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.

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.”