Morveth Hollowmantle walks where the world thins and the forgotten seeps through. Once a scholar of deep-earth ruins, he vanished decades ago beneath a city that no longer appears on maps. When he returned, he brought the tunnel with him.
He speaks little, not because he has nothing to say—but because most words don’t survive the journey back from where he’s been.
The staff he carries, known as Cinderhook, burns with a quiet, stubborn flame said to be stolen from the first fire ever buried. It does not light the way—it reveals what wants to be seen. Walls whisper under its glow. Shadows rearrange themselves like guilty thoughts.
The arch behind him is no mere passage. It is the Ember Gate, a living threshold grown from bone, stone, and something older than either. The eye above it opens only when Morveth arrives, watching, judging, remembering. Some say it feeds on stories. Others say it waits for a specific one to return.
The small figures trailing him—called Kindlings—are not quite children, not quite spirits. Lost things, found things. Each carries a fragment of a tale Morveth could not leave behind.
He does not guide travelers. He tests them.
And if you pass, he won’t show you the way out…
