The dagger trembled in his grip.
Dorian woke with a start, the cool metal pressed tightly against his palm. His breath came sharp, ragged in the stillness of the ruined chamber. The dream had felt different this time—clearer, heavier, as though it had brushed against something real and waiting. The robed figure's chant still echoed faintly in his ears, a haunting cadence threading through the dark folds of his mind, and the memory of that blood-soaked twin dagger refused to loosen its grip on his thoughts.
Morning light bled weakly through the fractured arches above, its pale fingers spilling across broken stones and cracked glyphs carved into marble long since worn by wind and rain. A low fog hovered close to the earth, curling in hesitant tendrils between pillars carved with forgotten runes, like the ghostly breath of the ruins themselves. The air was damp and cold, smelling faintly of moss and ancient dust.
He sat up slowly, rubbing the grime from his eyes with the back of a rough hand. His muscles ached pleasantly from the day's training, but beneath the weariness was a simmering strength, as though each motion, each strike practiced beneath the shattered skies, had been etched deeper into his bones. Yet that dream — the vividness of it — gnawed at him, refusing to fade.
His gaze flicked toward the satchel of scrolls lying by his side, the leather worn and softened at the edges from constant handling. He had read every line, every map, every note. The names of distant cities he had never seen whispered from the fragile pages: Thamriel, Ryvolin, Ashkar—places shaped and ruled by gods he barely understood. The borders of kingdoms, the domains of divine patrons, the rituals and rites that once called forth champions from across the ages. But none spoke of dreamers with blood-drenched blades. None spoke of twin daggers.
He stood and stretched, the dagger still warm in his hand, its violet shimmer pulsing faintly in the soft dawn. But his mind wrestled with questions that the scrolls could not answer.
That day, he chose not to train.
Instead, he wandered.
The ruins stretched farther than he had realized, each corner revealing new mysteries—half-buried vaults, staircases choked with rubble and roots that led only to darkness, courtyards lost beneath tangled ivy and shattered stonework. Every surface seemed to whisper secrets, echoes of lives long vanished.
Beneath a collapsed chapel, he discovered a sealed room. The door had crumbled inward long ago, the debris dry and cracked with age. Slowly, carefully, he cleared the entrance until he could squeeze through the narrow gap.
Inside was darkness and dust, thick and suffocating.
But also something else.
A faint glow pulsed deep within the chamber—not magic as he knew it, but a subtle reflection of light on polished metal. Drawn forward by instinct, he found an amulet resting atop a weathered stone plinth in the center of the room. It was simple in design: circular, with a smooth crystal at its core that shimmered like still water. The colors shifted with the angle of light—violet, then green, then pale silver—like a liquid prism caught in time. A thin black cord threaded through it, frayed but intact.
Dorian approached cautiously.
There was no sudden rush of power, no divine whisper or overwhelming presence. But as his fingers brushed the cool surface, a faint hum tickled his skin—neither warmth nor danger—just recognition. As if it knew him.
He turned the amulet over, tracing the edges. Etched delicately on the back was a single symbol—a circle bisected by a thin vertical line. It was unlike any glyph or rune in his scrolls. Not a language he knew. Just a simple, stark sign.
With a tentative breath, he slipped it over his head and let it rest against his chest.
Nothing happened.
No visions, no awakening of hidden powers. Yet something inside him shifted—a quiet settling in his chest. Maybe comfort was enough, for now.
Far to the west, beyond thick forests and jagged valleys, the sky above Ashkar burned with its familiar twilight hue. The city gleamed like a jewel set in stone: crimson walls rising sharply, copper rooftops catching the dying light, golden bridges arching over rivers of molten lava that flowed like veins through the volcanic heart of the land. The capital of flame never truly slept, its braziers flaring even through the darkest hours.
Yet this evening, an unnatural quiet hung heavy in the air.
A storm brewed in the hearts and minds of its people.
Within the High Hall of Embers, perched atop a tower wrapped in ever-burning braziers, a conclave of advisors gathered around the Flame Minister's throne. The heat in the room was stifling, the shadows thrown long and flickering by the dancing flames.
"Three more villages unaccounted for," a grizzled voice reported grimly. "We found only bones and ash. No signs of raiders. No markings from beasts."
