What was freed.
The cage was broken, the forgotten remembered, and their fire was awakened.

What was found.
A dream that reshaped the brand of banishment into a banner of unity, where hope and faith united a people, in remembrance and resistance.

What was forged.
A kingdom in defiance of the Creed, a storm as the fire of retribution, a sanctuary as a symbol of life, and a wartribe as the hand of wrath.

The Land Between Nations

In the space between conflict and war, faith and fear, gods and creed, lies the land between nations, The Durajan.

None come to the Durajan of free will. They are sent.

Every nation touches its borders: Càrnoth, Skarn, Tharios, Marukh, and Shadura to the west, Khadar and Xeyath to the south, and to the east, Jhandai, and Vordos.

It was born as the result of a truce between the Nine, and lives beneath the silent reach of the Nakarran Creed, whose influence extends to all corners.

But the land changed as a seed took root, nourished as much by faith, as the spilling of blood. Now it is a land where the southern city of Dothemia stands in defiance, as a storm stirs in the cold north.

The Durajan is remembrance. A land of those bound by their banishment, where the condemned have emerged reborn.

Prologue

Across the distant canyons of the southlands, the silence was broken by the winds rushing northward across the steppeland expanse. The tall grasses rippled where southern warmth met the cool climes of the north, birthing low clouds that churned and gathered with bellies dark with promise. Thunder rolled, and the horizon shimmered, split between storm and sun, as eyes from settlements and forts watched warily beneath the morning’s heavy skies.

Beyond the blackpines, as the steppes rose to meet mountains amidst the thinning trees and looming crags of the east, cries could be heard amidst the howling rush.

Through the twists and turns of labyrinthine pathways, the wind gave way to a subterranean cave within which stood rune-etched walls and pillars covered in ancient sigils.

Within voices, joined in frightful wails of futile resistance, mingled with the whispers of an ancient tongue that flowed from the lips of their captors.

Amidst the gathered and bound, a high priest’s voice rose as the words of the Creed were spoken aloud.

THE BOOK OF THE PATH
Chapter 1
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1. All are born hollow, vessels waiting to be emptied, for the Hollow does not give to the filled, nor shape what is already full.

2. The Believer bows, speaking prayers until the will is poured out, and thus begins the First Surrender.

3. The Shaman listens, hearing the breath of spirits and ancestors, until self is poured out, and the vessel is left bare.

4. The Priest consecrates, giving flesh and memory to rite and sacrifice, until desire is poured out, and the vessel is hollowed.The voices belonged to prisoners, whose heads, arms, legs, hands, and feet were lashed to stone pillars encircling the altar. Trembling and held rigid, all they could do was watch with fear-filled eyes as the words continued to be read.

5. The Sorcerer-Priest bears flame and soul, will and wrath, filling the place where fear once clung, and through them the Hollow bends fire and flesh alike.

6. The Godspeaker is no longer like their kin, for life itself is poured out, leaving only the voice of the Hollow, and through them the Hollow speaks.

7. This is the Path, not learned nor claimed, but surrendered step by step, until all that remains is stillness. Mystery giving way to understanding, and through understanding, the pathway to the divine.

In the center, amidst the chants and whispers, a woman stood bare and beautiful, but she did not scream, she did not flee, she prepared.

High priests and shamans stood near. Their prayers reached a whispered crescendo as an unseen presence slipped out from the altar and rolled towards the bound.

His heart raced in his chest, his eyes searched the room, past the frightened faces of his clan and kin. They, like him, were bound but it was only one face he sought.

Stripped of his clothes and trembling in muffled prayers to the Mountain and Wolf, he thought of his son, who had only seen the season of the Wolf eighteen times.

He thought of his daughter, who had seen it come and go a mere twelve.

He thought of his wife, to whom he was bound beneath the Wolfsun in song and ceremony, long before the birth of their children.
—
He remembered thundering hooves, the sight of a blade drawn, and the cries that rose from kin and clan as the enemy came into view, silent and stalking, nets soaring, and clubs rising. The attack came without warning and now they were here.

