Golarion

“The Worldwound is closed, but the world does not forget how to bleed.”
— Anonymous scrawl on a bloodstained wall near Gundrun

Six years have passed since the Closing of the Worldwound, and though the chasms of the Abyss have shut, the land has not known true peace. Sarkoris is a graveyard half-reclaimed, where the grass grows over bones and laughter feels like sacrilege. Nightmares walk beside the living, unseen but ever-felt. Grief has become a common language.

And now the whispers have begun... Small at first—just a lost patrol here, a caravan vanished there. Ruins found torn open from the inside.

No one official would speak of it. The Hellknights called it hysteria. The Church of Iomedae offered silence, and prayers no longer seemed to reach as far as they used to. The Pathfinder Society, at least, sent field agents—quietly, carefully.

Among them: a young team of Pathfinders who don't seem to know the meaning of carefully. The ones whose methods deviate from the Society’s usual scholarly grace. Brash. Clever. Irreverent. Dangerous, some say.

The fear found in the shadows and around corners remain. It stalks through the dreams of veterans, lingers in the eyes of children born under siege. The world survived the Abyss—but it did not escape it.

And now, something is moving beneath the silence.