The sun above Azane bled across the sky like a wound that never closed. Godric trudged along a crumbling ridge of sandstone, sweat clinging to his brow as wind-blown grit scoured his cloak. Ka’laar was long gone now, his broad silhouette having disappeared at the edge of Khamsura’s Hollow.

  Godric glanced down at the worn map the orc had given him, its ink faded from age and use. Roads stretched in every direction like cracked veins in the desert. One led northeast—toward rumored ruins of a burned temple. Another wound toward the sea. But it was the southern trail that caught his attention.

  It was marked by only two words, written in hurried, curling ink:

  “The Sleeping City.”

  Godric tucked the parchment away and adjusted Death’s Lament across his back. The weapon pulsed faintly, its shifting metal eager to be drawn, as if sensing the unfamiliar dangers ahead.

  The road south was merciless.

  Days passed beneath an endless sky, where vultures wheeled like omens and heat shimmered off broken stones. Godric pressed on, the desert testing him with each step, his water dwindling, his body burning, and yet something—some call—pulled him forward.

  By the seventh evening, a jagged ravine opened before him. Winds howled from its depths, carrying strange whispers. His map showed nothing. Only a faint glyph, etched in the bottom corner—an unblinking eye.

  With hesitation, Godric climbed down into the shadowed maw, step by cautious step.

  The descent took hours. Sand gave way to obsidian and pale, shimmering crystal veins that pulsed with faint mana. He descended past the bones of long-dead creatures and broken pillars carved with forgotten tongues. He had gone too far to turn back.

  Then the world opened.

  Godric emerged from the last cliff face into a vast subterranean expanse, and for the first time in days, he forgot the pain in his limbs.

  Above him stretched not rock, but sky—not real, and yet real enough to make him stagger. It glittered with frozen constellations, like someone had plucked the stars from the heavens and stitched them into the cavern’s roof. They hung in place, unmoving, ageless. Glowing blue wisps drifted through the air, weightless as feathers. Strange trees with crystalline leaves bloomed in silence along carved bridges and towers, their roots embedded into stone platforms suspended in mid-air. A gentle breeze—cool and scented with something ancient—swept past him.

  It was like walking into a memory preserved in glass.

  The Sleeping City had earned its name.

  “...By the gods,” Godric whispered, his voice swallowed by the stillness.

  He took a hesitant step forward, the echo of his bootfall reverberating through silence. No life stirred. No birds, no insects, not even the buzz of mana. Yet something—someone—had built this place. The architecture was older than anything he had seen in Primera. Not dwarven, not elven. Something older.

  Godric kept walking.

  His boots echoed on stone bridges and glassy pathways, each step taking him deeper into the stillness. The map Ka’laar had given him—clutched tightly in his pack—was now useless. There were no roads in the Sleeping City. Only instinct, and the faint southeast tug in his gut.

  The stars above never moved. The soft, frozen glow of the false sky illuminated everything without shadow or warmth. He lost track of time quickly. Minutes blurred into hours, and hours into something stranger.

  At first, he had kept track by counting steps and murmuring to himself.

  Five thousand paces.

  Then ten thousand.

  But eventually, even those markers dissolved.

  He passed through an archway where statues lined the walls—tall, thin figures draped in robes, their hands stretched outward as if pleading with the sky. Their faces were eyeless, smooth and featureless, and yet Godric felt watched. As he stepped between them, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Past them, the city deepened—lower layers swallowed by mist and deeper starlight.

  Here, bridges were suspended between empty chasms, upheld by invisible forces. Towers drifted like anchored ships. Crystals hummed low notes as he passed. He could no longer tell if they were buildings or monuments, prisons or temples. Everything felt sacred. Or cursed.

  Death’s Lament shifted on his back again, a faint hum trembling through its sheathe.

  Godric stopped and placed a hand on the weapon.

  "Easy," he murmured.

  The blade calmed—but he couldn’t shake the sensation that something was pulling it forward. As if the city recognized it. Or perhaps feared it.

  He passed a great obelisk with runes he couldn’t read, its surface etched with a language so ancient it made his head ache. In its reflection, he thought he saw himself walking the opposite direction—but when he turned, nothing was there.

