"The Woken are not born. They are remembered by the world… against its will." — Whispered Writ of the Lost Cohort
🌌 Hills of Varnat — Edge of the Riverbend
The moment the Key fragment rose from Nandhira, something shifted in the world's weave.
Shiva felt it in his spine. Aarav tasted it in the air. Meera whispered, "They're coming."
🌫️ First Contact
The wind died.
Then, the mist rolled in — thick, cold, unnatural. It didn't touch the trees. It didn't stir the river.
From within it came figures.
Six of them. Tall, cloaked in faded silver. Eyes glowing like buried stars. Their skin shimmered — almost translucent.
A voice echoed across the hill:
> "Children of the Incomplete Key, surrender it. You walk paths not meant for you."
Aarav stepped forward.
> "Who are you?"
> "We are the Woken. Bound to the Old Flame. Wardens of what sleeps."
> "And if we refuse?" Shiva asked.
> "Then we return you to Silence."
⚔️ The Breath Stirs
Meera raised her hands — her voice echoed with Spirit-light. Shiva knelt and pressed his palm to the earth. Aarav vanished into mirrored air.
The fight was strange. Quiet. Ethereal. Not one of brute force — but of memory, will, and resonance.
Every strike carried meaning. Every defense invoked names no longer spoken.
Then, at the height of the clash, Shiva's body glowed. Not with light. But with absence.
The Breath surged through him — not as power, but as stillness.
The Woken froze.
> "Impossible… the Dormant one awakens?"
And with one breath, Shiva broke their circle. The mist snapped. The hill exhaled. The Woken vanished.
🕯️ The Vault of Embers
A candle guttered in the windless chamber.
> "They broke the seal," one of the veiled hissed.
> "No," the fourth said. "He did. The boy who listens. The Void-Bound Flame."
> "Should we move the Gate?"
> "No. Now… we let the world remember its fear."