Ash stretched to every corner of the horizon, as far as the eye could see.
It blanketed the broken plains like snowfall from a darker world—thick, heavy, untouched. Black flecks swirled in the air like dying fireflies, glowing faintly before falling to the ground. What trees once stood were now charred skeletons, brittle and crumbling under the softest breeze. No birds sang. No wind moved. The very world held its breath, as if mourning.
Kellen stumbled as the magic that had yanked him from Velmora settled into his bones like frost. He clutched his ribs, the pain sharp and sudden, his insides still ringing from the sudden displacement.
The Wyrdborne didn't so much as flinch. He stood at the crest of the hill, eyes locked on the dead land that sprawled ahead like a battlefield long forgotten. His face remained impassive, but something about the way his jaw tightened, the stillness in his shoulders, told Kellen that this place mattered.
"What is this?" Kellen rasped, coughing ash from his lungs.
The Wyrdborne didn't answer for a long time.
When he did, his voice was distant. Cold. "This was my home."
Kellen turned slowly, heart thudding.
"This?"
The Wyrdborne nodded once. "It was once called Eldain. The City of Wyrd."
Kellen had heard the name. In old songs. In cautionary tales. A myth spoken in taverns, always with a shudder and a half-empty glass. A city of magic too bright to last. A realm of betrayal. A grave.
"I thought it was destroyed in the Godfall," Kellen said quietly.
"It was," the man replied. "But not by the gods."
Kellen looked at him. "Then by who?"
The Wyrdborne finally met his gaze, and Kellen saw something behind his eyes—something raw and haunted. "By men."
They descended the slope in silence. Every step was a whisper through the ash. Kellen's boots sank inches deep into the soft soot, and a strange smell lingered in the air—smoke, salt, and something older. Grief, maybe. Regret made physical.
The ruins of Eldain rose in the distance.
What remained of the once-great city were jagged silhouettes, blackened spires jutting toward a sky that had long since stopped looking. Ancient domes were collapsed, their insides exposed like cracked skulls. Pillars lay shattered, statues defaced. Time had not eroded this place gently—it had been torn apart, savaged by rage and left to rot.
As they reached the outer edge, Kellen asked, "Why bring us here?"
The Wyrdborne stopped.
"Because the truth lives here. And if you're to walk beside me in this… you deserve to see it."
Kellen frowned. "The truth about what?"
The Wyrdborne didn't answer.
Instead, he turned toward a half-sunken staircase, barely visible under the ash, and began to descend into the heart of the ruin.
Kellen hesitated, then followed.
The stairs led into darkness. A long, winding tunnel carved from black stone, lined with symbols that pulsed faintly as they passed—ancient glyphs that shimmered beneath their feet like sleeping stars. The air grew cooler, but the scent of smoke never left.
At the end of the corridor, they emerged into a chamber.
It wasn't vast, but it felt deep—like standing inside the soul of something forgotten. Light drifted down from an opening above, filtered through ash and magic. And in the center of the room stood a monument.
A slab of obsidian, taller than a man, with names etched into its surface. Hundreds of names. Thousands. Each letter carved with reverence and pain.
Kellen stepped closer. The script was old, but readable.
He traced a name with his fingertips.
"Ilarieth. Vael. Nyven… these are—"
"The dead," the Wyrdborne said. "All who fell that day."
Kellen swallowed. "You lost your people."
"I lost more than that."
There was a pause.
Then the Wyrdborne walked to the far wall and placed his hand upon it. The stone shifted under his touch, folding away like mist, revealing a long-forgotten archive—shelves of sealed crystal, floating scrolls, memory orbs flickering like trapped ghosts.
"What is this place?" Kellen asked.
"A vault," the man said. "Of knowledge. Of truths the world was never meant to forget."
He pulled a single orb from the shelf.
"Do you know what they told you about the Godfall?"
Kellen nodded slowly. "That the gods descended. That they tore apart kingdoms. That you rose up against them and tried to become divine. And in doing so, you destroyed half the world."
The Wyrdborne scoffed, bitter. "A convenient lie."
He pressed the orb to Kellen's forehead.
Light poured in.
A vision consumed him.
He saw a sky of fire, a city of glass and gold. He saw people—not monsters, not tyrants—but scholars, warriors, children laughing beneath floating lanterns. He saw a god, radiant and cruel, descend like a spear of judgment. He saw a king—the Wyrdborne—kneel beside his dying wife, her body turned to ash by divine wrath. He saw a battle not for power, but for survival. And he saw betrayal—from the humans they tried to save.
Kellen gasped and stumbled back.
The orb fell.
"What… what was that?"
"Your history," the Wyrdborne said quietly. "Your true history. We didn't try to become gods. We tried to stop them. We sealed them away. And the humans… your ancestors… feared what we had done. So they destroyed us."
Kellen shook his head, reeling.
"And the Wyrdborne?" he asked, voice trembling. "What are you now?"
The man turned to him, eyes aglow with sorrow and fury.
"I am the last."
Silence stretched between them.
And in that silence, a new sound arose.
Footsteps.
Kellen spun, drawing his blade.
But the figure that stepped into the chamber wasn't a soldier. It was a woman.
She wore a cloak of crimson, her hair bound in silver thread, her eyes bright with something that shimmered between wisdom and warning.
She bowed slightly.
"Forgive the intrusion," she said. "But your absence from Velmora did not go unnoticed."
Kellen frowned. "Who are you?"
The woman's gaze lingered on the Wyrdborne.
"I am called Elyra. I serve no king. Only balance."
The Wyrdborne narrowed his eyes. "You're one of the Watchers."
Elyra inclined her head.
"I come not to fight," she said. "But to warn you. The breach you witnessed in the sky—it was no accident. The gods are stirring again. And this time… they will not fall asleep so easily."
Kellen's blood turned to ice.
"How do we stop them?"
Elyra turned her gaze to him.
"With him," she said, nodding toward the Wyrdborne. "And with you. Together."
The Wyrdborne folded his arms. "You expect me to fight for those who butchered my people?"
"I expect you to fight for the ones who still live."
The silence that followed was heavier than any sword.
Kellen stepped forward.
"I'll fight," he said.
The Wyrdborne looked at him, quiet.
Then he sighed, long and low, as if the very breath cost him a decade.
"…Then so will I."