  "Azane is a land of ghosts," Ka’laar had said once during their travel toward Khamsura's Hollow. “Not just of the dead, but of old things that refuse to die.”

  He now understood.

  At some point, he found himself at the edge of a vast hollow, where the city dropped away entirely. Below, the southeastern edge of the cavern crumbled into dunes of pale, glowing sand—flowing slowly, almost like mist. There, buried between broken ridges of glass and ancient stone, was a passage—a collapsed stairwell disappearing into a darkness that didn’t share the light of the city above.

  ***

  Sleep came like a landslide.

  Godric had barely closed his eyes before the weight of exhaustion pulled him under. There was no dream. No warmth. Just stillness.

  Then—

  He opened his eyes.

  The cavern was gone.

  In its place was silence.

  A familiar silence.

  The air shimmered faintly, as if the world were breathing too softly to be heard. He stood within a great hall—a long chamber carved of black marble and veined with lightless gold. The sky above was missing, replaced by an endless canopy of shadows. Books floated across the room, suspended in a slow orbit, pages fluttering gently as though caught in an eternal breeze.

  At the far end of the hall sat a man.

  Not on a throne, but in a simple chair behind a long table. An open book rested before him, its script glowing faintly like firefly trails in the dusk.

  The man turned a page. His mask, silver and smooth, caught none of the glow around him. His voice broke the stillness.

  “I was wondering when you’d come.”

  Godric tensed.

  “You can sense me?” he asked.

  The masked man tilted his head with faint amusement. “Of course. You’re not exactly subtle anymore.”

  He closed the book gently.

  “The last time you were here, it was by mistake,” he continued, his voice low, smooth, calm. “You stumbled through the door uninvited—pulled in by something ancient. I wasn’t sure if it was chance or design.”

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  He leaned back slightly.

  “But now… now you come here with a stronger presence. Unconsciously, yes. But you’re beginning to choose your steps. That alone is progress.”

  Godric frowned. “What is this place?”

  The masked man steepled his fingers. “You could say that this is my sanctuary. A thread between what is real and what lies beneath it. And you… are spirit-walking.”

  Godric blinked. “Spirit-walking?”

  “A rare gift,” the man replied. “Some call it the dream between the worlds. Others… call it a curse. But it’s the very thing you’re doing now. You’ve left your body behind and crossed the veil—on instinct.”

  Godric glanced around, still disoriented by the lack of walls, the drifting books, the weightless stars hanging like frozen dust.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Where’s the other one? The man with the axe?”

  The masked figure gave a quiet chuckle.

  “Dante is otherwise... occupied,” he said. “He watches many doors. You only knocked on one.”

  He gestured to the empty chair across from him.

  “Sit, Uhrihim. I didn’t bring you here for riddles.”

  Godric hesitated, then moved slowly toward the chair. He sat, keeping his eyes fixed on the man.

  “I've been called that name many times these days. Uhrihim. What does it truly mean?”

  The masked man did not answer right away. Instead, he studied Godric through the mask’s blank silver eyes.

  “A name,” he said at last. “Or a title. One you may not yet be ready to bear.”

  He placed a hand atop the closed book.

  “But you will. Sooner than you think.”

  Godric felt a strange unease settle in his chest. Not fear. Not awe. Something more personal. Like standing before someone who had seen too many versions of him before he even lived them.

  “Why do you want to talk to me?” he asked.

  The masked man’s answer was simple.

  “Because everything is waking up, Godric. The old doors are opening again. And when they do…” He leaned forward, and though his voice never rose, it felt like thunder in the stillness.

  “…those who carry forgotten names will have to decide who they truly are.”

  Godric’s eyes narrowed. “You said you wanted to talk. About what?”

  The masked man tilted his head ever so slightly, voice almost conversational.

  “How fares your journey through Azane?”

  Godric’s mouth opened—but no words came. There was no reason this man should know that.

  “…How do you know where I am?” he asked, rising to his feet.

  The masked man didn’t move.

  “Because you and I,” he said calmly, “are pieces on the same board. Key players in a game far older than either of us. The only difference is…”

  He stood then—slowly, deliberately. The world around them dimmed, and behind the man, the ceiling of stars began to swirl like a vortex.

