The wind outside howled like a wounded beast as Raen descended deeper into the temple's underbelly. Thunder snarled overhead, shaking the ancient stone beneath his boots. With each step, the temperature dropped, as if the world itself held its breath.
The obsidian feather in his hand had not stopped pulsing since the vision. It was warm now—too warm—and veins of violet light crept across its surface like tiny fractures. His heart beat in rhythm with its glow.
The ring on his finger answered in kind.
A dull, throbbing hum filled the air around him.
He had questions—so many questions—but no one to ask. What was that world of ash? Why did the figure in the vision wear his face? And why did that voice call him "King"?
The corridor narrowed.
Torches lining the walls began to flicker violently, their flames bending away from him, as if afraid. Shadows crept unnaturally long. At times, he swore the walls shifted when he wasn't looking. The very air tasted different here—metallic, heavy with old magic and secrets that had not been spoken aloud in centuries.
Then came the whispers.
At first, they were faint. Soft. But soon they grew louder, overlapping one another, in a language he didn't understand.
> "Lir'valon thesh... Rael'thuun... Ash-born..."
He spun around. No one was there.
A sudden gust blew through the passageway, snuffing out half the torches in an instant. Darkness pressed in from all sides. He reached for the nearest wall to steady himself—and his hand sank through the stone.
No, not stone.
Illusion.
He stumbled through it—and found himself standing at the edge of a spiral staircase that descended into nothing but black.
The ring pulsed again. Once. Twice. Then—
> "Down."
A voice. Whispered into his mind. Cold. Female. Ancient.
His breath caught in his throat. But his feet moved before his mind could decide.
Step after step, he descended. The feather in his hand dissolved into ash, vanishing as silently as it had appeared. In its place, symbols began to glow across the walls—jagged glyphs in a language he'd never seen before. They shifted as he passed, reacting to the ring. Some wept trails of blood. Others screamed silently.
At the bottom of the staircase was a chamber carved from obsidian. A single pedestal stood in the center. Upon it—an orb.
But not like the one before.
This one was cracked.
Faint, black mist leaked from its fractures, spiraling in slow, deliberate arcs. The moment Raen stepped into the room, the mist shot toward him, winding around his limbs like smoke—then vanished into his chest.
He gasped.
Visions hit him like lightning.
> Cities crumbling into ash.
A crimson sky.
A throne carved from bone.
A sword screaming for blood.
He fell to his knees, clutching his head.
> "You bear the ring. You are the last heir."
The voice again. This time clearer. Sharper. Right behind him.
He spun around—
Nothing.
Then the orb shattered.
From within rose a dark silhouette—tall, robed in tattered cloth that floated in place. Its face was veiled, but a single, lidless eye opened in its chest.
Raen froze.
> "We waited long for you," it spoke.
Its voice was a thousand whispers in unison.
> "Ash follows you. You carry a burden you do not understand."
Raen tried to speak, but his throat was dry.
> "Run, child of ruin," it hissed. "Before the old ones wake."
Then it lunged.
He turned and ran, heart pounding in his ears. The hallway behind him twisted and bent, corridors shifting wildly. The temple no longer obeyed the laws of space—it was alive, and it was hunting him.
Just as he reached the top of the stairs, a blast of force threw him forward. He landed hard—outside the illusionary wall.
The whispers faded.
The torches returned to normal.
He was alone again.
Almost.
The ring on his finger glowed softly.
And somewhere, deep below, something stirred.
Watching. Waiting. Awakening.