Before arriving in Inanetheris, they were captivated by emotion and silence—spending countless nights exploring old records and forgotten halls, chasing echoes only they could sense. Their search led them to a strange artifact: The Mnemosyne Fracture, a book of sorrow that no library claimed. One page held no words, just a spiral inside a teardrop. When they touched it, the world peeled away. They didn’t fall into chaos—they fell into rhythm. Into Inanetheris, a realm where feelings shape the land and silence holds deep meaning. Velavem, the city of held breath, was the first to welcome them. It did not celebrate or fear them—it simply watched. They were not hero, nor threat. Just a guest. Yet deep below the surface, something old began to stir. The Eye of Zetheravox, buried in silent soil and forgotten grief, twitched under a violet sky. The wind lost its taste. Water stopped singing. And the Eye recognized them. Long ago, a prophecy spoke of the “Unwoven One,” a visitor who would arrive without fanfare, unnoticed, yet would trigger the unraveling of silence. Not a warrior. Not a savior. A tuning fork. The realm responded. Roads reshaped. Leaves leaned closer. Bridges pulsed with hesitation. Their emotions started syncing with the land itself. The Eye of Zetheravox, once blinded in silence, now watched fully awake.

They hadn’t come seeking prophecy.
Prophecy had already found them.

Long before this awakening, a tablet explained the story behind it all: the eye, what is currently left of Zetheravox was composed artificially. It began as a failed recipe. Elessia, sovereign of sustenance, tried to fuse emotional opposites into one powerful dish. She called it the Binding Reduction. It was never served. Buried in silence, the recipe grew unstable and began to ferment. This tension called forth two forgotten forces: Zetheragonyx, a infernal wyrm of rejection, and Exotivarox, a skeletal spirit of hunger. Their clash tore through the realm, but then they combined by accident because of a binding spell. releasing a new terror—Zetheravox, the Twin-Maw of Ruin. Its wyrm like form emerged from the skies, plated in volcanic chrome and mirrored obsidian, with twin heads: one horned with flaming fury and force, the other skeletal, bringing forth rot, fear and famine. Its wings spread storms. Its breath bent reality, releasing despair as mist. Every move was composed like grief in motion. It recoiled from harmony, attacked beauty, and targeted joy. Anything too perfect caused it pain. So it ruined everything—precisely. It was finally stopped not by battle, but by a single dish. Elessia and Cocoa served Zetheravox a meal steeped in imperfection and grace. It tasted what it had never understood: vulnerability. And it surrendered.

But not quietly.

Zetheravox’s body exploded violently, with shockwaves that echoed through the skies and carved sorrow into the wind. Though its form was destroyed entirely, an eye survived. It now rests in Velavem’s town square—sealed in amber, perched atop an empty stone torch. It doesn’t blink. It doesn’t sleep. It stays. Inanetheris was once a world shaped by emotion and memory, kept in balance by two divine chefs. But everything changed when Zetheravox appeared—a chaotic force born from hatred and hunger. It didn’t just destroy—it calculated. Twin heads acted in unison: one unleashed wrath, the other consumed resistance. Harmony enraged it. Singing cities were silenced, while luck temples got shattered. Joyful feasts spoiled into ash. Zetheravox enjoyed the chaos. It wanted to be obeyed, worshiped like a god. And its preferred offering? Total submission. Complete silence, with no resistance and defiance.

Those who dared to oppose it weren’t just struck down—they were tormented. Zetheravox broke their minds, distorted their memories, and left behind scars that still echo in the land. Its body may be gone, but even after defeat, its eye watches, knowing the world dared to sing without it, awaiting return stronger, and only then, it emerges.

Would you like to unravel this world for what it is?