Steel clashed in the darkness.
Archer stood alone, his crimson cloak tattered, his body failing, his twin swords heavy in his hands. Gaia's agents, twisted things born of the earth's will, surrounded him on every side. They came as beasts, as titans, as shadows sharper than steel. He had fought them countless times, and countless times endured. But this time, he knew it was the end.
Blades tore through his flesh. His knees buckled. His body fell.
But his spirit did not.
His soul slipped free, weightless in a void without time. For the first time in an eternity, Archer thought he might find silence.
Yet silence brought memories.
He had once been a boy—Shirou Emiya. A boy who dreamed foolishly of saving everyone. He had sworn to be a hero, to rescue all, to sacrifice himself if need be. That vow had bound him to Alaya, the Counter Force. And so he became a Guardian, an unending weapon. He fought war after war, slaughtered nameless foes in nameless battles, until every last trace of humanity was bled from him.
He became the hollow Archer—servant of humanity's survival, servant of no will but the call of blood and steel.
Yet still, he remembered.
Kiritsugu—his flawed father, who gave him a dream. Rin—stubborn, brilliant, her eyes always burning. Sakura—gentle, broken, yet unyielding. Taiga—warm laughter in days long gone.
And Illyasviel…his sister, his only true blood. He remembered her smile before Gilgamesh tore it from the world. That wound never healed.
His soul drifted. He longed only for peace, and perhaps the chance to see them again.
But the void was not empty.
"Archer."
The voice was deep as roots, cold as river-ice, older than stone.
"Archer. Wrought Iron Hero. Do you hear us?"
He turned, though he had no body. Vast trees loomed in the dark, their roots endless, their branches piercing the heavens. Eyes glimmered from the bark—countless, watching.
"Who speaks?"
"We are the Old Gods. We call for aid."
They told him of their world. Of dragons and kings, of blood and fire. They spoke of a war—the Dance of the Dragons—that sundered House Targaryen and slew the very beasts that made them strong. They told of the Blackfyre rebellions that followed, of Aerys's madness, of Rhaegar's folly, of Robert's rebellion and the fall of dragonlords.
They told of Eddard Stark's death. Of the War of Five Kings. Of the Red Wedding.
And then they told of the end.
The Others rose from the far North, white shadows with eyes like cold fire. They swept past the Wall with icy ruin. House Stark fell, house Umber, house Karstark, all broken. Jon Snow—Aegon Targaryen by blood—died, his sword shattered against the dark. The North was drowned in ice. The South followed soon after. The world burned cold, and the Long Night consumed all.
"This is the fate of our world," the Old Gods said. "Unless you change it."
Archer's voice was flat, without warmth. "No. I have walked rivers of blood. I have fought wars without end. I have nothing left to give. I want only silence. I want to see them again. My family. My sister. That is all."
The gods whispered through the leaves.
"You grieve for those stolen by betrayal. So do we. Our children died before their time—by cruelty, by folly. If they had lived, history would have changed. Help us, and you will have your wish. We will give you back what you lost."
Archer hesitated. Illya's smile flickered in the dark. Rin's laughter. Sakura's soft hand. For the first time in countless years, something inside him stirred.
"…And if I accept?"
"You shall be reborn. In Winterfell, in the frozen North. As Theon Stark, son of Rickon Stark and Gilliane Glover. Elder brother to Cregan Stark. You will live in the age of the Dance of the Dragons, the bloodiest civil war of House Targaryen. You must end it—or at least temper its cost. For if the dragons perish, mankind will be left weak when the Long Night comes again."
Silence stretched. Then Archer sighed, the sound of a weary man long broken.
"Very well. Another war. Another fate."
The trees groaned. The roots whispered.
"Good luck, Wrought Iron Hero."
At that, Archer laughed. A dry, bitter laugh, yet true. The old moniker felt strange on his lips.
The light opened before him. He stepped toward it, leaving the void, leaving his name—Shirou Emiya—to drift away like ash in the wind. Forgotten, lost in blood and years, until only Archer remained.
But when the gods called—"Shirou… Archer…"—he paused for a heartbeat.
Then he was gone.
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