold. City's full of schemers and singers. Just don't rhyme the king to death on yer first day."
Lirael laughed quietly—the first true laugh since the raid.
Asad looked up at stars strange yet familiar. Somewhere, the Eternal Muse listened.
Fort Harrow awaited at dawn—walls of gray stone, banners snapping in wind, and rumors of greater darkness stirring in the hills.
The boy who was once Ghalib felt the stir of something vast. Not just survival.
Conquest.