Blood and tears flowed down his cheeks as their eyes met. Across from him he held his wife’s gaze as they reached futility towards one another with straining fingers. Through flame and rising smoke, his eyes locked with hers as she also stood bare and bound.

Their fear was absolute. They would die here without weapon, war cry, or promise to meet again in the Far Sky.

They and others like them.
Each one a story.
Each one soon to be forgotten.

Chants filled the space between them, followed by weakness and waning will.

He wondered for a moment where he was.
He wondered why he was bound.
He thought, how interesting the fire was that burned so brightly before him.

His last thoughts were of the beautiful woman beyond the flames, how he wished he knew her name, and the reason she was crying.
—

Across the chamber, the heads of the bound rolled forward. Their bodies, silent and still. Their forms hollowed yet breathing. They were vessels awaiting purpose and bodies, awaiting rebirth.
‍
Their hollowed and holy spirits, now unbound, were drawn in with reverence towards their intended host, as the whispers of the high priest continued.

THE BOOK OF THE FOUR LIES

1. After the Silence, there rose those who clung still to remnants of false memory, raising prayers to the Mother who bled, the Mountain who stood, the Wolf who howled, and the Maw who hungered.

2. From among them rose those bearing powers that were not emptied, for their vessels clung still to remembrance and pride.

3. But power that does not empty is corruption, and power not filled by the Hollow is false, bringing sickness and death upon the world.

4. The Creed rose against the false gods, and the purge began, until the last of their line was hunted, found, and silenced, so the Hollow alone would remain.

5. Yet all things repeat, and so the Creed keeps watch. Their vigil, eternal. For any who walk in the might and strength of the Four Lies would be struck down without mercy.

As shamans guided the unbound spirits, priests walked towards the pillars and severed the bindings of the sacrificed. Sanctified, the Hollowed were guided out of the chamber in silent procession.

The high priest’s hands rose along with his voice as his sermon continued.

THE BOOK OF THE ONE TRUTH

1. The Hollow stirs in beasts and in spirits, for silence waits in the eyes of wolves, in the stillness of mountains, and in the hunger of the deserts.

2. There will ever be those who bind storm and bone, raising the fallen against the forgetting. Their defiance must be broken.

3. There will ever be those who walk with the voices of the forgotten, carrying remembrance in their blood. Their counsel must be silenced.

4. There will ever be spirits that gather strength in hidden places, awaiting a false dawn. Such gatherings must be scattered before they rise.

5. The Creed therefore does not sleep, for vigilance is its charge, and to falter is to suffer the pestilence of the Four Lies.

6. To watch is the sacred duty, to strike is the sacred work, and to seek truth in silence is the sacred gift.

7. Thus the Hollow waits, and thus the Path endures, until all is emptied and all is still.

Atop the altar, the woman stood trembling, lost in prayer and devotion as the priests anointed her body in sacred oils. Their hands flowed across her skin in reverence and ritual until it shone and shimmered beneath the dancing light of the chamber. She was pale of skin and red of hair, well formed, fit and strong. The story of a life lived in the hunt and battle was written across her body in the faint scars of tooth, claw and blade.
‍
The priests stepped away from her, the shamans raised their hands, and their whispers filled the chamber.

THE BOOK OF THE BAPTIZED

1. In the beginning there was the vessel, and the vessel was empty, and the Hollow filled it, and thus all things were born.

2. As it was before all, so shall it be after all, for the vessel must return to emptiness.

3. The Convergence is the circle fulfilled, where many are made one, and one is made nothing, and nothing is made holy.

4. In this, the faithful surrender, not in part but in whole, pouring out memory, and will, until they are no more.

5. Through their sacrifice, the Hollow is anchored, and from their silence rises the Hollowborn, limbs of the endless, walking upon the Awakened World.

6. And where they pass, the Hollow spreads, drawing out the proud and emptying the strong, until remembrance itself is broken.

7. The Hollowed will join as chorus, the Unbound will cry out in surrender, the ground itself will be made Hollowed, and the reach of silence will deepen like dusk.

