Darkness wrapped around Ruvan like a burial shroud.
He floated in it, weightless, his body numb and silent. Time lost meaning here. There was no pain, no fear – just endless black. For a moment, he thought he had died, that the sword's power had burned him away completely.
Then light flickered in the void.
At first, it was distant, like a candle seen through thick fog. But it grew quickly, swelling into a blazing inferno that tore the darkness apart. Heat washed over him, and he felt his senses return in a rush. The void fell away, and he found himself standing barefoot on cold, cracked marble.
He gasped.
He stood in a vast throne room, though it looked as if it hadn't seen life in centuries. Its towering pillars were broken and scorched, the high arched ceiling shattered, exposing a sky of swirling black clouds streaked with red lightning. Fires burned along the edges of the hall, their smoke rising in thin, ghostly trails.
The air smelled of ash, old blood, and molten stone.
His eyes were drawn forward.
At the far end of the hall stood a massive throne carved from obsidian and gold. Its back rose like a jagged crown, each spike tipped with glowing crimson gems. The throne was cracked down the centre, and black ash poured from the split like bleeding soot.
Sitting upon it was a figure.
They were draped in robes of white and black, their face hidden behind a helm shaped like a crescent moon. Flames flickered in the dark visor, illuminating nothing of their features. In one hand, they held a broken sceptre, and in the other, a chain of black iron that stretched down into a pit before the throne.
Ruvan stepped closer, his bare feet crunching on shards of broken marble. His heart pounded with fear and awe.
As he neared, he saw what was chained in the pit.
A creature lay coiled there – if it could be called a creature. Its form shifted constantly, flowing between shapes: a serpent of molten stone, a wolf made of shadows, a woman with empty eyes and cracked skin leaking fire. Chains of black iron wrapped around its body, glowing with runes that pulsed a dull crimson.
It opened its many eyes and stared at him.
Devourer, a voice whispered in his mind.
He staggered back, nearly falling as terror clamped around his chest. The creature moved slightly, its chains rattling with a sound like breaking bones. Flames flickered in the pit, lighting its many faces with savage hunger.
Then the crowned figure spoke.
Their voice echoed through the hall, deep and calm, like an ancient bell tolling underwater.
"Rise, heir of ash."
Ruvan trembled. "Who… are you?"
The figure did not move, but the flames in their visor burned brighter.
"You stand at the edge of ruin. The world bleeds. The gods turn away. But the Blade remembers. And so do I."
He tried to step back, but his feet refused to move. The heat in the hall intensified, searing his skin without burning it. Sweat rolled down his back as he struggled to breathe.
"What is this place?" he asked, his voice breaking.
"The throne room of endings," the figure said. "The hall of broken kings. You will know it well, in time."
The devourer in the pit snarled, its chains rattling louder. Fire burst from its mouths, illuminating the hall in violent orange light. Ruvan covered his eyes, heart hammering against his ribs.
"Why are you showing me this?" he whispered.
"Because you are mine."
The words hit him like a hammer blow. The fires around the hall surged higher, licking the pillars, painting everything in gold and red. The devourer roared, shaking the throne room. The chains held, but cracks spidered across the marble floor.
The crowned figure rose from the throne.
They were tall – impossibly tall – towering above him like a black monolith crowned in flame. They descended the steps slowly, each footfall shaking the hall.
When they reached him, they raised their hand and placed it upon his chest. The metal was cold, but it sent a shock of power flooding into him. He cried out as images erupted behind his eyes:
Armies kneeling before a black banner marked with the burning sword. Storms tearing cities apart. A sea of blood washing over broken towers. And above it all, himself, standing with Solrend in his hand, crowned in black flames.
He fell to his knees, sobbing.
"I don't want this," he whispered. "I'm just a blacksmith. I never wanted war."
The figure's helm tilted down towards him. For a moment, the flames in their visor dimmed, and he saw eyes there – ancient, tired, filled with sorrow.
"No king chooses his crown," they said softly. "But the world has chosen you. Rise, Ruvan. Rise… heir of ash."
Their fingers closed into a fist, and a wave of darkness erupted from their body, swallowing the hall, the throne, the devourer, and him.
⸻
Ruvan gasped awake.
He lay on cold stone, his arms chained above his head. His muscles burned with pain, and every breath scraped his throat raw. The world spun around him, blurry shapes shifting in the dim firelight.
Rough laughter echoed nearby. Heavy boots clanged against stone. Voices spoke in harsh accents he didn't recognise.
He turned his head slightly.
He was in a cage – one of many lining a dark tunnel lit with iron torches. Other prisoners huddled in their cages, dirty and bruised, staring at nothing with empty eyes. The scent of rot and unwashed flesh clung to the air.
His memories rushed back.
The village. The fire. The shrine. The sword. The dream.
He looked down at his chest. His tunic was scorched over his heart, burned in the exact shape of a flame. He swallowed hard, tears welling in his eyes as fear surged through him.
The crowned figure's words rang in his mind.
Rise, heir of ash.
He clenched his fists.
"I don't know what you want from me," he whispered, "but I swear… I will never bow to you."
The laughter of the slavers rang through the tunnels, harsh and cruel. Ruvan closed his eyes, feeling the chains bite into his wrists, and listened to the pounding of his heart in the darkness.