r-o-o-k-i-e

Khal Dreikov was born on a rainy morning in a world that didn’t know his name—and never would. His heart, soft and frail, beat unevenly. His cries, though brave, faded more and more each day. He didn’t last a year. Yet his death was not the end. In the quiet moments before his tiny lungs gave out, a chorus of prayers surrounded him. His mother’s voice. His father’s touch. Even strangers from far villages came to offer blessings. Somewhere beyond the veil, those prayers were heard. And so the gods answered—not with healing, but with transmigration.