The land before them is dead. Not in the way of fallen kingdoms, where ruins crumble beneath creeping vines and the ghosts of men linger in stone and story. No—this is a world truly lifeless, stripped to its marrow. A desolate expanse of ashen dust and jagged remnants, where memory has long been extinguished.

  Towers of blackened stone claw at the sky, their spires twisted, broken, as if the land itself once tried to fight its inevitable doom. Bridges, once grand, now stretch across hollow chasms, their arches fractured and corroded. The skeletal corpse of a city haunts in the wasteland, its cathedrals cracked and crumbling, bathed in the dying light of sickly suns.

  The distant glow of fading embers flicker among the ruins—like the last gasps of a world that refuses to let go.

  The sky churns, heavy with smoke and dust--the air thick, stagnant, clinging to the skin like something pulsating. There is no wind. No breath of life.

  Only silence.

  They stand at its edge, four figures wrapped in quiet. They are the last to walk this road.

  Aedric the Hollowblade shifts his weight, boots grinding against brittle rock. His rusted armor, patched with scavenged pieces, groans under the weight of age and regret. A long-bladed sword hangs at his side, its edge dulled by time, yet his grip still lingers near the hilt—a warrior's habit.

  Age lines his face, battle-worn and weary, but his eyes burn with stubborn defiance. A name that has outlived its deeds. He is now reduced to a mere mercenary, traversing this road of no return.

  He watches the Dead One—that unmoving, inhuman thing—but does not speak.

  The Dead One does not acknowledge him. It does not acknowledge anything.

  A nameless wanderer, neither truly alive nor dead. Cloaked in tattered robes, its form is little more than a husk—a creature that should lie still in a grave, yet does not. Its face, when glimpsed beneath the hood, is a ruin of flesh, sinew long-decayed but never at rest.

  Its voice, when it speaks at all, is distant, as if carried across ages. A whisper from a forgotten past—an echo of what is yet to come.

  Lirian "The Crow-Tongue" speaks first. Their voice is smooth, layered—one, yet many, like a chorus speaking in unison. The cadence of their voice is reminiscent of that of a storyteller, though the only audience present is the ash and their brooding companions.

  Their patchwork cloak, stitched together from ancient parchments, shifts with the wind; the faded ink of dead languages whispers in the twilight. A satchel at their side clinks softly, heavy with scrolls and relics of ancient lands. Their eyes never rest—always searching, always remembering, always forgetting.

  "The legends call it the final threshold," they murmur, running fingers along the brittle pages of a tome bound in skin and rust. Their eyes gleam with something deeper than curiosity—hunger, perhaps. "No man returns from the Door. No kingdom claims it. No gods watch over it. Beyond it is..."

  They trail off. Not for effect, but because even they do not know.

  Veyne, the Hollow Smirk, laughs. The sound is dry and brittle, much like the bones half-buried in the dust at his feet. The grin on his face is a thief's, all teeth but no mirth.

  Lean and wiry, he wears mismatched leather, a patchwork of scavenged armor and stolen cloth, adorned with trinkets pilfered from dead men—rings, pendants, ornaments that once held meaning to faded anima. His smile never reaches his eyes. It never has.

  He claims to seek the door for riches, but there is something else lurking beneath the fa?ade.

  "Let's hope it's worth something, aye?" Veyne nudges a skeletal hand with his boot. The fingers crumble into dust. His grin falters.

  The silence swallows them again.

  Aedric exhales measuredly, his breath heavy with resignation. His rusted armor shifts as he turns his gaze toward Veyne, the firelight catching on the worn, dulled edge of his blade.

  "It matters not."

  Veyne raises a brow, but there's less bravado in it now. "Doesn't it?"

  Aedric does not look away. His voice is flat, stripped of anything but certainty.

  "Whatever you seek. Whatever you run from. It makes no difference now." His grip tightens on the sword hilt. The weight of it, of all the years behind it, settles in his hand. "We follow that cursed abomination into oblivion, or we wait for dust to take us. That is the choice."

  Lirian shifts, parchment whispering as they roll a brittle page between their fingers. Their expression is unreadable, but when they speak, there is a sense of amusement in their voice.

  "That is what the prophecy foretold, after all." Their eyes flicker toward the Dead One. "The Dead Ones do not return."

  The fire crackles. The warmth does not reach them.

  No one speaks after that.

  They turn to the Dead One.

  It has been silent. Always silent.

