He once read to understand. Now he reads because he must. The ink runs deeper than skin. It coils in his veins, curls behind his eyes. He does not carry scrolls anymore. The text lives in him, written and rewritten with each breath. Some call him a scholar. Others call him a vessel. He is both. And neither. Because the longer he reads, the less of him remains. They call him, The Scriptbound.

The words speak back now. Whisper in forgotten tongues. Shift under moonlight. When he opens his mouth, it is not always his voice. Knowledge is not quiet, they never were. It claws, it stains, it consumes. And yet he guards it still. Not to protect the books, but to protect the world from what they have already said. He will always be the story’s end, along with the beginning of the story. Him, Asher Jeremiah Morsevic.

“It is not my voice anymore who speaks.
The scrolls are speaking through me.”

She was not born like others. Her breath came after the first word, her skin after the first line. They say a story was written so desperately, so powerfully, it reached across silence and pulled her out. Her veins don’t carry blood, but ink. Thick, shifting, unreadable. Some days her hands smudge when you touch them. Some days, her name won’t stay the same twice. They call her, The Inkborne.

She does not guard the book. She is the page between danger and release. Her eyes scan faster than thought, lips murmuring half-formed verses meant to bind, twist, erase. The texts she protects change her, and in turn, she changes them. One may forget one ever met her. They may remember a different face, a different voice. But if one name appears in her story, it will not end the way one would expect. It will be the opposite. Her, Auryn Claire Morsevic.

“My name changes. And yours will, too.
I wasn’t born like the others, I was written.”

She does not watch the relic. She watches the word that wakes it. The secrets etched beneath, the name that is no longer spoken, the shape of meaning that once bent the world. Her hands are stained with chalk, her arms with ink, her memory with forgotten alphabets. One broken glyph, one cracked seal, and what was silent may speak again. She guards not with her power, but with precision too. They call her, The Glyphwarden.

Some think her magic is passive, that language is not powerful at all. Yet, they all completely forgot how language is also a weapon. A phrase can summon, a symbol can kill, and a whisper in the wrong tongue can undo a whole city. She is not just the keeper of relics. She is keeper of the rules beneath them. If she falls, the meanings run wild. And those meaning, once loosed, has no mercy. Her, Maivelyn Lune Morsevic.

“Don’t speak of those words you knew.
It remembers being worshipped once.”

He doesn’t speak often. But when he does, the air listens. His work is not art, it is protection sharpened into design. Circles within circles, metal within stone, words wrapped in geometry too exact for the untrained eye. He does not seal things shut, he seals them away, into reality narrow enough for them not to slip through. His craft is a warning of danger that lurks. They call him, The Sealwright.

Every seal he makes is layered carefully. Containment, resistance, memory, grief. To break one is not just to release what’s bound, but to shatter something far older. Balance, order, cost. His tools are ancient, far older than his first breath. His discipline, brutal. And though his hands are steady, his eyes always carry fear. Not of what he seals, but of who unmake it without understanding the price. Him, Faizan Harris Morsevic.

“Every single line has its own meaning.
And every meaning, has its consequences.”

Inside the glass nest, bitter air mingles with venom-sweet scents, and brews whisper in bubbles. 'Herbalist' was never a low risk of a role, herbs can heal or destroy, and the plants seem to know. Some wrap around their wrist like old friends; others scream in silence when cut. Recipes shift overnight without warning, old symbols replacing those careful notes.

         “You don’t pick the herbs. They choose who touches them, and who bleeds for it.”

A single sip can mend bones, or melt them. Scars are part of the price, gifts from a nature that remembers blood. And sometimes, the plants move on their own, crawling through the nest, looking for purpose. What are they really creating, hidden deep inside those glass? Is it the cure for the sick, or offerings for one that is way older than their own bones?
      

He sings softly, not to soothe, but to stain. His voice is low, patient, full of syllables that taste like iron and ash. The venom is not in the blade or bottle. It is in the rhythm, the cadence, the pause between breaths. He does not brew potions. He invokes them. His poisons don’t just harm, they linger, learning your body from the inside out, changing it note by note. They call him, The Venomchant.

When he speaks, the air grows sweet and thick. Eyes glaze, limbs falter, thoughts slow. Not because of fear, but because the chant has already begun. He tells his target exactly what is coming in words they don’t understand, until the blood starts to answer. Death by his hand is not fast. It is a whole set of performance. And it will always end as the final verse. Him, Miles Rue Morsevic.

“I didn’t whisper to harm or warn you.
I whisper so your blood can sings back.”

He speaks slowly, like something that’s been listening far longer than it’s been asked to speak. Roots twist to his voice. Not just upward, but outward, downward, inward. He walks barefoot through soil no one else trusts, his touch pulling memory from the earth like thread. He doesn’t shout to command. He asks, and the forest answers. In silence. In movement. In knots. They call him, The Rootbinder.