Echoes of Narthala

It began with a scream that fractured the stars. Centuries ago, under a sky void of moonlight, the Spiral Temple trembled as ancient powers clashed within its sacred heart. The air inside shimmered with heat and memory, the stone walls etched with glyphs that pulsed like arteries. Outside, a legion of the Hollowed clawed at the gates—creatures formed not of flesh but of broken time and corrupted echoes, howling with the stolen voices of the dead. Inside, two warriors stood at the eye of the storm. Nyra—the Flameborn Seer, her golden armor splintered, blood mixing with fire across her skin. And Samrith—the last Blade of the Eastern Lineage, cloaked in crimson energy, a relic bound to his soul pulsing at his chest. They had fought through madness and betrayal, across dimensions and through loss, to stand here for this final act. The relic between them floated, humming like a dying star. Its spiral pattern rotated in the air, feeding on their presence, reacting to the marks that glowed on their palms. “You know what sealing it means,” Samrith said, voice hoarse, his gaze never leaving hers. Nyra’s lips curled into a tired smile. “We’ve died a thousand ways already. One more won’t stop the echoes.” She stepped forward. He met her halfway. With trembling hands, they pressed their marked palms to the Spiral relic. A blinding light tore through the temple. Glyphs erupted into flame. The screams of the Hollowed ceased mid-cry. Time folded in on itself. And silence fell. When the light died, there was no trace of Nyra or Samrith. The relic was sealed. The gate was closed. The world forgot. Until now. Because echoes do not die. They wait. And beneath the overgrown ruins of Narthala, in the heart of a jungle that should not remember, the Spiral hums again. Calling new names. And it begins…