Ever heard of Velmoria? A city shrouded in thick mist, where the people live without blood or emotions. Orven Hale, a truth seeker, dares to step into its eerie depths, unraveling secrets that were never meant to be known. Get ready for a journey filled with mystery, tension, and the chilling unknown!

 

Velmoria

The Scholar’s Descent

The road to Velmoria was never meant to be found. It was hidden beneath layers of forgotten history, buried under the weight of time itself. The few maps that mentioned its existence were written in ink so faded that only the most dedicated scholars could decipher them. And even then, no one had ever confirmed its reality.

But Orven Hale had no need for confirmation—he had already made up his mind.

He traveled alone, his boots sinking into the damp soil of an untouched path. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with something unseen yet undeniably present. The trees that lined his path were ancient, their gnarled branches twisting as if whispering secrets to one another. A crimson mist slithered between the trunks, wrapping around him like fingers eager to pull him into the unknown.

Then, he saw it—the fog.

A dense, impenetrable wall of gray stretched before him, swallowing the world beyond. He knew this was it. Every account, every warning, every legend spoke of this mist, the final threshold that separated Velmoria from the rest of the world.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward.

The moment he entered, the silence became absolute.

His own breathing felt intrusive, his heartbeat unnaturally loud. The air inside was colder, not just in temperature but in something deeper, something that gnawed at the edges of his mind. He walked carefully, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the dagger strapped to his belt—not as a weapon, but as a reminder that he was still grounded in reality.

Then, just as suddenly as he had entered, the fog parted.

And there it was—Velmoria.

The city stood in eerie stillness beneath a crimson sky, its stone buildings darkened with time. Towers reached upward like skeletal fingers, their spires barely piercing the endless red clouds. The streets were paved with perfectly laid stones, free of cracks, free of debris—almost too perfect. There was no sign of decay, no weeds creeping through the gaps, no scent of life or death. Only silence.

And then, movement.

Figures emerged from the shadows, their footsteps synchronized, their expressions void of emotion. They walked with purpose but without urgency, their gazes sharp yet unseeing. Their clothes were elegant yet simple, devoid of excess or ornamentation. The people of Velmoria.

Orven was being watched.

A woman, clad in flowing black robes, stepped forward. Her face was striking, not in beauty but in its sheer lack of warmth. Dark eyes bore into his, calculating, dissecting.

“You should not be here.”

Her voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of a warning.

Orven exhaled slowly, his pulse steady. “But I am.”

She studied him for a moment before speaking again. “What do you seek?”

“The truth.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed across her face. She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing the worth of his answer. Then, she gestured toward the towering structure at the heart of the city—the castle.

“The Keeper awaits you.”

Orven hesitated, glancing around once more. The people of Velmoria had returned to their silent routines, as if his presence no longer mattered. It was unnatural. No curiosity, no whispers, no questions. He had entered their domain, yet they reacted as if he were merely a passing breeze.

“You going to tell me who you are first?” he asked, turning back to the woman.

She regarded him with the same cold stare. “I am Althrea. That is all you need to know.”

“Not a very welcoming introduction,” Orven muttered, mostly to himself.

“Velmoria does not welcome,” Althrea said simply. “It endures.”

She turned without another word, expecting him to follow.

Orven exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his dark hair. “Well, no turning back now.”

And with that, he stepped deeper into the Crimson Dominion.

 

A Land Without Warmth

The corridors of the castle were as silent as the city itself. The walls, built from smooth black stone, stretched high above Orven, their surfaces so polished that they reflected the faint glow of torches lining the halls. Yet, despite the flickering flames, there was no warmth. The fire burned, but it did not radiate heat.

Althrea walked ahead without hesitation, her footsteps echoing evenly. Orven followed, his eyes scanning every corner, every detail, trying to make sense of what he had stepped into.

“You have a lot of empty space here,” he said, his voice low but deliberately breaking the silence.

Althrea didn’t turn back. “We have no need for excess.”

“Right. No decorations, no paintings, no banners, nothing personal. Just cold stone and colder people.”

She stopped abruptly. “Do you fear what you do not understand?”

Orven narrowed his eyes. “I don’t fear it. But I don’t trust it either.”

A faint smirk flickered across Althrea’s lips. “Good. You should not.”

Before Orven could press further, the doors at the end of the hallway opened with a deep, grinding sound. Inside, the throne room loomed vast and shadowed. The ceiling stretched high into darkness, the walls adorned only with vertical slits that allowed dim, crimson light to seep through. At the center stood a grand chair carved from obsidian, its edges sharp, its surface reflecting nothing.

