The wind had no master in this part of the world.It blew where it pleased—dragging with it the scent of dry bones, scorched metal, and sunburnt regret.
Beyond the crumbling rocks and sand-swept ruins, a lone figure approached. The earth gave a soft crunch beneath his boots—weathered leather with soles worn nearly to nothing. A wide-brimmed hat shielded his eyes, and a long, tattered coat fluttered behind him like the wings of a dying bird.
He was not tall. Not short either. There was nothing remarkable about his build. Yet, as he walked, the very air seemed to part for him—as if the land itself remembered him from long ago.
The villagers of Draedun had seen many strange things. A sandstorm that screamed like a woman. A two-headed lizard that preached sermons from the cliffs. Even a wandering priest who claimed the sun was already dead.
But nothing like him.
The Traveler.
That's what they called him now. No name. No past. Only stories.
"He's a war criminal."
"No, a hero. Lost in time."
"I heard he's looking for something that doesn't exist anymore."
The whispers echoed from windows and behind half-closed doors as he passed.
He didn't look at them. He didn't need to.
His eyes were fixed on the end of the road—or perhaps on something far beyond it.
"Excuse me," a small voice called.
He stopped.
A girl. Barely seven, dressed in rags too big for her. She stood barefoot on the cracked path, staring at him without fear.
The Traveler tilted his head.
"You smell like thunder," she said.
He blinked. Slowly.
Then, for the first time in days, he smiled. A faint, tired smile like a man remembering laughter from another life.
"I suppose I do," he murmured.
His gloved hand reached into the depths of his coat, and he pulled out a strange object—smooth, round, and silver, no larger than a plum. It pulsed faintly, like a distant heartbeat or a sleeping star.
He placed it in her hands.
"What's this?" she asked, turning it over.
"Hope," he said.
She looked up, confused. Before she could ask more, the earth trembled beneath them.
The sky changed.
A split formed in the clouds—thin at first, like a crack in glass. Then it widened, bleeding shadow into the horizon. Lightning, black as void, forked across the sky. From it came a scream—not of beasts, but something worse.
The Hollowborn.
Creatures of hunger. Formless. Unseen. Echoes of something that once lived but forgot how to die.
The villagers cried out. Some prayed. Others ran.
The Traveler exhaled, his breath slow and even. He moved his coat aside, revealing the blade on his back. Its hilt was etched with symbols no human tongue could pronounce. He drew it with one motion—so clean, so precise, it seemed like part of a dance.
He stepped forward.
One step. Then another.
The shadows charged.
He met them.
When the sun rose again, Draedun was still standing.
The girl sat quietly on the edge of the well, clutching the silver orb in her hands. It glowed faintly, warm against her skin.
The Traveler stood at the village's edge, his blade once more sheathed, his coat streaked with ash and blood that wasn't his.
He looked up at the pale sky, lost in thought.
"Still not the place," he whispered. "Still not the time."
He turned to leave.
"Will you ever come back?" the girl called.
He paused but did not turn around.
"When the world ends," he said. "Or begins again."
And with that, he vanished into the sands.
The girl looked down at the orb.
It was glowing brighter now.