The winds of Garmrdis howled like wolves in mourning. Snow clung to the eaves of the old city, where the black iron of spires twisted into the sky like the claws of buried giants. Even in summer, Garmrdis never thawed. Tonight, it was colder than usual. As if the ice remembered something. Hush stood outside the towering office of Lord Vladimir Irontooth, his long coat trailing behind him like a shadow too reluctant to flee. Frost crunched beneath his boots. Above, gas lamps flickered and buzzed, casting elongated silhouettes that bent around corners and whispered back at him. He lowered his gaze to the parchment in his gloved hand. Four names, neatly written. Raewyn  Nivali  Valemont Irontooth He traced the last name with a finger, then knocked. Lord Vladimir Irontooth looked up from his desk. Snow coiled past the high, arched windows like ghosts chasing one another in the wind. He hadn’t expected visitors. Not at this hour. Not with everything falling apart. He set the quill down with care. The office was cold. It was always cold. But this was the kind of chill that came from something deeper than winter. His mind spun with diplomats’ questions, citizen complaints, missing persons reports. Everyone wanted answers. The door opened slowly. No guards, no servants. Just Vlad. Lord Vladimir Irontooth was not what legends promised. He was tall, yes. Regal, sure. But his silver hair had dulled, and his once-proud shoulders sagged beneath the velvet weight of his title. He looked more like a sleepless father than a ruling lord. The man standing there looked carved from shadow. Not just cloaked... composed of something darker than fabric. Vlad's breath caught. The stranger didn’t speak, but Vlad knew what he was. The garment. The bearing. The stillness. His voice was low and raw. "A Zeolite..." “You’re far from the Void, priest,” Vlad said. His voice sounded older than it should’ve. “Why have you come here?” The figure gave a small, deferential bow. “I have come to offer you peace, Lord Irontooth.” “Peace?” Vlad’s eyebrow raised. “I’ve seen your kind deliver nothing but war and lies.” The stranger tilted his head, as if amused. “Your assumptions are decades outdated. I am Deacon Hush.” Vlad didn’t move. His instincts screamed. He should call the guard. He should slam the door. But… There was something else. Something ancient in the way the man looked at him. Like a peer.   “…What do you want?” “To rewrite your story,” Hush said. “To sever the weight from your neck and offer you a different ending.”  “What are you talking about?” “You are not meant for this cage,” Hush said gently. “I know what you were. What you wanted. Before the burden. Before the title. A man who dreamed of warmth. Of children. Of rest.”   Something burned in Vlad’s chest. He stepped back. His mind went to Graham and Mitsuha, now dead... and to Jekyll, not exactly living, nor loving. Vlad looked past him, out into the snow. No guards. No one watching. Only the wind, and this man who should not be here. “…And what would it cost?” he asked. “A name. A memory. And the part of you that still believes this world can be mended.” Vlad shut his eyes. His mind wandered through his history, the Nivali manor and Lady Dame Sylair. His friendship with Drogo when Glacikaldr still stood. And to Lord Revan, and how he regretted not staying in better contact with his friend.   When he opened them again, Hush was already inside. Hush walked to the center of the room and began unpacking items from a velvet-lined satchel. The air grew still, as if waiting. From the folds of his robe, he produced a ring of obsidian teeth and placed them gently on the floor in a perfect circle, their biting edges turned inward. Within that circle, he scattered black sand, powdered jawbone, and four iron nails- two bent, one broken, one untouched. Then came the leeches. Small, translucent creatures swimming in a jar of thick, ink-dark fluid. Chronovores. Time-drinkers. Vlad flinched at the sight. “This is the Unholy Retcon,” Hush murmured. “Old magic. Forgotten by most. But not all.” “I… don’t know if I want this,” Vlad muttered. His breath fogged in the cold. “You do,” Hush said, without turning. “But the part of you that was bent into royalty resists healing. Let it go.” “I still have duties,” Vlad whispered. “You have ghosts.” “…And Garmrdis?” Vlad asked, barely more than a whisper. “Will forget you. As you will have forgotten it.” A silence stretched between them. Then Hush took out a mirror, fogged and cracked. He held it up to Vlad. “Look.” Vlad’s reflection stared back. Gaunt. Heavy-eyed. Hollow. “This is the mask the world put on you,” Hush said. “Let me take it off.” Vlad stepped into the circle, slowly. “Do it.” Hush nodded. He drew a spiral in the sand with a carved bone stylus, then placed the mirror in the center. He reached into the jar and lifted one leech, its body pulsing. It writhed in his palm. “This will drink your past,” Hush said. “Only what burdens. Not what you love.” He pressed the leech against Vlad’s wrist. It latched. Vlad gasped. A dizzying rush flooded his senses... images unwinding like smoke: Council chambers. Emeraldite Prison. War. Papers. Names. Steel. Ice. Pain. Endless winters of duty. The mirror fogged further. His reflection blurred, softened. Hush began the chant, low and rhythmic: "Time undone and tale unspoke, Chains unlinked- the burden broke, Face forgotten, all made still, Rewrite the name, unleash the will." The leech twitched violently, bloated with time, then split with a wet pop. Smoke hissed from the wound, curling upward. The iron nails blackened. The mirror cracked in a perfect circle. Vlad dropped to his knees, breathing hard. But lighter. His chest no longer felt like a tomb. Vlad looked at the broken mirror one last time. "Farewell... Vlad." Hush looked into his eyes, and Vlad awoke somewhere else. In a bed. Beside him was a woman, he recognized her... his wife. Outside the window dawn was cracking through the curtain. The snow had stopped falling, for the first time in years.

