The air was heavier now. The silence that had once felt eternal was filled with a faint hum, a rhythm that matched the Traveler's heartbeat. It came from beneath — the ground itself, whispering through vibrations too low to be sound. The plain stretched endlessly in every direction, yet it no longer felt empty. The world was awake, and it was watching.
The Traveler moved carefully, each footstep raising small spirals of dust that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The sky above was a dome of gray fire, neither day nor night, without stars or sun. Sometimes, in the shifting haze, something vast stirred — as if clouds themselves were alive, moving with intent.
Then the voice returned.
"Traveler."
The word rippled through the soil beneath their feet. The Traveler froze. "You again," they murmured. "What are you?"
"The soil," the voice said. It wasn't sound — it was sensation. The words bloomed inside their head, heavy and old. "You walk upon me, but you are part of me as well. You have always been."
"I don't remember you."
"That is the first mercy," the voice replied.
The Traveler glanced down. The faint light under the dust flickered — patterns, shifting like veins of molten metal. When they knelt and brushed their fingers against it, warmth flooded up their arm. For a moment, they felt something impossible — the world breathing through them, their pulse merging with its own.
"What do you want from me?"
"To grow," said the soil. "And for you to remember."
The Traveler shook their head. "I don't know how."
"Then begin by feeding me. All creation starts with offering."
The wind rose suddenly — a dry hiss rolling across the plain. From the horizon, tiny motes of light lifted like sparks from unseen fires. Hundreds of them. They drifted toward the Traveler, circling them in lazy spirals. Each flicker carried warmth and faint echoes: laughter, music, tears, the scent of rain on stone.
"What are they?"
"Remnants," the soil murmured. "Fragments of worlds that lived before you fell. Touch one, and you will taste what was lost."
The Traveler hesitated, then reached out. A mote brushed their skin — and exploded into memory.
A city of glass towers burning under a violet sky. People screaming as the ground split open, rivers of light spilling upward. A single figure standing at the center of it all, their hands raised, runes glowing like firebrands. Then darkness.
The Traveler stumbled back, gasping. "I saw—"
"You saw what your essence once harvested," said the voice. "Power drawn from creation itself. What was beautiful, consumed."
The Traveler stared at their palms. The runes on their arms pulsed, bright now, as if stirred by the memory. "That was me."
"Part of you. A shadow. Each Traveler has been many things before. You were sower and destroyer both. Now you must choose which you will become again."
The words echoed in their skull long after the voice faded. The air felt colder. Above, the gray sky rippled like water disturbed by unseen currents.
"Choose…" they whispered.
They walked. Hours passed — or maybe minutes; time had no meaning here. The plain changed as they moved. The dust grew darker, softer, until their feet sank with every step. Strange shapes began to emerge from the horizon — stones, or perhaps the remnants of something once alive. Bones the size of towers jutted from the ground, etched with runes much like those on their skin.
At the base of one, they found a hollow. Light poured from it in slow, pulsing waves. The Traveler crouched, tracing the glow with their fingertips.
"Feed me," came the whisper again.
They hesitated. "What do I give?"
"Yourself," the voice said. "The pieces you still carry. The pain you hold, even if you do not remember why."
The Traveler closed their eyes. A shiver ran through them. They thought of the burning city, the faces in the light. They felt something stir — grief, loss, something older than memory. It hurt.
When they opened their hand, light bled from their palm — pure and golden. It dripped into the soil like liquid fire. The ground drank greedily. The pulse beneath the earth quickened, spreading outward in waves.
The world changed.
The gray dust shimmered and split, replaced by tendrils of green light that snaked across the plain. The Traveler stepped back as the land itself began to bloom — ghostly vines, translucent leaves, faint outlines of trees forming from raw energy. The horizon burned gold.
"You have given your first offering," said the soil. "Now I will grow through you."
The Traveler stared at the field of glowing life. "Is this creation?"
"This is memory reborn," said the voice. "But creation will demand more. Each gift takes something from you. Every seed you plant will remember your sacrifice."
The vines coiled toward them, wrapping gently around their wrists. They didn't resist. The warmth was almost tender, like being held. For a moment, peace washed over them — until a shadow passed overhead.
They looked up.
Far above, against the swirling gray, something vast moved — a shape like wings made of smoke, stretching from horizon to horizon. It turned once, and though it had no eyes, the Traveler felt it looking at them.
"What is that?" they whispered.
The soil shuddered. "A Watcher. Do not draw its gaze again. You are still too small."
The wings rippled once more and vanished into the mist.
The Traveler's pulse thundered in their ears. "What happens if it sees me?"
"Then the harvest begins before you are ready," said the voice. "And you will not grow — you will be consumed."
The vines loosened and withdrew into the glowing soil. The world settled again, its rhythm steady. The Traveler looked down at their glowing hands, then toward the endless horizon where the Watcher had disappeared.
"I'll grow," they said softly. "But I'll grow on my own terms."
The soil was silent. But deep beneath their feet, the world smiled.