Luma'rah Island is a forested island perpetually shrouded in mist.

At dawn and dusk, the white fog rises from the ground, clinging to moss and fallen leaves as it weaves through the ancient trees and stone houses, veiling the sunlight.

Only at noon does the sun briefly pierce through the thick fog, and during that time, the islanders gather to bask in the warmth, trade goods, and share quiet conversations.

 

The island’s houses are built from dark stone, their roofs covered in thick moss and leaf tiles.

People live by hunting, farming, and reading the stars, following the rhythms of the sky and the seasons.

A monthly market is held on a date chosen by the village astrologer, where hunters and farmers bring their goods to barter.

Most islanders know and trust one another, living in a way that is quiet, old, and deeply rooted in simplicity.

 

But there is one corner of Mistleaf Island that is silently avoided—

In the southeast lies a low-lying area wrapped in perpetual fog, known by the villagers as the Dusk Hollow.

 

Dusk Hollow is not spoken of lightly.

Some say a creature lives there—one that cannot be seen, but that slowly devours those heavy with sorrow.

Others claim it is not a creature, but emotion itself—drawn to those whose thoughts grow dark.

The ones who “walked into Dusk Hollow and never came back” left behind no trace, only a faint chill in the old stories told around the fire.

 

To guard themselves from the Hollow, villagers hold a festival each year on March 7th: The Dusk Rite.

On this day, they write down the burdens they no longer wish to carry and cast them into a fire.

As night falls, they dance and sing around the flames, waiting for the mist to lift—if only for a little while.

 

It’s said that if you burn what’s heavy in your heart,

the Hollow won’t come for you.