And on it sat the Keeper of Velmoria.

The man was draped in layered black robes, his silver hair flowing past his shoulders. His face was unreadable, neither aged nor youthful, as though time had long abandoned him. His eyes—deep, piercing, and the color of dried blood—settled on Orven with unsettling precision.

“So, you are the scholar,” the Keeper spoke, his voice smooth yet devoid of any warmth.

Orven forced himself to hold that gaze. “And you’re the one with answers.”

A faint chuckle escaped the Keeper’s lips. “Perhaps.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The Keeper studied him as if searching for something beyond flesh, beyond soul.

“Tell me, outsider,” he continued, “what is it you see in Velmoria?”

Orven exhaled. “A city untouched by time. A place where people move like clockwork, where no one speaks unless necessary. A land that looks alive but feels dead.”

The Keeper nodded slowly. “And yet, you chose to come.”

“I did.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Not yet.”

The Keeper leaned back, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. “Then you still have much to learn.”

Orven glanced at Althrea, but she remained emotionless, her hands folded neatly in front of her. He turned back to the Keeper. “Then teach me.”

The room seemed to darken. The air itself grew heavier.

“You seek knowledge, but knowledge demands sacrifice,” the Keeper said. “Tell me, are you prepared to bleed for the truth?”

Orven stiffened. There was something in the way the Keeper spoke—something more than just words. A test. A warning.

“I’ve come too far to turn back now,” he said.

A thin smile formed on the Keeper’s lips. “Then let us begin.”

The doors behind Orven slammed shut.

And the real lesson began.

 

The Blood That Wasn’t Blood

The moment the doors slammed shut, the torches flickered. Their flames darkened—not extinguished, but shifting into an eerie shade of deep red, as if soaking in the very essence of Velmoria itself.

Orven remained still. He could feel it now, the shift in the air, the way the walls seemed to pulse with something unseen. The Keeper, still seated on his obsidian throne, watched him carefully.

“Tell me, Orven Hale,” the Keeper’s voice echoed, “what do you know of blood?”

Orven frowned. “I know it keeps us alive.”

A low chuckle. “Alive?” The Keeper’s fingers drummed lazily against the armrest. “And yet, here in Velmoria, life does not function as it does beyond the mist. Have you not noticed?”

Orven had noticed. He had seen the way the people moved, their unwavering gazes, their precise, controlled actions. There were no accidents, no hesitation. No warmth.

“You bleed,” the Keeper continued, “but they do not.”

Orven’s jaw tensed. “What are they, then?”

The Keeper stood. The air in the room seemed to ripple as he moved. “See for yourself.”

A sharp clink echoed through the chamber. Chains, somewhere in the darkness beyond the throne. A figure emerged—dragged forward by unseen hands.

It was a man. Or, at least, it looked like one.

His face was blank, his skin pale as frostbitten marble. His clothes were pristine, yet the fabric bore no weight, no wrinkles of use. His eyes—lifeless.

Althrea, still standing at Orven’s side, moved toward the figure. Without hesitation, she drew a dagger from the folds of her robe and, in one swift motion, sliced across his forearm.

No reaction.

Not a single flinch, not a single twitch of pain.

And then Orven saw it.

The wound opened—but instead of red, thick blood, a dark, ink-like substance oozed from the cut. It dripped, unnaturally slow, pooling onto the pristine floor.

Orven took a step back. His breathing slowed.

The Keeper tilted his head. “You understand now, don’t you?”

Orven swallowed hard. “They’re… not human.”

A pleased expression crossed the Keeper’s face. “Not anymore.”

Orven’s mind reeled. The entire city—every single person he had seen, the unnerving stillness in their movements, the unnatural silence—everything suddenly made sense.

“What did you do to them?”

The Keeper stepped closer. “We took away what made them weak.”

Orven’s fists clenched. “You mean you took away what made them alive.”

A pause. Then, a slow, knowing smile.

“Is there a difference?”

Orven gritted his teeth. “They feel nothing.”

“They are free.”

“They are empty.”

The Keeper exhaled softly, as if amused. “Perhaps. But emptiness is a small price to pay for perfection.”

Orven glanced at the unmoving figure before him, the ink-blood still pooling at his feet. This wasn’t a city of the living. It was something else entirely.

Something wrong.

Something unnatural.

