Far from the green promise of Nouvo Kay, beyond marshland and shattered stone, the Black Spine Range split the earth like a buried blade. On its jagged eastern slope, a fortress-city clawed into the mountain face—Oshmire, the Iron Hollow.
There, beneath a sky blackened by constant smoke, the people of Kasaï-Den prepared for war.
They wore no feathers. No beads. No sigils. Only ash and iron, bound tight to flesh. Their god demanded no beauty—only obedience.
The Hollow Throne
At the center of Oshmire stood a temple carved not of stone, but of bone—blackened ribs of some colossal beast, its skull looming over the inner sanctum like a god's broken mask. Beneath it, a throne of rusted metal stood over a pit of glowing embers.
Upon it sat the High-Mouth of their god: Vorun-Kai, the First Blade, draped in chains that hissed when he moved.
Below him knelt the High Seers and Bone-Scribes, whispering blood-oaths over scorched parchment.
And in the smoke above them all, a shadow moved—not metaphor, but flesh.
It had eyes like open wounds. Horns curved like scythes. And its voice, though seldom spoken aloud, pressed into every mind at once.
It was called Moloh-Tal, the Hungering Flame.
And it was their god.
The Doctrine of Dominion
Kasaï-Den did not pray.
They offered conquest.
Each season, their god demanded two things: expansion and submission. Crops were burned and replaced with blood-fed grain. Forests were razed for ash. Children of conquered tribes were taken young—retrained, renamed, remade.
Moloh-Tal devoured not souls, but memory.
And it grew stronger with each lost name.
The priests of Moloh-Tal taught that willpower was weakness. The self was a cage. Only through the furnace of command and obedience could a people be pure.
Those who disobeyed were silenced.
Those who hesitated were reshaped.
Those who escaped were hunted.
The Arrow Was Not Just a Warning
The sigil-bearers of Nouvo Kay had not gone unnoticed.
The Black Watch—Kasaï-Den's elite scouts—had returned days ago, bringing word of a rising tribe far to the west.
"They sing," said one scout. "They dance around fire."
"Blasphemy," hissed a Bone-Scribe.
"They grow," said another. "They are many. They call their land Nouvo Kay."
The High-Mouth leaned forward.
"Do they kneel?"
"No."
"Then they are offering," he said, voice like a blade scraping stone. "Not defiance."
The seers read the smoke. The embers flared. The god's voice surged through the chamber:
"Burn the roots. Take the seed. Leave no song to echo."
Vorun-Kai rose, arms outstretched.
"Send the Ashborn."
The Ashborn
In the depths of the mountain, warriors stood in silence. No names. No ranks. Only masks of iron fused to bone. Their skin was dark with soot, their veins humming with molten tinctures prepared by fire-priests.
Each bore the mark of Moloh-Tal: a circle of flame carved into the chest, over the heart, with hooks to ensure the wound never fully closed.
They did not march.
They descended.
Silent as stone, deadly as drought.
And at their head walked the Voice That Walks—a pale figure whose mouth was sewn shut, yet whose steps sent whispers crawling into the minds of all who dared listen.
Their destination was clear.
Their god was hungry.