The ruins were older than memory, older than the whispered histories of kingdoms and kings. Crumbling towers draped in thick, twisted ivy loomed like silent sentinels over cracked stones. Their once-proud arches, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain, framed the violet-hued horizon like broken frames in a forgotten gallery. The marble of the summoning circle beneath Dorian's feet was pocked and weathered, yet the ancient glyphs engraved into it pulsed faintly with a steady, otherworldly glow—like the heartbeat of a buried god.
The world here had fallen into a profound silence, as if the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for a secret long buried to rise once more. No birds sang in these skies; no insects buzzed through the air. Only the soft whisper of the wind stirred among the rubble, carrying a faint scent of dust and forgotten time.
Dorian sat beneath a broken pillar, its once-majestic capital shattered and jagged above him. His eyes scanned the distant horizon beyond the shattered archways, where the violet haze of the sky blended with the shadows of the towering ruins. The low, heavy clouds rolled slowly, casting fleeting patterns of light and shadow on the crumbled stones. Somewhere beyond the ruins, an unfamiliar sun burned faintly behind the clouds—a sun that seemed to hang frozen in the sky.
He breathed out slowly. The air tasted dry and ancient in his lungs. It still felt surreal. Unreal. Like waking from a dream that refuses to end.
The mages lingered nearby. Cloaked figures standing silent and grim, their robes rustling softly in the breeze. The eldest among them was a hunched man leaning heavily on a twisted cane carved with serpentine runes that seemed to writhe faintly in the dim light. His lined face was half-shadowed beneath his hood, and his eyes glimmered with a deep, unreadable knowledge.
"You are adapting," he said at last, his voice low and gravelly like dried leaves caught in a winter wind. "Faster than we had expected."
Dorian said nothing. He looked down at his hands — now steady, no longer trembling as they had been when he first arrived. The soft hum of power still whispered beneath his skin, an energy that was both foreign and familiar, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat.
The others stood at a respectful distance, forming a loose circle around him. They had not treated him as a prisoner, but neither had they acted as saviors. Their reverence was tinged with caution, like one approaches a wild beast—curious, but wary.
"We believed we had summoned a vessel," one of the mages finally spoke, her voice quiet but firm. Her eyes glowed like polished bloodstones, deep red and unsettling in the twilight. "A hero meant for one of the gods. The rituals performed across the seven kingdoms are ancient — they pull forth champions to embody the divine will. Each god grants a fragment of power, a protector. A symbol of their rule."
"But you…" The eldest mage's voice dropped to a whisper, "You were not sent by any of them."
Dorian rose slowly to his feet. The leather armor he wore creaked faintly as he moved — black, supple, and lined with violet stitchings that caught the dying light like veins of shadow. The dagger at his hip shimmered faintly in the twilight, more relic than weapon. Its black blade hummed softly, edged with flickers of purple lightning trapped beneath the surface.
"I didn't ask to be summoned," he said, voice low and cautious, yet firm.
"No," the bloodstone-eyed mage agreed with a nod. "But you came nonetheless. And the ritual… should not have worked."
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer, lowering her voice as if the ruins themselves might overhear. "We believed you were meant for Valdras — the god long lost to time. The god of life and death. Some among us hoped you were his vessel — the return of ancient balance."
Dorian's golden eyes narrowed beneath the low hanging clouds, flickering with a mix of anger and disbelief. "You thought wrong."
The woman bowed her head in solemn admission. "Yes."
The heavy air thickened between them, laden with unspoken truths.
"What you carry does not belong to Valdras," the eldest admitted, voice heavy with regret. "It is older… or perhaps stranger. Even we cannot grasp its nature."
The circle of mages fell silent, the only sound the faint rustle of wind weaving through shattered stone.
Then, with a slow, deliberate gesture, the eldest mage raised a hand. A leather satchel, weathered and dusted with age, floated silently through the air toward Dorian. Inside, he glimpsed neatly folded scrolls, brittle papers marked with faded ink, and a hand-drawn map of the surrounding lands—scribbled with notes and cryptic symbols.
"You will remain here," the eldest said, voice steady but grim. "We have done all we dared. If the gods discover this place, our fate will be worse than death. We must erase our presence."
"Leaving me?" Dorian frowned, stepping closer.
"This is not abandonment," the mage replied. "It is protection — for both you, and us. Study the world. Learn its truths. Perhaps your answers lie not in prophecy… but in survival."
