In a village ruled by myth,
Where the sins of the past are paid for in the blood of the living,
leaving is impossible.
Staying means surrendering to fate.
The rules are etched everywhere—on doors, on stone, even on skin.
The deeper you go, the more forbidden things become.
Here, the river is king.
Do not anger it.
Do not touch it.
Just offer the sacrifice.
June 7, Year 950
An explosion echoed through Rodver.
It mixed with screams,
as fire slithered like a living nightmare.
Villagers fled into shelters,
silent except for whispered prayers.
Shock marked every face—
for the river was never meant to stir before its fifty-one-year cycle.
But something had changed.
Only the Elders knew the truth.
If the river stirs,
it means the last of its children has been born.
And their destruction… is now only a matter of time.
On the village's edge,
in a house untouched by the fire—
for reasons no one understood—
the cry of a newborn tore through the silence.
A life began,
as another ended.
The child was born. The mother died.
And from that house,
Lora stepped out, face unreadable,
carrying the infant in her arms.
His name was Kayan.
Named by his father,
a desperate attempt to shield him from his fate,
by offering himself to the river.
⸻
December 10, Year 958
Eight years had passed since the river's last stirring,
and Rodver had only grown darker… and stricter.
Even whispers were watched.
Despite its beauty,
this village was unlike any other.
The smell of Old George's bread still hung in the air,
and the laughter of children still echoed in the fields.
But at sunset,
silence crept in—
swallowing every sound,
as if draining life itself.
Only the murmur of the Shanselin River remained,
clear and calm…
yet forever stained with blood that would not fade.
In this darkness,
a woman stood apart—
Lora, in her forties, always smiling,
though the villagers called her the Blight.
But she did not fear their stares,
nor care for their whispers.
She took in three of the river's children:
Kayan. Raven. Eliora.
And she declared them under her protection.
The village was cruel.
Its people colder than the river itself.
But Lora never broke.
Since the day she brought them together,
she hadn't slept in peace.
Because each night,
one of them would hear the whisper—
from the river.
⸻
Kayan, the boy born in fire,
laughed too often… even when there was nothing to laugh about.
His eyes always shimmered with something unspoken,
as if he knew what no one else did.
Raven spoke little,
but he was always there—watching in silence,
as if his voice had died with his father.
Eliora walked through dreams that were not her own,
and woke whispering names no one recognized.
Three children.
Not one of them carried their own blood.
And Lora,
alone,
had dared to bring them into the world,
defying the river and all who feared it.
But the river… never forgets.
⸻
One night,
Lora awoke to soft knocks on her window.
Everyone else was asleep.
She opened the door…
no one was there.
Only a small mirror sat on the doorstep.
Etched into its surface was a single sentence:
"One of them is not what you think."