The mountain opened like a wound.
Talen climbed the final stretch in silence, each step heavier than the last. The air shimmered with heat, though no fire burned. Shadows danced along the stone walls as if alive, whispering names he almost recognized.
Then he stood before it.
The entrance to Vorathax's lair.
A great archway carved from blackened rock, etched with runes that pulsed faintly—like heartbeats buried beneath the earth. The scent of old blood and scorched metal filled his lungs. He swallowed hard.
He had come too far to turn back now.
With a deep breath, he stepped inside.
The Dragon's Throne
The chamber stretched endlessly, its ceiling lost in darkness. Towering pillars lined the path forward, each carved with ancient battles—knights slaying beasts, flames consuming cities, eyes watching from the void.
At the center sat a throne.
Not of gold or marble.
Of bones.
Human bones.
Dragon bones.
And upon it, waiting like time itself, was Vorathax.
Not the monster he expected.
No wings. No scales. No fire.
Just a man—tall, robed in ash and shadow, his eyes glowing like dying stars. His face was sharp, ageless, sorrowful.
And familiar.
Talen's sword trembled in his grip.
"You," he whispered.
Vorathax smiled.
"I was wondering when you'd return."
Talen took a cautious step forward.
"I've come to kill you."
The dragon chuckled—a low, tired sound.
"You always do."
Talen frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Vorathax stood slowly, robes flowing like smoke.
"It means you are not the first Talen to walk this path. Nor the second. Nor even the third."
Talen's breath caught.
"That's not true."
Vorathax tilted his head.
"Is it not? Then tell me—do you remember your first name?"
Talen opened his mouth.
Nothing came.
Only silence.
Only shadow.
Vorathax walked toward him, each step echoing like thunder.
"You were not born a knight," he said. "You were not born at all—not truly. You were forged. Shaped by fear. By guilt. By the need for someone to believe in."
Talen shook his head.
"No. I—I remember my village. My people. Kaela—"
Vorathax raised a hand.
"Did she ever speak your real name?" he asked gently. "Did she ever ask why you remembered nothing before the fire?"
Talen staggered back.
Memories surged through him—flashes of another life.
A boy kneeling before a king.
A blade pressed to his throat.
A voice whispering:
"Forget who you were. Become what they need."
His knees buckled.
He fell to the ground, gasping.
"I… I was…"
"A prince," Vorathax said softly. "A tyrant. A killer. And when your kingdom turned on you, they did not kill you."
He knelt beside him.
"They made you into something better."
"A hero."
The Choice
Silence settled over them like dust.
Talen stared at his hands.
Were they his?
Had they ever been?
Vorathax stood.
"The cycle ends here," he said. "Or it begins again."
Talen looked up.
"What do you mean?"
The dragon extended a hand.
"You can leave this place. Remember everything. Live as you once were."
He paused.
"Or…"
Talen swallowed.
"Or what?"
Vorathax smiled.
"You can forget. Again. Become the hero one more time."
Talen stared at the outstretched hand.
His mind screamed for truth.
His soul begged for peace.
He reached forward.
And chose.
"This is Talen," the knight said, stepping from the mountain, eyes bright with purpose.
"I have slain the dragon. I have saved the kingdom."
Behind him, deep beneath the castle, Vorathax opened one eye, smiled, and whispered:
"Well played… brother."