Control
The world of Aetheria teeters on the edge of chaos, its once-vibrant skies now choked by the smoldering remnants of the Godswar, a cataclysmic clash between ancient deities that shattered the laws of reality itself. Across the fractured continents, rogue storms of raw magic devour entire cities, while desperate survivors scavenge the ruins for shards of divine power—artifacts capable of granting unimaginable abilities... or reducing their wielders to screaming pillars of crystal. Beneath it all, the Hollowed—mortal souls warped into half-spectral abominations by the planar rifts—spread like a plague, their mournful wails echoing through dead kingdoms. Yet whispers persist of the Celestial Choir, a secret cabal of surviving demigods who manipulate the chaos from their shifting sanctum, their motives as inscrutable as the discordant song that now replaces the world's fundamental harmonies.
c
The ancient forest hummed with secrets, its gnarled roots clawing through soil like skeletal fingers. Shadows clung to moss-covered stones, whispering tales of forgotten battles. A lone traveler trudged along the overgrown path, their cloak snagging on thorns that dripped crimson sap. Somewhere ahead, a dissonant melody wafted through the mist—flute notes sharp enough to draw blood. They paused at a clearing where moonlight fractured through petrified branches. Eight stone pillars formed a broken circle, runes glowing faintly as their boots disturbed the gravel. The air thickened, tasting of burnt copper and rotting lilies. A shape flickered at the edge of vision—too angular for any natural beast, all jagged edges and liquid motion. Fingers tightened around a rusted dagger hilt. The melody crescendoed into a shriek as the ground split, vomiting tendrils of black smoke that coiled around the nearest pillar. Runes flared scarlet, searing symbols into the traveler's retinas. Breath hitched. Memories surfaced unbidden—a childhood rhyme about doors without handles, a warning etched on their village well. The smoke solidified into clawed hands, each finger ending in a serrated hook. They lunged backward as stone shattered where they'd stood. Heartbeats thundered in sync with the discordant flute as they scrambled toward the tree line. Brambles tore at flesh, but the grinding stone pursuit grew louder. Dawn's first light pierced the canopy as they collapsed against a lichen-crusted oak. The forest fell silent. No pillars. No claws. Only eight faint scars circling their left wrist, pulsing in time with distant thunder.
