The sun fell like an exhausted god beyond the hills, bleeding light across the dying forest. Three weeks had passed since the massacre, and yet, the scent of ash never left the wind. Ethan and his sister had found refuge in an abandoned hamlet, a forgotten ruin half-swallowed by vines and silence. There, among broken walls and dust-choked altars, they had survived — barely.
The days were cruel, but the nights were worse.
Each dusk, Ethan felt them watching — the shadows that whispered between the trees, the echoes of voices that had once belonged to men. Since his meeting with Alaric, something inside him had changed. He could hear them now: faint, distant murmurs bleeding through reality like smoke through cracks.
Sometimes they called his name. Sometimes they cried for help.
And sometimes, they laughed.
He had learned to silence them through the pendant Alaric gave him, pressing it to his chest until the noise dimmed. But tonight, the whispers would not fade. They were growing stronger — coherent, rhythmic, as if chanting in unison.
His sister, sleeping beside the cold hearth, stirred restlessly.
Ethan rose, swordless but alert, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the shattered door. The air was heavy, trembling with unseen movement. Then he saw it — a faint glow weaving through the forest, not fire, not moonlight. A procession of pale figures, robed and silent, moving as one toward the ruins.
They carried banners of black silk and torches that burned with blue flame.
A ritual.
Ethan's pulse quickened. He had seen this before — the night his village burned.
But this time, he was not a child hiding behind fear. This time, he was waiting.
He crouched low, pressing a finger to his sister's lips as she awoke. "Stay here. No matter what happens, don't come out." Her eyes widened, trembling with the memory of the nightmare that had taken their mother. Ethan forced a smile. "I'll come back. I promise."
He stepped into the night.
The procession halted before what once had been a church — its roof collapsed, its bell long rusted. The cultists formed a circle, and at the center, a figure descended from a black carriage drawn by eyeless horses.
He was tall, armored in darkness, the same obsidian steel Ethan had seen before.
The Revenant Knight.
Ethan's breath froze. The creature's presence was suffocating, a gravity that bent the air itself. Around him, the cultists began to chant — words that scraped against the edges of sanity. Their torches flared higher, painting the night in ghostly blue.
The Revenant raised a hand, and silence fell. His voice was hollow, resonant, as if spoken from a cavern beneath the world.
> "The circle is ready. The blood of the forgotten calls to us. Tonight, the Gate of Ebon Dawn opens anew."
He gestured toward the ruins. A low hum shuddered through the ground. The stones began to tremble, and a fissure of crimson light split the earth. Ethan felt the vibration crawl through his bones. He hid behind a fallen wall, his teeth clenched.
Then he saw it — a cage, dragged by chains of bone, emerging from the shadows. Inside it, three children — alive, terrified. The cultists knelt before them.
Sacrifice.
Ethan's heart thundered. His hand went instinctively to the pendant — Alaric's gift — and for a fleeting instant, he felt warmth pulse through it.
Will.
The word echoed in his mind.
Will shapes the world.
He could not stay hidden. He could not watch again. He rose from the shadows, his voice cutting through the ritual like a blade.
"Stop."
The chanting ceased. Dozens of hooded heads turned toward him.
Ethan stepped forward, the faint glow of his Resonance mark pulsing beneath his skin. "You think you serve gods," he said, "but all you worship is rot."
The Revenant turned. Those lifeless eyes — twin abysses — regarded him with distant amusement.
> "The flame survives," the creature murmured. "The boy of the ashes. I remember you."
Ethan drew a jagged piece of iron from the rubble — not a sword, but it would suffice. His voice did not tremble.
"Then remember my oath, too."
The cultists laughed, a chorus of madness. The Revenant extended a finger, and the air erupted with dark energy. Ethan barely had time to react — the ground split, and tendrils of black flame shot toward him. He rolled aside, the pendant burning against his chest. His mark flared bright, repelling the shadow for an instant.
The Revenant tilted his head. "Interesting. The Wanderer has touched you."
Ethan lunged, swinging the iron shard. Sparks flew as it met the Revenant's gauntlet. The impact hurled him backward, but he landed on his feet, defiant.
He screamed, every ounce of pain and fury tearing from his throat. "You killed them all! You think you've won? You've only woken the fire that will burn your kind to dust!"
The Revenant's laughter was low, metallic. "Then let your fire die as theirs did."
The cultists surged forward. Ethan fought like a feral creature — each strike born from instinct, each breath a battle for survival. He cut one down, then another. His hands bled, his vision blurred. The blue flames consumed the edges of his sight. But even as the shadows closed in, the mark on his palm burned brighter.
"Will shapes the world," he whispered again, teeth gritted. "And mine will not break."
The Revenant raised his hand one final time.
"Then die as proof."
Darkness swallowed everything.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then — light.
Not warm, but eternal.
He stood within a space beyond time — the Threshold. Around him floated fragments of his life: his mother's voice, his sister's laughter, Alaric's golden eyes. All drifting in slow, infinite motion. He tried to breathe, but there was no air — only thought, only essence.
A voice spoke — not the Revenant's, not Alaric's. Something deeper, older.
> "Your fire resisted oblivion. Few ever do."
He turned, and before him appeared a mirror — no reflection, only flame. Within it, countless images flickered: warriors, kings, beasts, angels, and demons.
> "Do you seek vengeance?"
"Yes."
"Do you seek power?"
"Yes."
"Then you will bear both — and the cost that follows."
The fire reached for him. It did not burn — it rewrote. His flesh dissolved, his pain vanished, and his consciousness scattered like ash into the void. In that dissolution, he heard one final whisper:
> "Rise again, bearer of will. Rise as Keran — the name written in flame."
The world shattered.