  “…I know what the game is.”

  Godric clenched his fists, his voice edged with defiance. “What do you mean?”

  The masked man raised a single hand.

  And the room dissolved.

  In its place came fire.

  Ruins. Screams. Smoke.

  Godric gasped, stumbling back as a vision unfolded before him—one too real, too vivid to be illusion. He saw Primera, his homeland, broken and burning. Great cities crumbled beneath blackened skies. Men, women, children, the elderly—were running, screaming, dying.

  A flash of armor. A twisted banner. And a shadowed shape at the heart of the chaos, towering and inhuman.

  “No,” Godric muttered. “No, that’s not—this can’t be real—”

  “It is,” the masked man said firmly.

  His voice now echoed with layered tones—as if he spoke with a thousand forgotten voices beneath his own.

  “I would never show you lies. Not now. Not when the hour is this late.”

  Godric looked around, breath ragged, the weight of the vision pressing down like a mountain.

  “Why are you showing me this? What do you want from me!?”

  The masked man’s figure began to fade, like smoke unraveling in a rising wind.

  “Nothing,” he said softly. “At least, not yet.”

  His final words cut through the gloom like a blade.

  “Hurry, Godric. Lest all you hold dear burns into nothing.”

  And with that—

  The light shattered.

  Godric shot awake.

  Sweat dripped down his brow. His breath was shallow, and the crystalline ceiling of the Sleeping City shimmered quietly above him as if nothing had happened.

  But the pounding of his heart told him otherwise.

  He had seen it. Felt it.

  Primera was in danger.

  And time was running out.

  ***

  The air was different now.

  Godric strapped his satchel across his back, boots crunching against the stilled crystalline floor of the Sleeping City. He had slept, yes—but it had brought no rest. His mind reeled from the masked man’s warning. Primera in flames. The world slipping from his grasp. He had to move. He had to—

  The ground trembled.

  Just once.

  Then again.

  And again—like a slow, growing drumbeat in the stone beneath him. Dust flaked from the glowing stalactites above. Light formations, frozen like stars, began to shift ever so slightly. At first, Godric thought it was a trick of his weary mind, but—

  No.

  They were moving.

  The once-immovable sky above churned, spiraling like a galaxy disturbed. Godric staggered as another tremor surged through the earth. Crystalline columns cracked. Somewhere in the dark, a structure collapsed in a thunderous echo.

  Then silence.

  A cold, unnatural silence.

  And then—

  A scream.

  Not a human one. Not animal either. It was like metal tearing, like bone snapping and a soul being wrung dry. It came from the very depths of the chasm below the city—one that Godric had purposefully kept his distance from.

  Until now.

  A monstrous head burst forth, shattering the glowing bridge not far from him. Its gaping maw spread impossibly wide—row upon row of serrated teeth carved from rock and crystal. Its body followed: a massive worm, easily the size of a keep, its surface covered in iridescent scales and jagged crystal formations.

  It screamed again.

  Godric ran.

  He darted between broken pillars, past fountains frozen in time, hearing the beast tear through what remained of the city’s ancient sanctity. He skidded across broken glass and leapt over a collapsed walkway, only for the worm to burst through the side, sending debris raining from above.

  It was chasing him.

  For whatever reason, the beast had singled him out.

  He gritted his teeth and pivoted mid-sprint, leaping toward a cracked stairway that spiraled upward toward one of the hovering stone platforms. The worm lunged, and Godric narrowly avoided its maw, flipping through the air with mana-assisted speed and landing hard on its back.

  Crystals protruded from the worm’s hide, pulsing with faint light. But something felt off.

  Then—they moved.

  Godric stared in horror as one of the larger crystals cracked open from the inside. A pale-skinned figure stepped out, skin paper-white and covered in black spiral markings that danced like smoke across their limbs. Its eyes were voids. And in its hand was a curved blade that seemed to hum with dark energy.

  More of them began emerging, climbing along the worm’s back like shadows reborn.

  Godric barely drew Death’s Lament in time, the blade shifting in his grasp—first to a spear as he jabbed forward, impaling the first of the crystal warriors, then retracting and splitting into dual sabers as he spun, fending off the others.