With that, they turned. One by one, the cloaked figures stepped into swirling portals of violet flame, vanishing into the ether as if they had never been.
Dorian was left alone.
Days passed. Or perhaps weeks. Time lost all meaning beneath the faded sun of Vehrasil. It stretched and slowed, thick with an almost tangible weight.
He studied the scrolls by flickering torchlight, burning long into the night. The maps showed cities—Thamriel, Ryvolin, Ashkar—each name inked with care. The notes spoke of the seven gods and their sprawling domains: the Fire God's dominion stretching across the jagged western mountains, the Goddess of Storms ruling the storm-battered oceans, the Earth Mother watching over the endless forests.
But none mentioned Valdras.
And certainly none spoke of the strange, pulsing power now alive inside him.
Each morning, Dorian trained beneath the half-collapsed arches of the ruins. His body moved with a new awareness—balance, precision, control. He was no warrior, yet the dagger felt like a part of him, natural and alive. At first, he mimicked the positions in the old martial illustrations left by the mages, clumsy and uncertain.
But soon, he began to flow.
His breath came in steady rhythms, matching the strikes. His grip tightened instinctively as muscle memory took root. The dagger flashed with a violet gleam, flickering like lightning trapped behind glass.
Next, he tried magic.
The scrolls described basic incantations—wind blades slicing through the air, shield sparks glowing faintly, ember threads curling like fiery snakes. Most required deep concentration and strict control of mana. For Dorian, it was effortless.
A single whispered word summoned a gust of wind sharp enough to cleave a boulder in two.
He did not grow tired.
The realization chilled him.
This wasn't normal.
The scrolls warned of mana exhaustion, of backlashes that could burn the caster to ash. But no matter how many spells he cast, no matter how long he practiced, he remained steady. His body grew stronger. Sharper.
But there was a cost.
Dreams.
Each night, as the ruins fell into silence and the stars blinked uncertainly behind clouds, Dorian was pulled into visions.
A throne in shadow, cracked and broken by time.
A field of white flowers stained red with fresh blood.
A robed figure standing atop a mountain of skulls, arms raised wide, laughing as fire rained from the heavens.
He awoke breathless, drenched in cold sweat, the echoes of those dark images clawing at his mind.
The silence of the ruins was no longer comforting. It watched him. The glyphs etched deep into the stone hummed sometimes, responding to his presence as if aware. The wind carried whispers he could not understand—ghostly voices caught between worlds.
Something had been disturbed.
Far away, beyond the veil of mountains and thick forests, a city burned with an eerie light—the capital of the Fire God's kingdom.
Crimson banners snapped violently in the rising wind. The grand courtyard thrummed with murmuring citizens, their faces tense beneath flickering flame-torches. At the marble steps stood a Minister, dressed in robes trimmed with molten gold, raising a hand to command silence.
"People of Ashkar," his voice boomed, reverberating off stone walls. "Dark omens stir beyond our borders. We have heard rumors. Whispers of monsters crawling in the night. The gods do not sleep—and neither shall we."
He gestured toward the line of guards behind him, each clad in armor that seemed forged from burning steel, their spears raised like tongues of flame.
"By decree of the Flame," he continued, "all citizens are to observe curfew under the tolling of the Ember Bell. No one walks the streets after nightfall. Those who defy this order… shall be left to the dark."
The crowd murmured uneasily.
A boy clutched his mother's cloak tightly, eyes wide with unspoken fear. In the distance, a nobleman scoffed beneath a crimson mask, though no one dared challenge the decree aloud.
None spoke the truth they all feared:
The stars had stopped shining three nights ago.
And something moved in the forests.
Back in the ruins, beneath the half-collapsed archway, Dorian practiced as dawn crept through shattered stones. His dagger flashed and whispered with violet light, each strike precise and sure.
He began to mark the passing days with chalk on a stone wall, each line a silent testament to his solitude. His food supplies dwindled, but he had found wild fruits nearby, and rainwater pooled in the stone bowls carved by hands long vanished.
He had become something between a scholar and a survivor.
Still, no one came.
He wasn't sure if he wanted them to.
The last note the mages left burned in his mind:
If you begin to dream of ash and bone, do not follow the voices. They are not yours.
He dreamed again that night.
But this time, someone else was dreaming with him.
A man in dark robes knelt before a scorched altar, chanting in a language long forgotten.
And in his hand, he held a familiar dagger—identical to Dorian's—soaked in fresh blood.