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.

The power he wields is not violent, but it can be. Vines don’t need to be fast to crush a throat. Roots do not need to be sharp to break bone. He binds what should have stayed wild, and he does it kindly. So kindly it hurts. He is not your enemy. He is not your friend. He is not the kne you could trust your life with. He is what grows beneath both, waiting to rise when the time is right, strangle it down. Him, Soren Carl Morsevic.

“The roots are wrapped around your name.
They are waiting for my words to pull.”

She rose from water no one dares drink, skin slick with moss, eyes too still for something living. Her breath smells of old rain, and when she speaks, it sounds like something bubbling up from below. They say she was born in the mire, others say she was buried there. But now she walks, crowned in fungi and fog, and wherever her feet fall, something blooms, soft and so wrong. They call her, The Mireborn.

The sick come to her. So do the cursed. She never turns them away, but her cures come slow and oozing, stitched with things you shouldn’t touch. Roots that drink from corpses. Flowers that open under moon-sick tides. She doesn’t clean the wound, she feeds it, until it learns to grow on its own. The swamp isn’t death to her. It is home. And it always remember everything that sinks. Her, Fleusha Noerth Morsevic.

“I don’t pull you out from the swamp.
I show you how to breathe in it instead.”

He doesn’t carry weapons. He carries breath. Invisible, drifting, patient. Where he walks, air thickens. Walls bloom with color not meant for daylight. His garden lives on skin, in lungs, beneath floorboards. He doesn’t kill with a blade. He just speaks, and lets the spores listen. By the time the fever hits, it’s already too late. They call him, The Sporeweaver.