You'll be joining them shortly.

Moob Moo - Doja Cat https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AD_TWloJ310&list=RDAD_TWloJ310&start_radio=1

To Hekras, Child of Theros. Your works have not went unnoticed. I make no claim to know all that you conspire and act upon, but I detect stagnation, too much even for the Lord of Decay. I have interest in you and your mission, and would seek a counsel with you at the earliest convenience. I wish to discuss unification between our gods, no mere alliance, but the sort which I believe has enamored your interest. I do not wish to disclose much information in this letter, lest spying eyes pry upon it. But I believe it would be of great interest to you to meet with me. If you agree, let us do so in the city of New Airious.  We needn't agree on doctrines in precision, but I believe we can agree on a final outcome. Thank you for your consideration, Deacon Hush, Church of Whispers.

They sat in rows amongst the pews of the chapel, cloaked in the breathless silence that had become their faith. Black candles burned low on the altar, casting twitching shadows that mimicked the slow rise and fall of cloaked shoulders. No one spoke during the nightly prayer. That was the rule. And yet- Vaeril broke it. “The silence has become a scream...” His voice was soft, but it carried. It always did. The air shifted. Heads turned. Deacon Ash, sitting in front of the altar, did not. Her fingers remained laced in her lap, white with tension. “I feel him,” Vaeril continued. “Zeolix walks again.” Ash didn’t blink. “You’ve heard many things.” “This was different. This was clarity. The signs match- the blood moon, black tides, the-” “We’ve all seen omens,” Ash interrupted coolly. Her voice croaked like an old hag. “And we’ve all learned not to mistake desperation for prophecy.” A dry chuckle rippled from Bishop Nym beside her. A few others tilted their heads in quiet amusement. “But he’s awake,” Vaeril said, firmer this time. “You feel it. The weight in the air. The stirring of the Void. He’s back, and we’re still kneeling here in dust, waiting for permission to act.” Ash finally turned her head. Her gaze, sharp as a throwing knife, landed on him. “We do not act because of dreams,” she said. “We act when the Lord calls. And I’ve heard no such whisper.” Vaeril held her stare. “There are no more whispers,” he said. “There is only the scream beneath the veil.” Ash smiled- not kindly. “You’re a clever one. A little too clever, sometimes. I’ve known boys like you before. Hungry for meaning. Eager to be first.” She rose slowly, you could hear the dry rot in the crackling of her robe. “Say your prayers, Vaeril. If Zeolix truly walks, he’ll come through that door himself. Until then...” She turned her back to him. “Hush!” The congregation shifted, adjusting themselves as if nothing had happened. Heads bowed again. Silence returned. But it wasn’t the same silence. It was thicker now. Heavier. Vaeril sat, but he didn’t bow his head. He watched the candlelight dance in Ash’s silver hair, and thought about the future... The next day, the air in the chapel felt different. Still silent, still reverent, but strained at the edges. Like a violin string pulled a little too tight. No one spoke of Vaeril’s outburst during prayer. Not directly. But eyes lingered longer on him now. Whispers- ironic, given their namesake, hung just out of earshot. Ash did not mention it. Which was worse. That evening, she called a gathering. “A sacred renewal,” she said, her voice echoing off the old stone. “The Lord tests us. Our faith must be not only endured, but refreshed. Let us take communion.” The cultists gathered in slow, practiced movements. The chapel smelled of wax, damp stone, and the bitter voidwort used to brew the communion draught. Earthy, sharp, a taste few ever got used to. Thirty of them gathered, hoods drawn, candles lit, eyes heavy. They didn’t speak unless they had to. They hadn’t in years.   Dust floated through a shaft of light like it was afraid to settle. The pews creaked beneath bones worn down by waiting. So much waiting. Vaeril moved with the same precision he always did. Measured steps. Measured glances. He said nothing as he prepared the basin for communion. The ritual was old. One of the few things they still remembered how to do without opening the tomes. A little voidwort, a little chorus, a pinch of ash. The liquid always burned the tongue. That was part of it. This time, Vaeril added nothing the eye could see. Just a vial. Clear. Odorless. Quiet. The way he liked things. He stirred the draught gently in the wide, black basin and stepped back. "You’re learning obedience,” Ash said. Vaeril smiled back.   “Obedience,” he said, “is the kindling of true faith.”   Deacon Ash began the chant, voice rasping like she was already half dead. Bishop Nym followed. Then the others. Thirty voices, soft and frail, rising as one into something less than a song. When it was time, they approached the altar in pairs. Vaeril watched each of them drink. Some winced. Some swallowed without blinking. Some looked briefly to him as they turned away, searching for something in his face. He gave them nothing. When the last cup was empty, they resumed their seats. The room was still. Minutes passed. One cultist slumped, as if sleep had taken him. Another shivered, then was still. One began coughing softly into her sleeve. No one said a word. The chant resumed, but more quietly now. Ragged. Off-rhythm. A few faces turned pale. Hands trembled. One man stared straight ahead, eyes wide, unmoving. The ritual ended. The candles burned low. And no one rose. Vaeril stood alone at the altar, hands folded behind his back. He listened to the silence with the attention of a surgeon. The chapel felt clean again. When he left, he didn’t look back. And the Church of Whispers had fallen completely, completely still.