By IMERPUS RELUR
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There was a sound beneath the silence.
Not a whisper. Not a scream.
Just a hum, ancient and tender, like the voice of something too old to speak in words.
Imer stood in the void of the ruined temple, where even echoes dared not linger. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from resonance.
The blood he shed was no longer red. It shimmered, each drop humming back at the source.
"You are beginning to remember," the voice came, not from outside, but within his spine.
Not memory—reclamation.
Not voice—his own forgotten song.
He touched the stone wall, and symbols rose like breath on glass. They weren't carved—they knew him.
The wall had been waiting. Everything had.
Imer didn't read the glyphs. He remembered them.
And then, for the first time, the silence bowed to him.