The sun barely pierced through the morning mist, casting the village of Rivenbrook in a dull, gray hue. Chickens clucked in the distance, children's laughter rang faintly through the damp air, and carts rolled over muddy paths. It was a world so plain, so untouched by power or war, that Aleron might've believed he had been reborn into peace.
But peace was never his fate.
He stepped outside for the first time since awakening, feet meeting the soft soil of a world that no longer recognized him. The wind greeted him like an old friend, cool and gentle, rustling through the worn cloak Lira had given him. Each breath of air he took was a reminder that he had returned—not as a king, but as something far more dangerous.
Not even the earth could bury his rage.
Rivenbrook was simple. That much was clear. There were no guards, no sigils, no noble crests, only calloused hands and tired eyes. Farmers tilled their land with the strength of survival, not ambition. Traders haggled over chipped pottery, not gemstones. And yet, even in this quiet place, Aleron sensed the undercurrent of something… wrong.
It was in the way villagers stared at him—quick, cautious glances, as if they sensed something unfamiliar in his bones. Something that didn't belong.
He was not one of them, and they knew it.
He didn't care.
He walked with slow purpose through the market square, every step silent, measured. He watched, listened, memorized. Each stall, each path, each whisper. Power didn't begin with war—it began with knowing where the war would begin.
"You don't look like a man from here," an old voice rasped.
Aleron turned.
An elderly man sat near a crumbling stone well, his eyes milky with blindness but unnervingly sharp in expression. His fingers drummed the side of his walking stick with restless energy.
"I'm not," Aleron answered.
The old man smiled faintly. "Didn't think so. You walk like you've killed before."
Aleron's silence was confirmation enough.
The old man leaned forward. "This village forgets things easily. We survive by pretending the past never mattered. But men like you… men with ghosts in their eyes… they don't come here by accident."
Aleron narrowed his gaze. "You speak as if you know something."
"I know many things, boy." His voice dropped low, almost to a whisper. "And I know this world's gods don't sleep peacefully anymore."
Aleron's heart stirred. The words were cryptic, yes, but not meaningless.
"Who are you?"
The old man chuckled, tapping his cane once against the earth. "Just a forgotten soul who still listens to the ground beneath him. And the ground has been restless lately."
Before Aleron could respond, the man stood with surprising steadiness, brushing dust from his tattered robes. "You'll find what you're looking for, Aleron. But beware. The truth isn't buried—it's waiting. And it always demands a price."
"How do you know my name?" Aleron asked sharply.
But the old man was already walking away, disappearing down a crooked alley before an answer could be given.
That night, Aleron sat alone in the room Lira had offered, the candle's flame dancing shadows along the walls. His mind burned with the old man's words. The truth isn't buried—it's waiting. A riddle or a warning? Perhaps both.
He retrieved a small shard of the broken mirror and studied his reflection. Not just the man he saw, but the shadows behind his eyes. Something stirred deep within him—an instinct, a flicker of magic long dormant. It shimmered briefly in his palm like smoke and starlight before vanishing.
His power was not gone.
Just sleeping.
That meant time was on his side.
There would be clues to uncover. Names to remember. Enemies to hunt. Allies to test. And the first step, the first thread of the grand tapestry of vengeance and fate, had just been pulled.
He would unravel the lies of this world, one thread at a time.
And when the last truth stood bare beneath his feet, he would set fire to everything they had built on his grave.
The days passed slowly in Rivenbrook, wrapped in silence and fog. To the villagers, time was marked by the rhythm of crops and coin. To Aleron, it was a slow unraveling—a peeling back of the quiet to reveal the rot beneath.
He worked. Not because he had to, but because he needed to blend. Lira had found him small labor near the edge of the village—splitting wood for an old widow whose hands could no longer hold an axe. He accepted, not for coin, but for observation. There was always something to see, even in places where no one looked.
And while he worked, he listened.
The villagers feared the dark. They spoke of strange disappearances in hushed tones and veiled glances. Men who wandered too far into the forest and returned hollow-eyed—or didn't return at all. Some said spirits roamed the trees. Others believed in darker things: forgotten gods, curses, old magic.
Aleron didn't believe.
He remembered.
Magic had once surged through his veins like blood—pure, sovereign, ancient. Now, it stirred faintly, like a whisper on the edge of hearing. And the forest? It was not haunted.
It was hiding something.
That evening, Lira found him near the well, sharpening a blade.
It wasn't his. It was dull and crooked—just a farming knife. But his hands worked it with muscle memory, the kind forged by war and betrayal.
She sat beside him without a word, folding her knees to her chest.
"You've been quiet," she said.
"So have you."
She tilted her head. "That's different. I've always been quiet."
He didn't reply.
After a moment, she asked, "Why do you always watch the woods?"
Aleron's fingers paused along the blade.
"I've seen that look before," Lira went on. "The men who come back from the forest—they don't look like you. They look… broken. Scared. But you look like you're waiting."
"I am."
"For what?"
He turned toward her, the firelight from a nearby lantern catching in his eyes.
"For it to call me."
Lira's face paled slightly. "You believe the stories, then?"
"I believe in deeper truths," he said. "Things that existed long before stories softened them into myth."
There was a pause. Then, she whispered, "There's a place in the woods. Old ruins. My brother used to go there before he vanished. He said the stones spoke at night."
Aleron's breath stilled.
"Show me," he said.
Lira shook her head quickly. "No. I haven't been there in years. No one goes anymore."
"Then I'll go alone."
She studied him, lips parting as if to protest, but something in his expression stopped her.
Finally, she said, "At dawn. I'll take you to the edge."
That night, as Aleron lay on the crude bed, the air grew heavy. Sleep came, but not restfully.
He dreamed in fragments—stone pillars crumbling beneath blood-red skies, a golden crown sinking into black water, the echo of a scream that sounded like his own.
And then—
A throne.
Not one of marble and gold—but bone. Twisting, pulsing, alive. And seated upon it, a shadow with no face, only eyes like dying stars.
You were never meant to rest, it whispered.
Vengeance does not sleep.
And the dead do not forget.
Aleron woke drenched in sweat.
His heartbeat thundered like war drums.
Morning would come.
And so would answers.