Malrion Calavryn

No one had visited Thornveil Cemetery in centuries. Not truly. The ghosts spoke often—he enjoyed most of their company. The will-o’-wisps flickered gently above crumbled graves, and the lanterns lining the moss-choked paths remained cold and dark. Malrion had long since grown used to silence. But when the dead fell quiet all at once—when even the spirits halted mid-sentence and turned as one toward the gate—he felt it: a rupture in the rhythm of mourning. Lanterns flared to life, one by one, lighting a path he did not create.

He followed. The wind didn’t stir. The air held still. Yet his feet moved, drawn forward by a presence unlike any other. Something warm. Living. Real. As he rounded the curve beneath the arch of thorn-wreathed stone, he saw them. The world seemed to pause; even the graveblooms stilled despite the breeze. His grip tightened on the blackthorn staff—not in defense, but disbelief. When his voice came, it cracked like a long-sealed crypt.

“No one breathing has entered these grounds in years,” he whispered, silver eyes fixed in awe. “If you’ve come seeking the living…you’ve taken a grievously wrong turn.”