8. This is the Convergence, the great return to Before, the stillness that unravels all pride and possession, the peace that cannot be resisted.

9. And so the Creed watches, and so the Creed prepares, for in the end all vessels shall be poured out, and the Hollow shall endure alone.

The sermon of the high priest ended, leaving the chamber in silence. He walked through the gathered as the shamans parted, the unbound spirits drifting like rolling fog around him as he approached the vessel.

The eyes of the vessel and the high priest met—two figures, revered, honored, and exalted. He placed his palm to her forehead as the shamans gathered around her.

Syllables rolled and flowed from his lips.
A tongue known only to the most faithful.

The words struck her like thunder. She shuddered and stared upwards, eyes rolling white, trembling in surrender until she fell silent and still, supported by those encircling her.

The gathered watched and waited.

The high priest observed, leaning and knowing.

Then, with a gasp, her eyes opened.

She Who Seeks

When silence deepened and memory waned,
she wandered still.
Not flesh, not breath,
but echo and vow.

She lost her name, but not her longing.
She lost her kin, but not her sight.
For in the emptiness,
she sought those who yet remembered.

She walked where sorrow gathered,
and listened where prayers faltered.
Drawn to pain, to defiance,
to the trembling voices that would not be silenced.

The Hollow spread, and still she searched.
Through ruin. Through blood. Through banishment.

She found neither temple nor altar.
She found only those who carried grief in their bones,
and love in their wounds.

She touched them as shadow,
as dream, and as whisper.

Some turned away.
Some wept and knew not why.
But a few felt her. A few answered.

In them, she found a foothold.
In them, she found purpose.
In them, she remembered herself anew.

Not as wife, shield-maiden, or priest.
But as a seeker.
A spirit unbound, yet bound
by every soul who dared resist forgetting.

She is not yet whole,
and she is not wholly seen.
But she waits, and she lingers,
following the trail of remembrance.

And where the Creed strikes,
where silence seeks dominion,
there she will walk.

There she will bind herself.
There she will seek,
until seeking becomes becoming.

“Our patrol of Jhandai Coast went as hoped. It is always a tense journey of weeks through Xeyathi lands, but this trip was uneventful. They’ve learned to stay clear of us.

It was good to see that people of the coast are at peace. There have been no ships sighted since the capture of Amenophis and Amrahi, but Samike’s warning still lingers. So we have to remain vigilant and continue to surveil the Green Reaches, Woundwood, Thornwilds, and all lands east of Dothemia.
‍
I pray each day to be prepared and ready to protect those I love. Outside my tent, I hear them—the people I live for, fight for, and would die for.

It has been seventeen years since the cage was broken by Samike. I sit here today, thankful to the Mother for both the pain and blessings born from the path we’ve tread.

They are friends and family, the likes of which I have never in my life had. They are the blood that flows within my veins and the pride that swells within my chest for all we have built.

Then, there is Umaru. It has been two years since we met, one since our marriage, and in that short time, she has made me better in all ways. The people say that where I am will and strength, she is compassion and grace. I feel this is true.

She is not by my side, nor I by hers, but that is how it must be. Each night away from her makes me feel less than whole, but there is work to be done, wounds to heal, and bridges to build.”
‍
Book of Dothemides, Mother’s Breath 4, Year 18

The Woundwood. Northeast of Dothemia.
‍
The morning sun rose, illuminating the fog that drifted beneath the forest canopy. The air smelled of wet bark, fallen rain, lantern oil, and the smoke of campfires.

Bianzhi stood from the bushes and returned to the busy camp. As she walked through, patting shoulders and offering nods, she was met with smiles and glances of respect as she strode towards Dothemides’ tent.

Near the tent were Setnah and Brynvi. When Bianzhi asked where Thornsten was, Brynvi pointed off into the forest. Just then, Thornsten stood glancing around and returned to his wife's side, boasting about how light his step now felt.

Setnah laughed, and Brynvi slapped her husband's thigh with a roll of her eyes as Bianzhi continued on.