  The worm screeched again, twisting violently. Godric fought to keep his footing as one of the pale warriors lunged at him, blade-first. He ducked and let the momentum carry his attacker off the worm’s side—only for two more to flank him.

  One blade grazed his arm.

  He grunted and twisted, slashing outward with a bladed whip form of Death’s Lament, the edge coiling like a serpent and cutting across the chest of the nearest enemy.

  The worm began to climb up the walls of the cavern now, causing more of the sleeping city to collapse beneath its thrashing weight.

  Godric steadied himself, knowing he couldn’t win this through brute force alone.

  He shifted Death’s Lament again—this time to a greatsword, the weight balancing him. His eyes flicked to the worm’s path, and the destruction in its wake. The deeper it went, the more it seemed to be awakened, and more of the crystal figures were emerging.

  He cursed under his breath.

  “I don’t know what you are,” he muttered, raising his blade, “but if this is your city—you should’ve stayed asleep.”

  With a surge of mana beneath his feet, he charged again.

  The worm howled—if it could be called that—as Godric landed another strike atop its thrashing back. He had lost count of how many pale crystal-borne warriors he’d felled. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed, and the wound on his side from the earlier skirmish with the crystal-blade had opened again.

  The beast twisted violently, slamming against the cavern wall. Godric leapt just in time, narrowly avoiding being crushed. He landed hard on another outcropping of crystal jutting from the worm’s hide—and then he saw it.

  A seam. A crack, glowing faintly near the base of its armored head—an exposed nerve, maybe, or where the crystals hadn’t fully formed.

  Godric clenched his teeth.

  “Time to end this.”

  He concentrated, drawing on the wellspring of mana within him. Death’s Lament shifted in his hands, compacting into a lance of radiant energy, the form pulsing with coalesced force.

  He leapt into the air, the worm rearing up beneath him, stars and stone spinning in chaos above. Mana surged through him, burning at his limbs. And with a battle cry that echoed through the hollows of the ancient city, he drove the lance down, straight into the glowing fault.

  Impact.

  The explosion sent a shockwave through the creature’s body, forcing it to thrash and wail—a scream deeper and more primal than any before. Crystalline chunks burst from its hide, and its spiraling ascent stopped cold. The worm recoiled, writhing like a stabbed serpent.

  Godric, battered and barely conscious, landed hard and rolled. He staggered to his feet and looked up as the worm retreated, its body vanishing back into the chasm, dragging the shattered remnants of its strange warriors with it.

  It wasn’t dead—but it was wounded. And it was gone. For now.

  Panting, he looked around, his vision swimming. Amidst the destruction, he spotted what looked like a stone archway, half-buried in rubble and lit by flickering blue flame. An exit.

  He ran.

  Or rather, limped—stumbled—forced his legs forward on sheer instinct. The city behind him quaked in slow, fading tremors. He passed through the arch, and for the first time in what felt like forever—

  Night. Real night. A sky. A moon. Stars that moved.

  The desert breeze hit him like a whisper from another life. His knees gave out.

  He collapsed to the sand, blood soaking into his tunic, breath ragged and shallow. His fingers dug weakly at the earth as he tried to crawl forward, still unwilling to stop.

  Then—a light.

  Flickering.

  A lantern? A torch?

  He raised a trembling hand. “Hey!” he croaked. “H-Hey—!”

  The light drew closer.

  A figure approached, cloaked in flowing fabrics, face hidden beneath a hood. Their steps made no sound, gliding like moonlight on glass.

  Godric blinked. “Who—”

  And then they were beside him.

  Kneeling.

  A gloved hand pressed gently to his chest.

  Godric’s vision blurred again. The stars above spun.

  The last thing he saw was a glint of amber eyes, glowing softly beneath the hood.

  Then—darkness.

  The Sleeping City - also known as 'Nadhrat al-Samt, the Gaze of Silence'. Once believed to be the crown jewel of an ancient civilization, the city's true origin has been lost to time, buried beneath millennia of shifting dunes and myth. It predates even the rise of the three great clans of Azane, and some suspect it was built by a group of old gods, not entirely human, whose minds reached for knowledge beyond the bounds of the world. Others believe it to be the work of the Djinn, or perhaps a civilization that sought to trap time itself.