Sura Denwright

Sura Denwright grew up in Remdu, a quiet settlement straddling the line between life and desolation — the last ribbon of green before the gray expanse of the Sterile Fields. The people there learned not to waste words; the wind would carry them away.

Her father, Harell Denwright, was one of the few couriers who dared to cross the Fields. He believed every route deserved to be walked, even the ones no one else would take. He used to say, “If the map stops, someone has to draw the next line.”

When Harell vanished during a delivery route through the Fields, no one expected him to come back. The Sterile Fields don’t give things back. They keep them — bodies, wagons, sound.
But Sura couldn’t accept that.

She left Remdu with nothing but her father’s spare lantern and his last recorded assignment. Locals tried to stop her, warning her about the Ashen Veil — the mist that blinds even the living. She went anyway.

For three days she wandered through the Fields. The soil cracked beneath her steps, the petrified trees looming like mourners. She saw her reflection in the stone leaves, her skin pale with dust. By the time she found the wreck of her father’s courier cart, she couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk.

There was no body — just his pack, half-buried near the wheels, the wax seal unbroken. Inside, she found his delivery ledger and a few personal notes, including one meant for her:

“If you’re reading this, it means I’m still somewhere on the road. Keep walking.”

She carried the pack to Hajul, where Captain Loryn Trav recognized Harell’s name on the guild rolls. He offered her a seat, a meal, and a question:

“Do you want to help make sure we don’t forget any others?”

She stayed.