Chapter 8 – Blood and Silence
The wind whispered between the jagged peaks of the Witherwind Pass, thin and hollow, like breath exhaled from a dying world.
Aurther walked in silence, trailing behind Lysaria, their boots crunching on brittle frost and bone-white stones. The mountains were colder now. Not just in temperature, but in essence—as though the land itself had died and kept rotting, long after the war had ended.
They didn't talk much. Not since the night the Bloodborn attacked.
Aurther still saw Mira's eyes. Still heard the way Kaelien's last chord cut off mid-note. The way Cyr's body shattered against stone like pottery dropped too hard.
It hadn't been a battle.
It had been a massacre.
And yet something had shifted in him—something more than guilt, more than fear.
Late that afternoon, they passed an ancient, half-buried ruin carved into the face of a mountainside. Black stone. Spiraled pillars. Symbols older than even the runes from Elsera'Veyr. Most were broken, worn down by time—but some still glowed faintly when Aurther walked too close.
"What is this place?" he asked.
Lysaria didn't answer right away. She knelt before one of the cracked walls, running her fingers along a relief of warriors locked in battle—one side armored in bone, the other cloaked in flame.
"This is one of the Old Watchposts," she said finally. "Built during the end of the Blood War. When the last of the eastern fronts fell."
He crouched beside her. "I want to know. Everything. About the Bloodborn."
She looked at him, eyes unreadable. Then sat back on her heels.
"Then listen well."
"They weren't born in the way you and I understand life," she began. "They weren't raised. They weren't summoned. They were… bled into being."
"When?"
"After the final siege. The Battle of Blood. It's said tens of thousands died on that day. Humans, elves, dwarves, beastkin, spirits, even dragons. The land itself cracked beneath the weight of it. And when the battlefield soaked with too much pain, too much fury—something answered."
Aurther said nothing.
"From the soil where the blood pooled deepest, they rose. Crawling. Wailing. Shaped from vengeance and bone. Not born of species. Not born of gods. Just… hate made flesh."
She exhaled slowly.
"They couldn't be reasoned with. Couldn't be enslaved. Not even the warlocks could bind them. Entire kingdoms fell before they found a way to push them back."
"How?" Aurther asked. "How did they stop them?"
Lysaria looked away.
"That's the thing. No one remembers."
He blinked. "What?"
"I'm telling you what I was taught. But the stories just… end. The records burn out. As if history itself was erased. All that's left is a few carvings and half-spoken chants. The Bloodborn were driven back, sealed, buried. And that was the end of it."
"That doesn't sound right."
"It isn't."
They continued walking. As the sun dipped behind the peaks, the world dimmed to bruised indigo and violet. Auther stopped, staring at the valley ahead.
It was a massive gorge—miles wide. Sheer cliffs dropped into mist that swirled and pulsed like a living wound.
"What's that?" he asked.
"The Ashrift," Lysaria said. "The world's deepest scar. The gods struck down a tyrant here, long ago.
Aurther frowned. "That's what they say?"
She nodded. "That's what we're told."
But even as she said it, her voice wavered. She wasn't sure. Not really.
They camped beneath a shelf of stone that night. The wind outside the cave sang through narrow channels, low and guttural, like the growl of some sleeping beast.
Aurther stared at the crackling fire, then spoke:
"You said the Twelve were gods."
She nodded.
"Where are they now?"
Lysaria's brow furrowed. "No one knows."
"Are they dead?"
"No one knows that, either."
He turned toward her. "But people still believe in them?"
"They don't believe in the gods," she said. "They believe in the idea of them. The Twelve gave us the system. The power. The balance. Or so the stories say. They left behind their Domains—magic tied to law. And then… they vanished."
"Why?"
She looked up at the smoke rising into the dark.
"There are theories. Some say they made a pact to never interfere again. Others say they were devoured. That they feared what was coming."
"And no one remembers the truth?"
"Not anymore."
Aurther looked out toward the gorge—the Ashrift—and his jaw tightened.
"What if that chasm wasn't carved by gods?"
Lysaria turned toward him slowly.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying… what if it wasn't made. What if it was a wound."
She went silent.
Somewhere deep in the fog, something moved. Not a beast. Not a storm.
Just… movement.
Lysaria shifted uneasily. "There are old rumors. That the continent used to be bigger. Much bigger. That the old roads once stretched farther than we can measure."
"What happened?"
She hesitated.
"Earthquakes. Tectonic rifts. The gods struck the land to stop an invasion. That's what we're told."
"But no one remembers it?"
"No," she said softly. "No one remembers it. Not even in the Archives. Not even the Highborn."
"Do you believe that?"
Lysaria didn't answer.
Aurther turned back to the fire. His fingers curled into the dirt. He felt the shard beneath his shirt pulse, slow and quiet.
What if you already know the truth?
What if you were made to remember what the world forgot?
He shuddered.
Later that night, as they tried to sleep, Lysaria spoke again—barely above a whisper.
"Aurther."
"Yeah?"
"I don't think it was the gods that split the land."
He looked over at her.
"I think it was the Bloodborn."
He nodded. "I think so too."
"But if that's true…"
She paused.
"…then someone made us forget."
[End of Chapter 8]