The Hollowing of Eryndor

(BETA)-Due more content The world was called Eryndor, though every people named it differently in their own tongue. To the elves it was Sylvaerion, the Living Song. To the dwarves it was Khaz-Moruun, the Deep Forge. Dragons called it Vorthakai — the World Before Ash. For twelve thousand years, Eryndor had survived empires, celestial wars, and the wrath of gods. Magic flowed openly through the land like invisible rivers beneath stone and root. Mountains breathed ancient fire. Forests whispered prophecies. Oceans concealed cities older than memory. Every race believed the age of catastrophe was long behind them. They were wrong. The plague began with a single corpse that refused to stay dead. Not in a graveyard. Not on a battlefield. But upon the Golden Steps of the holy city of Aurelis, beneath the gaze of priests and kings. A murdered beggar sat upright during his own funeral rites. His jaw hung broken. His eyes were milk-white. Yet he spoke with perfect clarity in a voice that belonged to no living thing: “Death remembers.” Then he screamed.