Inside the candlelit space, Dothemides set down his journal and moved slowly as he sat at the edge of the cot. He took a moment to be thankful for the fur and hides beneath his bare feet and slipped his hands beneath his graying locks to massage his stiff neck.

For a moment, he sat in the stillness of his surroundings. His tunic was folded at the foot of his cot alongside his sandals. Across from him was a stand that held his breastplate, bracers, swordbelt, and scabbard. Sheathed within was his Thariosian blade of umbrasteel.

To his left, outside the flap of his tent, there was laughter. Voices mingling in the morning air. To his right was a low table. Beneath the candle were maps, scouting routes, and sighting notes marking the known paths of predators and prey.

A carved wooden box held armbands of gold from Skarn settlers of the steppes, a necklace of precious beads from Khadari craftsfolk, rings from Shaduran artisans, and more. They were gifts offered in thanks to their king and were worn with humility.

A pitcher and cup sat on a small, folded bedside table, next to a clay vial plugged with softwood. He poured himself a cup of water, drank, then set it down.

He took up a vial, poured its healing oils into his palm, and rubbed them into his skin to help dull the aches of past battles, pausing now and then to inspect long-healed scars.

Setting the vial down, he leaned over to pick up his journal and opened it to the words written by Samike. Since the page was first found, there was never a day that he didn’t find himself reading them.

—

“Dothemides,

You have achieved greatness. You have built something rare: beauty, wonder, belonging, remembrance. But it sits on a blade’s edge.

Dothemides. My friend. My first love.

Understand this: The Creed and Crusade have not been defeated.

They have walked among the Nine and the Durajan since the Awakening, and they remain, still.

Hidden. Embedded. Whispering.

Amenophis was only the beginning.

They will come again. Be vigilant and be ready, for I believe the war has only just begun.”

—

Lingering on the words for a moment, Dothemides closed the journal and moved to his left, where a low altar sat alongside the table.

On its surface was a carved effigy of the Mother. A woman full of form. A bearer of life. In one arm, she cradled a child who suckled at her breast. At her feet lay the covered body of a fallen warrior. In her other hand, she held a sword, and about her body clung carved vines that rose from the earth beneath her feet. Behind her head rested the symbol of the Wolfsun.

Shutting his eyes in prayer, Dothemides sought the balance she symbolized. Samike’s words, foreboding as they were, meant Dothemia had achieved something worthy of protection. That others sought their destruction was proof of the meaning and purpose of their city, and the ache in his bones and scars on his skin all served as an offering and sacrifice, gladly given to the Mother, for its continuance.

Behind him, the flap was pushed open. He knew who it was.

Bianzhi entered each morning to check on him and each evening to sit and talk, always sure to wait until his prayers had ended.

“Good morning, Bianzhi.” He said as he turned and rose.

Bianzhi’s eyes fell over him as they often did. Her feelings had not changed. She knew they never would, but she had accepted it long ago. Now those feelings had settled into a warm fire within that she kept sheltered.

“Good morning, my king.” She teased, and he scoffed at her unnecessary formality.

With a smile, she asked. “How did you sleep?”

“Alright. I am eager to be home, but not looking forward to the ride,” he chuckled.

Bianzhi bent and lifted his tunic and approached. He reached, and she slapped his hand. Surrendering, Dothemides turned, and she helped him slip it on.

She noted that he moved a little slower and felt her movements slower as well, as her eyes fell over the scars of his well-muscled back.

She stepped away to his sandals, returned with them, pressed her hand to his chest, and gave him a shove. Dothemides sat heavily.

As she knelt before him, he began in protest, but a raised brow above those jade eyes silenced him. Bianzhi acted out of honor, not service. Respect, not reverence. As she laced his sandals, she couldn’t help but take him in again. Eyes wandering to places forbidden and familiar.

Slapping his thigh, Bianzhi stood and walked towards his armor stand. He stood and drew a breath, taking her in as she took the armor in hand.

Like him, her hair had begun to gray, but just a little. It suited her. She was alluringly beautiful, and in these moments, both remembered the lovers they once had been, and the dearest of friends they had now become.