  It moves with a straightforward stride. The tattered cloak shifting, its edges blackened by age and something older than rot. There is no hesitation, no sign of decision—only advancement, as if it were never a choice to begin with.

  One by one, the others follow.

  They step into the wasteland.

  And behind them, the vestiges of the world fade into darkness. Yet within, an enigma endures.

  There are others here.

  Not in the flesh. Not in spirit; but in fragments, as evidenced by the brittle bones half-swallowed by earth and the rusted blades thrust into the dirt like grave markers. They had walked this road before. They fell here.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Now, they remain only as anamnesis.

  Aedric scans the land with the caution of a soldier apprehensive of an ambush, despite the absence of an enemy and no war to win. His hand brushes across the shattered surface of a shield, its crest long since scoured away.

  "They came prepared for battle," he mutters. "But what did they fight?"

  No one answers.

  Lirian kneels beside a skeletal corpse, its fingers curled tight around something—a strip of parchment, blackened at the edges. He pulls it free, handling it with reverence.

  The ink has long since bled into decay. Whatever was written here is forgotten, the last words of a nameless pilgrim carried away by time.

  "Lost words, lost men." Lirian's voice is quiet. Their fingers trace the brittle page. "How many have sought the Door? How many have been left unmarked?"

  The Dead One walks ahead, unbothered.

  A gust stirs the dust, and the sound that follows is not wind, but voices—stutters of the dead.

  Veyne halts abruptly. His grin vanishes, swallowed by an expression akin to fear.

  "You hear that?" he mutters, as if speaking too loudly might call something closer.

  Aedric grips his blade as the whispers continue. They are not simply words, but something deeper—like pleading, like longing.

  Only the Dead One does not react.

  Ahead, monoliths rise from the dust.

  The black stone, jagged and ancient, is scarred with inscriptions too weathered to read. They stand like sentinels along the voyage; guides from the past.

  Aedric places a gauntleted hand against one. The stone is warm.

  Lirian studies them, but they do not speak.

  Veyne keeps his distance.

  And the Dead One does not stop walking.

  The whispers grow softer.

  They continue forward; stepping over the detritus of those who made this journey.

  No one looks back.

  The land tilts downward into a withered ruin, its remains half-consumed by umbra. Shattered pillars rise like broken ribs and staircases spiral into the depths below.

  Once, this was magnificent—a city, a refuge—a place where men stood and prayed to Great Ones who had long since abandoned them.

  They make camp in what was once a temple, though no name remains to claim it.

  The walls are adorned with murals.

  Lirian runs their fingers across the faded stone, eyes flickering with recognition.

  "This was a place of passage."

  The figures carved into the wall stand in worship before a monolithic door. Their faces have been scraped away, erased as if their memory was unworthy of being preserved.

  Lirian tilts their head. Their fingers trace the final mural, following the worn etchings of an inscription barely visible beneath the weight of time.

  The words are bygone, obsolete—yet they remain.

  "Four damned souls walk the path."

  Lirian's breath stills. Their gaze shifts to the figures.

  Three.

  The others all stand before the door, but the last figure is missing. Not damaged. Not worn away; but quietly absent.

  Aedric sits apart, sharpening his blade. The graze of steel on steel is the only sound that does not belong to the ruin itself.

  "A temple." His voice is distant.

  "A place for men to kneel. Pray. Seek something beyond themselves."

  He exhales.

  The whetstone slows.

  "And yet they leave nothing behind but shattered arete."

  His words do not carry bitterness. Only understanding.

  Veyne does not look at the murals.

  He does not sit near the fire.

  He stands at the temple's edge, arms folded, watching from afar as life at the Edge of Nothing crumbles. His gaze flickers toward a nearby stairwell beside some shattered columns.

  Something pivoted beneath the stone.

  The ruin itself has morphed in its sleep.

  A single grain of dust rolls down the staircase; vanishing into a void.

  "Solace an illusion? Clever," he mutters, eyes anchored to the darkness; preparing for what comes next.

  But nothing emerges.

  The faceless figures kneel, forever waiting.

  The fire crackles but warmth does not reach them.

  It is the only sound now. The whispers of the ruins have faded.

  They sit around the embers, shadows stretching long against the broken stone. Four figures, and yet it feels as though there are more.

  The night does not rest. And neither do they.

  Aedric breaks the silence. His voice is low, but each word carried heft.

  "I should have fallen on the battlefield."

