Whispers in the Black
~ Sequel to “Ash and Echoes” ~
Wilderness Trilogy Part 2
~ ~ ~
The sky above the Wilderness was like an iron dome, and the land beneath it cracked like the shell of a fallen world. Nyssarra adjusted the hood of her cloak as cold wind bit at her skin. The stars were wrong here—distant, crooked, no longer constant companions. Even Seren’s light felt faint in this place.
They had traveled for two days past Edgeville’s fading border, deeper than Nyssarra had ever dared alone. Wolfthora led with cautious confidence, every footfall measured. She never said it aloud, but Nyssarra knew: even the Zamorakians feared these lands.
“We're nearing the Scour,” Wolfthora murmured, crouched behind a ridge. She pointed to where the ruins of an ancient fortress slumped against the horizon like a broken spine. “There used to be a Saradominist outpost here. Last I came, it was overrun by chaos mages.”
“Not revenants?”
“No. These were… living. Fanatical. But I doubt they’re the ones raising ghosts and opening void gates.”
Nyssarra’s crystal pendant pulsed faintly. A warning. She touched it, feeling a cold resonance humming through the stone.
“It’s worse now,” she said quietly.
They crossed into the ruins by moonlight.
The fortress—once proud—was a field of broken pillars, shattered glass, and craters twisted by forgotten magics. Nyssarra felt the air grow heavier with every step. Not just cold. Thick. Like wading through old grief.
Then came the symbols.
Scrawled in ash and blood on every stone. Not of any god either of them recognized—crude, primal sigils that twisted the eye if stared at too long.
“Something ancient marked this place,” Wolfthora said. “Something angry.”
Then they heard the whisper.
Faint. In the air. In the stone.
“Return the breath… or join the silence…”
Nyssarra froze. “Did you—?”
Wolfthora nodded slowly. Her sword was already in her hand.
They reached the inner sanctum of the ruined keep just before dawn. In the center stood a cracked stone altar surrounded by unlit torches. Beneath it, a staircase spiraled downward, swallowed by shadows.
Nyssarra lit a crystal arrow with elven light and descended first.
The catacombs beneath were dry. Too dry. As if even moisture had fled. The walls bore murals worn by time—depictions of figures bowing to a towering entity cloaked in jagged stone and flame. Not Saradomin. Not Zamorak. Not even the twisted icons of Zaros or Bandos.
Something else.
“Nyss…” Wolfthora whispered.
A figure stood at the far end of the corridor. Still. Watching.
It was not the same robed entity from Edgeville, but it bore the same emptiness. No face. No feet. Its body seemed stitched from ash and echo.
It raised one hand.
And the walls screamed.
Shadows burst from every crevice—specters formed from smoke and bone, whispering in languages that didn’t belong in Gielinor. Wolfthora charged with a roar, blade cleaving through mist-formed limbs. Nyssarra loosed arrow after arrow, each one singing with harmonic resonance that shattered the unnatural dark.
But for each ghost they fell, two more rose.
“It's the altar!” Nyssarra cried. “They’re tethered to it!”
Together they fought toward it—Wolfthora carving a path with relentless fury, Nyssarra illuminating the way with radiant bursts of crystal magic. As they reached the dais, Nyssarra drew her last crystal-tipped arrow—the one she had sworn to save.
The arrow’s core pulsed with the harmony of the Singing Caverns.
She aimed not at a foe, but at the altar itself.
The impact was silent.
And then everything unraveled.
A wave of force slammed them both back, light and shadow twisting into a vortex above the broken stone. The robed entity let out a final, soundless scream before dissipating into vapor.
The catacombs groaned as if exhaling. Then, silence.
They staggered to their feet. The ghosts were gone.
But something remained.
Carved into the broken altar, freshly exposed by the blast, were words. Ancient. But readable.
“He comes not from the stars, but from before them.”
“He waits beneath the Wild.”
“He remembers the First Silence.”
Nyssarra’s blood chilled.
“This isn’t over,” she said.
Wolfthora wiped blood from her lip. “It’s only just beginning.”
They emerged from the ruins hours later. The sun never fully rose in the Wilderness, but what light there was glinted off the distant silhouette of the Chaos Temple.
Wolfthora pointed. “We’ll find more answers there. The priests of Zamorak might not like you… but they know stories even Saradomin’s people buried.”
Nyssarra nodded. “Let’s walk the edge a little longer.”
As they descended the ridge, the wind picked up—carrying with it a new whisper.
This time, neither of them could understand the words.
But the meaning was clear.
The Wild was not just waking.
It was remembering.