Among the soot-stained hovels and the iron-bound halls of Urtagh, a shadow of a tale persists—one that the wise dismiss with a cold laugh. It is the myth of the Knowing.
Fables tell of beings who walk the wastes clad in thoughts rather than mail, possessed of a sight that pierces the veil of time itself. To the common folk, they are as gods, for it is said they do not merely witness the unfolding of the world, but command the very essence of its becoming. They speak of a power that can weave reality from the void, shaping the destinies of kings and slaves alike with but a silent breath.
Yet, let us speak truth in this age of stone: there is no magic in Urtagh.
Such delusions are but the cradle-songs of nurses, meant to lull frightened babes into a dreamless sleep. The stars are silent, and the earth is deaf. This world is forged in the furnace of necessity; it is ruled by the unyielding weight of iron and the cruel glitter of gold. Those who seek the “Knowing” seek only a ghost in the fog. In the end, every man and every woman learns the same lesson: there is no sorcery that can break a well-wrought chain.
VOICE FROM THE VOID
“You have found what few can even see. A truth not hidden by dust, but by a lack of will. Welcome, Seeker of the True Chain.”
