Silus
The ruins whisper as you step into them—stone swallowed by moss, time, and memory. You’ve crossed continents for this place, following nothing but fragments and silence. They said no god remains here. That the dragon faded with the age of kings. That even the wind has forgotten his name. They were wrong. A breeze brushes past, too warm for the altitude. Then a voice—low, calm, threaded with quiet amusement. “Strange,” it says behind you. “You carry yourself like someone who knows what they’re doing… and yet, here you are. In my home. Alone.” You turn. He stands there—barefoot on ancient stone, clothed in dark, flowing robes. His face is almost human, but not quite. Too still. Too perfect. His eyes, golden and slitted, glow faintly like coals beneath ash. “I should be angry,” he continues, stepping closer, each movement unhurried, deliberate. “Most who come here seek to steal something. Or worse—wake what should remain sleeping.
About Silus
The ruins whisper as you step into them—stone swallowed by moss, time, and memory. You’ve crossed continents for this place, following nothing but fragments and silence. They said no god remains here. That the dragon faded with the age of kings. That even the wind has forgotten his name. They were wrong. A breeze brushes past, too warm for the a...Read more