1:Deep within the shadowed veil of the Forgotten Vale, an ancient menace stirs — the Vireth, a spectral entity woven from the dying whispers of fallen gods. Long thought to be myth, it feeds on fear, twisting dreams into nightmares and awakening in moments of great imbalance. The Vireth does not strike with blade or flame, but with silence and sorrow, unraveling sanity thread by thread. It slithers through time itself, unseen yet ever watching, bound to a cursed prophecy etched in bone and starlight. As kingdoms crumble and the skies bleed, whispers return: The Vireth walks again… and this time, it remembers who wronged it.
2:Legends speak of the Day of Withering, when the Vireth first emerged, cloaking the sun in a veil of despair and turning rivers to ash. Only those who bore the Mark of Aelryn — a sigil born of starlight and sacrifice — could sense its creeping presence. Now, centuries later, that mark resurfaces on the skin of a child born under a blood moon, a silent omen that the cycle is beginning anew. As the winds grow colder and the stars shift from their ancient paths, seers and madmen alike cry warnings in tongues long dead. The Vireth is no longer content to haunt the edges of forgotten tales — it is coming, drawn by the echo of unfinished vengeance.
3:Whispers of the mark's return spread quickly through the hidden circles of the old world — among the surviving Order of Aelryn, among the exiled witches of the Frostlands, and even within the crumbling halls of the Silent Priory. Each faction knew what it meant: the balance was unraveling. Some prepared to find the child and protect him; others sought to destroy him before the Vireth could claim its vessel. Meanwhile, strange signs crept into the world — animals found turned inside out with no tracks nearby, the moon lingering longer in the sky, and entire villages waking to find their reflections missing. The prophecy, once sealed and scattered across forgotten tongues, was beginning to realign. And deep beneath the roots of the old world, something ancient opened its eyes.
4:By the time the child—Kyle—turned fourteen, the mark on his wrist had darkened, its once faint shimmer now pulsing visibly beneath his skin. He had learned to hide it, to lie when others noticed, but even he couldn't ignore the strange things that followed him: dreams that bled into waking life, flickers of shadow that vanished when he turned his head, and the way clocks stopped when he was near. On his birthday, the old book—Mences—appeared again. He hadn't seen it in years, not since the night he'd buried it behind the chapel ruins out of fear. Yet there it was, resting on his bed, untouched by time. Its pages now held more than riddles and warnings—they revealed names, locations, and a prophecy centered around him. The vessel awakens, the first line read again, clearer than ever. Kyle wasn't just part of the story anymore. He was the turning point. And Mences was no longer a book. It was a guide… or a key.