  The others say nothing. He does not expect them to.

  He drags the whetstone along his blade—the same blade that has outlived kingdoms. The edge glints in the firelight.

  "It was the last Great War of the South—I fought for a king whose name escapes me, killed men whose faces I never witnessed. And in the end..." His jaw tightens.

  "Victory belonged to no one."

  His grip on the blade is firm, but his knuckles have turned pale. Regret does not belong in a warrior's hands, and yet it lingers there.

  "Only I remain."

  His gaze flickers to the Dead One, who does not look at him.

  "Now I seek a battle where I do not escape."

  Lirian exhales, shaking their head. A crooked grin ghosts across their lips.

  "You chase your end, Aedric." Their voice is almost amused. "I seek something far greater."

  Their voice is quiet, almost reverent. "The Door is real; we have seen it."

  Aedric narrows his eyes. "Then why do you walk this path with us?"

  Lirian's grin falters.

  They do not answer immediately.

  "I do not remember."

  A pause.

  "It is archaic hindsight—carried by those within."

  They close their eyes. "But I shall."

  Veyne laughs; his snicker carrying a subtle hint of scorn.

  "You still foolishly chase something noble in your own way." His voice is flaccid. "Death. Knowledge. Legends and bards tales."

  He shakes his head. The fire casts deep shadows over his face.

  "But me? I run."

  Aedric's expression does not change.

  "From what, thief?"

  Veyne meets his gaze. And for the first time, he does not smirk.

  "As you said, does it matter?"

  The fire crackles.

  They turn to the Dead One.

  Veyne exhales, running a hand over his face before nodding toward the unmoving figure.

  "And what of you? What do you seek?"

  Aedric scoffs.

  "The dead seek nothing." His tone is firm, certain. "They only follow."

  "Not quite." Lirian watches the Dead One with curiosity.

  "According to my studies, the Dead Ones soberly walk The Path." Their voice is quiet, distant.

  "They do not follow, seek wealth, redemption, nor absolution. They seek only the Door."

  They glance toward the fire.

  "The Door at the End of Everything."

  A pause.

  Then, the Dead One speaks.

  "It has always beckoned me."

  The words are flat. Hollow. As if they had been spoken before. As if they will be spoken again.

  Aedric stiffens. Lirian leans forward. Veyne's fingers twitch toward the dagger at his hip.

  No one asks what it means.

  The fire burns out.

  The temple does not sleep.

  The wind starts whispering again in the distance.

  Dawn breaks, but the sun is no comfort.

  A dull, grey light creeps over the ruins, chasing away the embers but not the cold. The night has passed, but its weight lingers.

  They silently rise, fastening straps and securing what little they carry.

  Aedric tightens the worn leather of his sword belt.

  Lirian kneels in the shadows, his hand placed upon a deteriorated book covered in sigils; reciting expired passages.

  Veyne stretches, rubbing the stiffness from his limbs before tossing a pack at the Dead One's feet.

  "Might as well be useful, aye?" His grin is thin, but the others do not argue.

  One by one, they strap their burdens to the Dead One—satchels, rations, supplies worn thin by time.

  It does not react.

  It does not shift beneath the weight.

  No one speaks of the night before.

  Nobody discusses the remarks made.

  There is no need.

  The road does not wait for them. It never has.

  They walk.

  The Veil of Thorns draws near.

  Blackened trees twist toward the sky, their limbs gnarled and unnatural.

  A repugnant, unholy hellscape.

  A forest with no magnanimity.

  Lirian is the first to murmur it.

  "A cursed place."

  The wind shifts but it does not howl.

  It does not wail.

  It speaks.

  Low voices coil through the breeze, noise too faint to comprehend.

  A hymn of the lost.

  A lament for the nameless.

  Behind them, the ruins tremble.

  The stone of the temple splinters.

  The ground judders like the terrain itself cowering.

  The earth devours it inexorably.

  The temple collapses into dust; the edifice swallowed whole.

  Not all at once, but slowly and deliberately.

  It was as if the void itself was waiting.

  Now that they'd departed, the past must seemingly vanish.

  There is no return.

  Aedric watches, his expression unreadable.

  Lirian observes in perplexity.

  Veyne stares into the void, lost in its fanciful elegance.

  The Dead One does not witness the event; it gawks ahead.

  The wind stirs the ash.

  The whispers fade.

  They step forward. And behind them—

  The world is claimed by Dust.