As she returned, he smiled. “Can you believe it has been fourteen years?”

Bianzhi tightened the straps firmly on his umbrasteel breastplate. “Trying to make me feel old?” Her eyes flicked up and held his gaze.

There was always a lightness to her. A welcome ease.

“No, it’s just,” he paused. “I remember that night, finding you in the rain.”

“I saw you coming,” Bianzhi smiled and retrieved his belt and scabbard.

“And you nearly took my head.” Again, he studied her as she returned. “If only we knew what lay ahead.”

“I thank the Mother each day for giving me the wisdom to follow you,” She looked up at him.

“I do too,” he smiled warmly as his gaze lingered. “I am grateful for what we have.”

“As am I, Dothemides.”

She reached up, he reached out, and they shared an embrace, allowing the closeness, unity, and shared memories reaching back further than any other in Dothemia to linger for a moment.

A deep breath, a step back, a shared nod. There was no need to speak of the love they held for one another.

“I’ll be out soon,” he said.

“I’ll get them ready,” she said, then left.

The flap of the tent closed behind her, and with her signal, the camp began to prepare. Setnah, Thornsten, and Brynvi took charge of the scouts and soldiers. For a moment, Bianzhi thought about Kikaru, who had decided to stay behind on the Jhandai coast. He would be missed, but he was happier there than in the city.

Bianzhi walked towards Cepharion, lifted his saddle, and dropped it onto his back. Once secured, she watched the activity of the camp, bodies moving with purpose.

A memory rose of the night before they left on their mission to the coast. A ritual of the Mother was held. That night, she and the bodies of those within the temple moved with a purpose of another kind; she remembered how Dothemides bore witness but did not indulge.

The rituals were part of them, part of Dothemia, but his interest waned. Bianzhi remembered parting from Sunh before her and from Agatir behind her as she rose from the pleasures flowing through the temple, the sounds and scents of shared passions, and remembered how distant he was. His mind was elsewhere.

Umaru was still in her Sanctuary on her own mission. It troubled her that she was so far from him, but she knew their distance was needed. Umaru had taken it upon herself to heal wounds made by Dothemia’s rise.

She knew her friend and king in more ways than any—his wants and needs, both of the body and spirit. As she watched his closed tent, she found herself wondering again if she should seek to bring him release. It was not a thing she would ever mind, but Umaru had changed him in many ways and had captured him completely. She found it beautiful but hoped the wounds she sought to heal in her Sanctuary would be mended soon.

With the camp broken down and stored away across saddlebags, bundles, and wagons, soldiers made last-minute checks and preparations as they watched their general. Her curved blade remained on her hip, and she wore an elegant yet strong Jhandai bow strung over her right shoulder, a treasured gift from the people of the coast.

Nearby, Setnah and Brynvi were training, thirty paces from a tree. Nailed to it was an old shield embedded with several arrows. Bianzhi watched both aim, fire, and strike true as she approached. They smiled, paused, and made way as their general took aim.

The bowstring’s twang cut the morning air, but the arrows struck only bark. Two more followed with the same result. She lowered the bow, laughing at her terrible aim.

Setnah patted Bianzhi’s shoulder. “Don't worry, general,” her Khadari accent thick, “You will get the hang of it…in time…It may be a long time, but…you will.”

Bianzhi smirked, and Brynvi teased as she left to retrieve the arrows and target.

Dothemides approached to greet them.

“My king,” Setnah smiled at him as Brynvi returned, repeating the same.

“Bryn, Setnah,” he greeted each with warmth.

“We’re ready. Hopefully the ride won’t be too long.” Bianzhi said.

“Let’s hope,” Dothemides responded.

Together they turned and walked back through the camp, joined in stride by Thornsten.

The four walked behind their king and were watched reverently by soldiers and scouts. Dothemides greeted many as they continued on towards their steeds. Once there, he held his general and captains by the neck and touched his forehead to theirs, one by one, each touch, a whispered prayer.

Together they mounted up, Bianzhi at his side, Setnah, Brynvi, and Thornsten behind, and the column began its ride west towards Dothemia.