Date: Unknown—Desert stars do not mark time as the trees do
Location: Al Kharid, edge of the Scorched Canyon
The desert hums in a way the forests never could. It is not a melody of birdsong or rustling leaves, but a long-held breath between storms—sand shifting, sun watching, silence echoing louder than any cry. And yet, even here, I feel Seren’s pulse, distant though it may be.
Today, I faced a spirit consumed by fire and sorrow.
I do not know what name it once bore, only that it was human once—young, broken, afraid. Whatever it had become, it was not born of evil. It was forged in pain. Flame wrapped around its form not to destroy, but to defend. A wounded creature lashes out when cornered... even when it no longer remembers what hurt it in the first place.
I didn’t draw blood. I drew breath. I moved with purpose, not wrath. And in that moment, when I saw its face—his face—I understood. There is so much rage in the world now, so much pain cloaked in prophecy or vengeance or divine silence. But this was not a foe to vanquish. He was a voice lost in the wind, screaming to be heard.
My arrows did not silence him. My song did.
That scares me more than I expected.
Not because it was dangerous—though it was. But because I could feel the moment he saw me. Not as a threat. Not as a savior. Just... as someone who saw him. And I wonder: how many others are walking the world now, burning from within because no one ever stopped to look past the fire?
I don’t know what he was. Some say a cursed genie, others a splinter of a dying god. I only know that he was real, and that the land weeps for him.
And yet... there was no word from Seren. No dream, no song. Only the faintest warmth after the spirit passed on, like a sigh brushing my skin. I don’t know if that was her... or if it was simply the world, relieved that someone had finally listened.
A Saradominist monk found me at dawn. Quiet, kind, curious. He offered water and asked my name. I gave it freely. There was no reason not to. He reminded me a little of Jahn, though gentler in bearing. Perhaps that’s what Saradomin’s desert looks like—humble, soft-spoken faith. Stillness rather than certainty.
I told him I was “just a voice.” I don’t know if I still believe that. Voices pass, fade, vanish into the wind. But I carry something more than words, don’t I? Something older. Something luminous. Even if I’m still learning what it means.
Tonight, I rest. The rooftop beneath me is still warm from the sun, and the breeze carries the scent of cumin and cooling metal. The city churns, unaware of what passed beyond its walls. But I hear it. I feel it. The veil is thinning. Whatever wounded the land out there... it runs deeper than one spirit.
Tomorrow, I follow it.
I do not carry justice like the paladins. I do not carry fire like Wolfthora. I carry memory. Grace. A light that does not command, but waits to be welcomed.
Seren, if you are listening—and I believe you are—walk beside me in silence if you must. I will keep going, even without your voice in my dreams.
I will not let the wounded go unseen. Not in the forest. Not in the canyon. Not in myself.
—Nyssarra
