The wind came first—slow, heavy, carrying the scent of soot and ruin. Then came the sound of Virvo's boots against the broken stones, the echo hollow in a city that no longer breathed.
What had once been Yainna's heart now lay in ruin. Streets that had glittered with banners and laughter were buried under blackened rubble. Ash drifted in slow spirals through the air like dying snow. Statues of kings and saints leaned, half-melted, their faces weeping trails of stone tears.
Virvo walked among them like a man returning to the cradle of his sins. His long white hair clung damply to his back; when a gust rose, it lifted across his face, half-masking eyes that glowed faintly red beneath the gray sky. He stopped at a street corner—one he knew, though time and flame had twisted it. It was the very place where he had once been found, long ago, a boy with no name and too many voices whispering in his head.
He looked down at the cracked cobblestones, at the scattered fragments of a child's toy half-buried in the ash, and for a moment something moved in him—a softness, a pang of pity, though whether for the dead or for himself he could not tell.
A dry wind swept through the ruins. It carried the faint echo of bells that no longer existed.
Virvo closed his eyes and knelt, one knee pressing into the cold ground. His head bowed low, and from his lips came words older than any prayer spoken in Yainna.
"Isâ viet tôcoma barbooza."
"Isâ viet tôcoma barbooza."
"Isâ viet tôcoma barbooza."
Each repetition grew quieter, more strained, until blood welled in his nostrils. The first drop fell, hissing when it touched the ashes.
The world folded inward.
Color bled away; the sky and ground became one darkness. Then, with a sound like distant thunder, he opened his eyes again—yet not in Yainna. His body knelt still on the ruined street, but his spirit stood elsewhere.
He was in a place of blue fire and endless heat. Brimstone cliffs rose around him, glowing with veins of sapphire flame. The air shimmered, thick and poisonous; beneath the glass-black floor writhed shapes that had no names.
He stood upon a narrow walkway suspended over that abyss. Ahead, a throne of molten stone pulsed faintly—alive. And from it came a voice, deep and guttural, scraping the edges of reality.
"You have done fairly well, Virvo."
The sound shook the air. He did not lift his head; no mortal eye had ever looked upon the speaker and remained whole.
"My faith in you has not withered," the voice rumbled. "Yet you stall. I need more lives, more power. If I am to ascend, if I am to unleash the gates of my kingdom upon Yainna, the harvest must continue."
Virvo's hands tightened on his knees. His mouth opened, but no words came.
"And the girl?" the voice asked, lower now, almost curious. "Have you found her?"
Virvo's breath caught. He had not.
"Her blood," the thing continued, "alone will suffice for my ascension. The princess carries in her veins the blood of old royalty—the blood of pure magic. Bring her to me. Drain her dry on the highest point of Yainna at the hour of the eclipse, and call my name. Then shall I rise, and this world shall kneel."
Virvo's composure cracked; a flicker of something—anger, perhaps fear—passed across his face. "Why her?" he demanded, voice hoarse. "Why someone so useless, so young?"
The voice boomed with amusement that scorched the air.
"Because she is the key. Through her, I shall reclaim what was denied me. In exchange, no more innocent lives need be taken. No more children turned to your playthings. Only her. Find the girl."
Virvo's jaw clenched. He wanted to speak, to bargain, to demand power enough to stand beside this unseen god rather than beneath it. But before the words left his mouth, the fire surged, blinding.
And he was back.
He opened his eyes to gray. The street of ashes returned, silent except for the hiss of wind through ruined walls. His nose still bled; the blood ran over his lips and dripped to the ground.
Rage rose in him, raw and burning. He slammed his hand against the cobblestones, leaving a dark smear. "You think you use me," he whispered. "You forget who feeds your flame."
He stood, trembling with fury. Looking down at the street, he muttered, almost tenderly, "I haven't forgotten you, little one."
Then he turned. The sound of his boots echoed through the hollow city.
From an alley beside him slithered a shape—a venomid, its scales glistening green-black, its many eyes gleaming like wet coins. It hissed softly and bowed its head.
Virvo's voice was calm again, cold. "Find the princess. Find her belongings. Bring her to me."
The creature hissed once in acknowledgment, then darted off into the mist, its body vanishing between the ruins.
Virvo watched it go, then began to walk, faster, toward the outer walls. The night was descending—slow, dark, endless. As he climbed over the shattered stones, he looked across what remained of Yainna. There were no towers now, no walls, no beacon fires. Only smoke and the faint glow of lingering embers.
He raised his eyes to the horizon, searching for the highest peak he could see, but the ruins stretched flat and lifeless. The realization struck him like a blade. There was nothing left high enough to touch the sky.
His breath grew ragged. His chest heaved. He felt it then—the echo of the other voice still lingering in his skull, whispering.
He fell to his knees. The ash around him stirred. "I have killed," he muttered, voice breaking. "I have remained dead. You foolish child."
He pressed a hand to his face, fingers trembling. "You thought death would free you." A bitter laugh escaped him. "But here you are, still bound to the same fire, the same hunger."
The wind rose again, swirling the ash into pale spirals around him. In them, faint shapes seemed to form—faces, memories, all burned away but not forgotten. The child he once was stood among them, eyes hollow. Virvo reached out a hand, but the wind scattered it like dust.
He stood slowly, his long coat brushing the ash from his knees. His eyes—once merely red—now burned bright as embers.
"Then let the girl bleed," he whispered to the wind. "Let her light the way."
And with that, he turned north, toward the broken horizon. Each step left a faint black scorch where his boots touched, as if even the ashes feared to bear his weight.
Above him, the clouds thickened—gray to black, black to violet. Lightning flickered silently within them, like veins beneath the skin of a dying god.
Far below, where his blood had touched the ground, the ashes began to move. Tiny fissures spread through the earth, glowing blue from within. Something beneath Yainna's ruins stirred and breathed for the first time in centuries.