Althrea finally spoke. “You sought the truth, Orven Hale.” She turned to him, dark eyes unreadable. “This is it.”

Orven’s heart pounded.

He had wanted knowledge. He had wanted answers.

But what if some truths weren’t meant to be known?

And more importantly—what if now that he did know, Velmoria would never let him leave?

 

The Price of Knowing

Orven’s breath was steady, but his mind was anything but. The truth unraveled before him like a tapestry soaked in darkness. The people of Velmoria were not alive—not in the way he understood life. They bled something unnatural. They felt nothing. They existed, but they did not live.

And yet, the Keeper stood there, watching him, waiting.

“Now that you know,” the Keeper said, his voice smooth as polished stone, “what will you do with it?”

Orven glanced at the ink-like blood still dripping onto the cold floor. His stomach twisted.

“This isn’t knowledge,” he muttered. “This is a curse.”

The Keeper smiled—a slow, knowing smile. “That depends on your perspective.”

Althrea remained silent beside him, her expression unreadable. For the first time since meeting her, Orven wondered if she too had bled like them. If she, too, was one of them.

The thought sent ice through his veins.

“You expect me to accept this,” Orven said. “To pretend this is normal?”

The Keeper tilted his head. “Acceptance is not required. Only understanding.”

Orven shook his head. “No. This is wrong.”

The room darkened. Orven felt it before he saw it—something shifting, something ancient stirring within the very bones of the castle. The air thickened, pressing down on him.

Althrea took a step closer. “You should have left when you had the chance.”

Orven’s blood ran cold. “You’re not going to let me go, are you?”

The Keeper did not answer. He didn’t need to.

Something moved in the shadows. Soft footsteps—too synchronized, too precise. The people of Velmoria. They were coming.

Orven’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. He backed away, but the doors were still shut. Trapped.

“You wanted to learn,” the Keeper said, his voice like distant thunder. “Now, you must become.”

Orven’s hands clenched. “I’d rather die.”

A pause. Then, the Keeper whispered, “That can be arranged.”

A shadow lunged from the darkness.

Orven reacted on instinct. He ducked, spun, and drove his shoulder into the nearest figure. They barely stumbled. Their movements were too controlled, too precise.

He wasn’t fighting people. He was fighting things.

Another came at him—this time from the left. He dodged, but his foot slipped against the slick ink-blood on the floor. His balance faltered. Hands reached for him—cold, unfeeling hands.

And then—Althrea moved.

With a single motion, she cut through the air. The shadowed figures halted. For the first time, a flicker of hesitation passed through them.

The Keeper’s gaze sharpened. “Althrea.” His voice was quiet, but there was power beneath it.

Althrea met his eyes, and for a fraction of a second, Orven saw something different in her expression.

A choice.

A hesitation.

And then—her grip on the dagger tightened.

In one swift motion, she grabbed Orven’s wrist and ran.

The figures moved after them, but the moment her blade sliced through the torches along the walls, the fire roared to life—this time, real flames, not the cold, soulless red of Velmoria.

The darkness recoiled.

The castle screamed.

Orven didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. He ran, his breath ragged, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. Althrea led the way—through twisting halls, down corridors that seemed to stretch and shrink as if the castle itself was fighting to keep them inside.

Then—the doors. The massive, towering gates of Velmoria.

Althrea didn’t hesitate. She threw her weight against them, pushing them open just enough for Orven to slip through. The mist howled as it met the outside air.

“Go!” she shouted.

Orven turned to her. “What about you?!”

Althrea smiled—a small, almost sad smile. “I was never meant to leave.”

The figures were closing in.

Orven had a choice.

Stay, and he would be lost to Velmoria.

Leave, and Althrea would be gone forever.

His chest tightened.

“Althrea—”

“Go.”

He didn’t want to. But the shadows were coming.

And so, with one final glance—one final silent promise—he turned.

And ran.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the mist swallowed Velmoria whole. The castle, the people, the Keeper—it all vanished as if it had never existed.

Orven stumbled forward, his breath ragged.

The road stretched ahead of him, the morning sun creeping over the horizon.

Warmth.

Real warmth.

For a long time, he simply stood there, feeling it.

Velmoria was gone.

But its knowledge would never leave him.

He had learned the truth.

And the price of knowing was never forgetting.

 

So, how was Orven’s journey through Velmoria? A city that seemed peaceful but hid a dark truth about life without blood or emotion. Now, the question is—would you dare to uncover such secrets yourself, or would you rather stay safe in the comfort of ignorance? The choice is yours!