An Isekai Story

Hidden deep in the spine of Mount Thornmaw, the Cloister of Still Flame serves as the Unmaker’s master bedroom—not a throne, nor a laboratory, but a place of solitary anticipation. The chamber is vast, echoless, and unnervingly symmetrical. Inert braziers shaped like open mouths line the walls, emitting no light—only a faint, unnatural warmth that seems to breathe. Black velvet drapes hang heavy from ceiling to floor, each hiding a fresco of a civilization’s ruin. Behind one: Aerthos, its spires melting into ash. Behind another: Solara, collapsing beneath failed innovation. Even Aok, the floating isle, is depicted cracked and falling like a teardrop from heaven. None of these events have happened. Yet. At the room’s center lies a single, uncarved slab of obsidian—neither bed nor altar, yet unmistakably used. The Unmaker rests here, not in sleep, but in a stillness so complete it warps time. There is no sound in the cloister. Even thoughts feel muted.

The Cloister stretches like a cathedral tomb, every surface saturated in shadow. The braziers flicker with heatless breath, their iron mouths agape. Heavy black curtains hang in still air, weighed by unseen gravity. The central slab reflects no light, only outlines—an imprint of absence. The silence here is physical, pressing against the ribs like a second heartbeat.