Son-Kwan

Exile of the Cherry Vale • Heir of the Stone Breath

The Harsh Mountains cut the sky like broken spears. Their shadows fall across a wounded valley—the place the Simianfolk once called Cherry Vale.

Son-Kwan stands on a high ridge where cold wind bites through his fur, gazing down at the blackened groves below. Twisted roots claw at the soil where cherry trees once bloomed. What was once a cradle of warmth and laughter is now a nest for horrors.

No clan dares return.

But Son-Kwan remembers.

He remembers running through tall grass while pink petals clung to his shoulders.

He remembers elders laughing as they crushed peaches for the sacred drink.

He remembers his mother braiding charms into his fur before the evening fires.

These memories burn hotter than any wound.

The Night of Ash

When the Darkness came, it did not roar—it whispered.

It bent Gnolls, Goblins, Orcs, and Humans alike, turning them into a living tide. They poured through mountain passes thought impossible. The wards failed. The sky burned red.

Son-Kwan was young then. Too young to fight, too slow to flee. His father carried him while his mother held the gate long enough for others to escape. He never saw her again.

They ran until the valley vanished behind falling stone.

From that day on, Son-Kwan swore he would never run again.

The Long Road of Training

The clans scattered across Zin, hiding among ruins and forests. They chose peace where they could find it, but Son-Kwan sought only strength.

He trained under wandering monks who taught him breath-control and flowing strikes.

He fought mercenaries who taught him how to endure pain.

He learned from mystics who whispered of Ka’Thura and the fractured Heart of the World.

Yet every battle reminded him how far he still was from his goal.

The Darkness was not just an enemy—it was a living wound.

And he was not ready.

The Fey Path

Among the elders, there is an old secret:

before the Simianfolk learned their Mystic Arts, they learned them from the Fey Realms, where magic is closer to the world’s first breath.

Most believe the path is lost.

Son-Kwan does not.

At the edge of the Harsh Mountains, he kneels beneath a withered cherry tree. He presses his staff to the stone and chants in Primordial, the language of the Stone Father.

The wind stills.

Light fractures.

Petals of glowing energy spiral as reality tears open—

a gate to a realm alive with ancient magic.

Son-Kwan rises.

He is still not strong enough.

But he is no longer afraid.

And one day, when he returns, the Cherry Vale will no longer be a grave.

It will be a battlefield.

And then—it will bloom again.