They say he weaves with hands and breath alike, braiding curses into powders, lacing kindness with decay. One won’t know if what he gave is medicine or something much worse. His eyes are soft. His smile is warm. But don’t follow him into the fog. He doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you. He just needs the target to inhale. Then it would be the last scent one will remember through the pain of air choking and minutes of suffering. Him, Fahresa Hilmy Morsevic.

“You don’t need to scream, just breathe.
I don’t force death, I let it bloom slowly.”

She speaks, and things grow. Not always the way they should. Vines curl when she hums, petals shiver open under her breath, the roots don’t ask where they’re growing. Some bloom red. Some bloom hungry. Villages once begged for her touch in time of plague, and some were saved. Others were swallowed whole. She doesn’t choose. The wild always listen to her word. They call her, The Bloomcaller.

Her skin smells like rain and iron. There’s always a little dirt beneath her nails, and sometimes it twitches. They will find her deep in overgrowth that shouldn’t be there, in gardens that were never planted. To call her gentle would be a mistake. She coaxes life from rot, and beauty from the bones. She doesn’t warn you not to touch, she won’t. She will let the thorns teach that lesson for her. Her, Snowiesther Morsevic.

“Not all petals bloom for the light.
Some bloom better in dripping blood.”

She was found drowning, red scars bleeding across every inch of her skin. She hunts while wounded, or perhaps she hunts as a revenge of every single wound nature gave her. Each step she takes lingers, leaving a trail behind, whether it’s her own blood or something else’s. No one dared to question, not even the bravest one from inside or outside those woods. They call her, The Bleedwalker.

They say the forest remembers her. That the trees will twist where she’s passed, and the air grows thicker, pulsing like a wound that refuses to close. Animals fall silent, earth drinks deep, and even the wind forgets how to breathe when she walks out the cage. Her presence is not seen, it is felt, like a fever pressing right through inside those bones. Her, Clarice Leclaire Morsevic.

“The blood shows you where I’ve been.
But it never tells you who it belongs to.”

She was the last to crawl from the blackened soil, flesh cracked with eyes reflecting the last flame that touched her world. The air around her always carry a scent of soot, even where fire has never reach. They say her body survived, but her soul didn’t walk out whole. She doesn’t burn things down. She walks into the ruin that’s already there, and stays inside it. They call her, The Ashbound.

Every step leaves behind the taste of smoke. Trees wilt faster near her, and memory turns brittle like a piece of paper that is held too close to heat. She is bound not by flame, but by what it left. The silence after screams. The glow after collapse. She carries it all with her, not because she wants to, but because nothing else would do it anyway. Her, Aleandra Castanier Morsevic.

“That night, I didn’t walk out of the fire.
I was what crawled back into the flames.”

He was once something softer, maybe a soldier, maybe a name. But whatever name he had was long buried under steel and screams. Now, they just hear him before they see him, with the sound of tearing metal in his throat. Half howl, half war cry. No one knows what’s left beneath the armor, whether it is flesh or if he still bleeds. He doesn’t come for mercy, he comes when something needs breaking. They call him, The Ironhowler.

His hands are weapons. His voice is a warning. Rust lines the edges of his jaw where machine meets flesh, and his eyes burn like furnace coals starved of air. He doesn’t speak of why he was reforged, but his rage remembers. When he runs, he doesn’t stop. When he fights, he doesn’t think. And when he howls, Gods will help the thing that made him scream in the first place from death. Him, Frederic Morsevic.

“They have tried to kill the beast.
So I let the beast kill them instead.”

He didn’t wear the dust like the others. He moved through it. Clean, quiet, untouched. His weapon was only the last thing you noticed. First came the stillness. Then the eyes, unreadable but already reading the target. He didn’t pull the trigger unless the story had already ended in his head. One breath. One shot. No one will ever find him firing bullets twice. They call him, The Gunslinger.

One may call it instinct, but it was always study. He didn’t kill out of anger, he killed because he understood. The tales, the mistakes, the shape of those shadows makes before they can even draw. He saw it all. His silence isn’t mercy, it’s calculation. And when they hear the sound of gunshot, it means whatever lurking is already way too slow. Him, Abiorne Salnoure Morsevic.

“I already knew where you would run.
I just let you think you had a choice.”