Journal of Kazem
Kazem in the Golden Plains
The Naming of Sunveil
Day 967
I have decided to name the village. Or perhaps, it named itself.
In the early hours, just before the sun crests the horizon, a mist rises from the resin trees—fine as silk and golden in the light. The villagers call it "the veil," a gift from the land, a breath of magic that signals the start of harvest. It cloaks the fields, the stone paths, even my robes if I wander too far.
It was a child who said it first—running barefoot through the haze, laughing. “The sun wears a veil here,” she said.
So it shall be called Sunveil.
The name feels... appropriate. There is still much I do not understand about this place—why the covenant named me, or why the mastic here is purer than any I’ve seen. But I know this: the land has power. And now, others must come.
I have begun preparations for a City Stone—a permanent conduit for travelers, scholars, and fellow wizards. With it, Sunveil will no longer be a forgotten outpost at the edge of the Golden Plains. It will be a gathering place. A waypoint. A name spoken beyond the borders of dust and sand.
I do not know what will come of this. I only know I cannot carry this place alone. If I must rule, I will make it easier for others to arrive.
Let them come.
The Forgotten Covenant
Day 942
I did not expect to inherit a village. In truth, I have never desired such things.
After I drove the bandits away, I thought the mortals would show gratitude, perhaps some relief, and leave me to my search. But their gratitude has taken a different form. They no longer see me as a passing stranger—they call me Sorcerer Kazem of the Palms, whispering my name as though it holds ancient power over the sands. They offer more than thanks; they offer allegiance.
Today, the elder came to me with a relic—a scroll, worn and brittle, its ink fading. The words upon it were in the tongue of the Djinn, my tongue. It spoke of a covenant, an ancient agreement binding this land in the Golden Plains to those of my bloodline. I was not aware of such ties, but the elder claimed otherwise.
"It has been foretold," he said, his voice low with reverence. "A Djinn would return to claim the village, and now you have come. You are its rightful ruler, Sorcerer Kazem."
I took the scroll, its weight insignificant compared to the burden it carried. I did not come here to rule. I came for my family, for answers hidden in the desert’s breath. And yet, by some forgotten bond, this village—this small, nameless place in the Golden Plains—now belongs to me.
I do not know if this inheritance will aid my search. But I will stay, for this place holds secrets tied to my past.
The village is mine—whether I sought it or not.
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