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
"Monsters," another whispered. "The shadows are no longer bound to the old borders. Something walks free now—something ancient."
Minister Caeron leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his sharp chin. His robes, red and black with gold trim, billowed slightly in the still, heated air, though no breeze stirred.
"The God of Flame has not spoken," he said calmly, voice low but firm. "But fire always warns before it devours. Send out the Emberbound. Light every warded torch along the eastern roads. Double the guards at the mountain passes."
A councilor hesitated. "But if it is magic—"
"We burn magic too," Caeron interrupted with quiet finality.
The room fell silent.
Outside, the city's deeper quarters hummed with rumors, their whispers spreading faster than the flames themselves. Tales of a child seen speaking to shadows in the alleys. A hunter who returned with white hair and hollow eyes. A new cult gathering on the fringes, carving strange symbols no one dared speak aloud.
They called it the Night Maw—a force older than prophecy, darker than any god's decree.
Some said it was punishment for sins long forgotten.
Others whispered it was not of this world at all.
Back in the ruins, Dorian marked another chalk line on the rough stone wall. Twenty-three now. Days? Weeks? Time was losing meaning here beneath the faded sun of Vehrasil.
He had grown stronger. The dagger was no longer merely a weapon but an extension of his own will. Its violet shimmer surfaced more frequently, flickering like trapped lightning when he focused.
The magic, too, flowed endlessly and effortlessly. Wind blades sharper, shield sparks longer-lasting. He experimented with whispers of flame, shields of mist, and even delicate threads of ember curling between his fingers. They answered his call without hesitation.
Yet, despite the gifts, he remained cautious.
The amulet hung silent. Never pulsing, never glowing. But he found his hand reaching for it often, a subconscious comfort against the unknown.
Then, just as dusk bled into night, a new sound shattered the stillness.
Returning from gathering water near the forest's edge, he heard deliberate crunching—slow, measured footsteps over dry leaves and broken twigs.
Not a beast. Not a bird.
A figure stood framed beneath the distant arch of stone, barely visible through the fading light and drifting mist. Cloaked and hooded, they held a crooked staff topped with bone, twisted and jagged.
Dorian froze.
The figure said nothing.
He reached instinctively for his dagger, the familiar hum of magic rising beneath his skin.
"Who are you?" His voice rang out, cautious but firm.
The figure remained silent, then with a fluid, unnatural grace, turned and vanished into the forest's shadows.
Without hesitation, Dorian gave chase.
Out through the crumbled gate, down winding paths tangled with roots and shadow, he ran. But the forest thickened unnervingly, branches stretching and closing behind him like grasping fingers.
He stopped abruptly.
The figure was gone.
In their place, resting at the base of a twisted, gnarled tree, lay a single object:
A book. Bound in black leather, sealed by a bone clasp. No title. No markings.
Dorian hesitated, heart hammering.
Then, with steady hands, he picked it up.
The leather was cold to the touch.
Even after holding it close, pressing it against his chest, the book felt untouched by warmth. The bone clasp resisted at first, as if unyielding against time, then gave way with a brittle snap.
Inside, the pages were unnervingly smooth, untouched by wear. The smell of ash and old herbs drifted faintly from the vellum. The first few pages were blank.
Then slowly, lines began to appear.
Not fading in, but bleeding — as though veins beneath the surface leaked ancient memory onto the page. Dorian held his breath.
The letters shifted shapes—runes one moment, glyphs the next—then morphed into something close to Vehrasil's common tongue.
Finally, a sentence emerged:
"You are not the first."
The air around him chilled, temperature dropping sharply. The trees whispered louder, the ruins behind him shrouded in mist and shadows unseen moments before.
Another line formed below the first:
"The vessel awakens in pieces. Mind. Blood. Name."
He snapped the book shut.
The forest responded—not with noise, but with profound stillness, as though the world itself paused to watch his next move.
He stepped back, clutching the book tight. The amulet on his chest suddenly felt heavier, pressing faintly at his heart, reminding him of its silent watch.
Turning, he faced the ruins again. The bruised horizon glowed violet and molten gold beneath a sinking sun.
Back at his usual stone perch, he placed the book gently on his lap.
The dagger gleamed faintly at his side.
And without another word, he left the ruins behind.