Morning sunlight crept gently through the windows, painting the floorboards of Jaynor's room in long, golden stripes. The city of Drastton outside was stirring to life: market bells chimed faintly from afar, the chatter of merchants and the rumble of carts echoing through the cobbled streets. After the long journey home and the warmth of family reunion, he had slept later than usual, his mind still heavy with drifting dreams. When he finally stirred and rose, he decided to take a walk—to feel the pulse of the city he hadn't seen in nearly a year.
Drastton was radiant that morning. Flags fluttered from rooftops, the smell of freshly baked bread wafted from the bakeries lining the main avenue, and magical lamps—crystal globes suspended on runic poles—dimmed as the sunlight strengthened. Jaynor moved easily through the streets, greeting familiar faces, his long coat fluttering behind him. He always walked with a certain casualness, shoulders relaxed, eyes sharp but lazy. The young vendors called out his name; old neighbors nodded to him with warmth. Life here had always felt stable, anchored—a rhythm of magic and comfort that ran deeper than he had realized while away.
He paused near the central square, leaning on the railing by the fountain that shimmered with enchanted water. The statue at its center—a massive griffin carved from marble—seemed almost alive under the sunlight. Jaynor smiled faintly, watching the reflections play. He felt at ease for the first time in months.
Then the air shifted.
A strange pressure rippled through the mana field—subtle at first, then sharp, almost painful. The crowd stirred uneasily. Birds scattered from the rooftops. Somewhere far off, a deep, guttural sound rolled through the air, too heavy to be thunder. Jaynor straightened, his instincts kicking in before his thoughts caught up.
"What was that?" someone muttered nearby.
The sound came again—closer, louder. A tremor ran through the ground. Then, without warning, the eastern gate exploded in a cloud of dust and stone. People screamed as chunks of masonry rained down. Through the breach thundered massive shapes—ogres, five of them, their hulking bodies covered in jagged armor of bone and crude metal. Their eyes glowed a dull crimson, their movements heavy enough to shake the cobblestones.
The city guards were already rallying, spells lighting the air in streaks of color as they shouted orders. "To arms! Protect the civilians!" Lightning arced. Fire blossomed. But the ogres didn't slow. One swung a rusted cleaver the size of a cart, sending a wall of stone crashing down. Another tore through a line of guards like they were straw.
Jaynor's pulse quickened. He ducked as a blast of shattered debris flew past him, his heart thudding in his chest. He had fought beasts before—bandits, rogue familiars, even a wyvern once during a training exercise—but this was something else. The ogres radiated magic, old and dark, something primal and wrong.
A woman tripped near him, clutching her child. Jaynor grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. "Run!" he shouted, pointing toward the southern gate. She nodded, terror wide in her eyes, and bolted.
He turned back toward the chaos. His mind raced. He could fight—at least try. He wasn't defenseless. But these things were beyond his current level. Still, retreat never sat well with him.
Drawing a breath, he reached for his mana. The world around him dimmed slightly as he summoned a sigil in his palm—an intricate pattern of runes he had learned only weeks ago. "Ignis—" he began, voice low, focused.
A sphere of flame spun to life before his hand, bright and fierce. He hurled it toward the nearest ogre. It hit square in the chest, exploding in a burst of heat that scorched its armor black. The creature roared, staggering—but not falling. It turned toward him, eyes narrowing, lips curling back in a snarl.
"Ah, hell," Jaynor muttered, realizing he had its full attention now.
The ogre charged, its footfalls hammering the ground. Jaynor leaped sideways, barely avoiding the swing of its massive arm. The impact shattered the stone where he had stood. Dust filled the air. He coughed, rolling to his feet, preparing another spell—but pain lanced through his shoulder where flying debris had struck him.
He winced, cursing under his breath. The ogre loomed over him, drool dripping from its fanged mouth, its rancid breath washing over him as it raised its hand again. Jaynor dodged back, firing another bolt of flame, then another, but his mana was running thin. The creature's skin was like iron. It barely flinched.
From somewhere behind him, a group of city mages launched a coordinated volley of spells, trying to draw the beasts away. Explosions shook the ground, and smoke blanketed the square. Jaynor tried to retreat toward an alley—but his leg gave out beneath him. Blood ran down his thigh, warm and slick. He hadn't even noticed the wound until now.
He stumbled, fell to one knee. The ogre saw the weakness and turned toward him again. Its laughter—a low, guttural rumble—echoed through the chaos. It took two heavy steps and reached down, its massive hand closing around his neck.
The world constricted. His breath vanished in an instant. He clawed at the ogre's wrist, fingers slipping against the creature's thick hide. The pressure grew until stars flashed in his vision. His thoughts blurred.
He had been through pain before—had died once before—but this… this felt different. He could feel something shifting deep inside him, beneath flesh, beneath magic, beneath the limits of the body he wore. A buried presence, something vast and ancient, stirred like an echo of another life clawing its way to the surface.
The ogre snarled, its grip tightening. Jaynor's body trembled violently, his vision going black around the edges. But then, beneath the panic and suffocation, came a sound—a pulse. Not from his heart, but from deeper, within his soul. A vibration that resonated with every fiber of his being.
Something inside him clicked.
The air around him rippled, shimmering with raw energy. The ogre hesitated, its hand still gripping him, eyes narrowing in confusion. Then came the crack of breaking magic—a shockwave that rippled outward from Jaynor's chest, invisible but powerful enough to make the creature stumble.
Jaynor's eyes snapped open. They glowed faintly—not with the normal blue of his mana, but with a strange, burning gold. The world sharpened into impossible clarity. He could feel the ogre's life force pulsing against his palm, the threads of mana in the air vibrating like strings of a harp.
He moved without thinking. One word formed in his mind, ancient and familiar—not something he had ever learned in this life, but something remembered. His mouth opened, and the word spilled out like a breath of fire.
"...Rhaz'korr."
Light erupted from his body in a sudden flare. The ogre's roar turned into a scream as the energy lanced through it, searing its flesh, dissolving the grip that had crushed him moments before. The creature reeled backward, smoke pouring from the gaping wound burned through its chest.
Jaynor collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, his hands shaking. His vision flickered between darkness and the blinding afterglow of that unleashed force. Around him, the battlefield had gone silent for a moment—long enough for the remaining ogres to glance his way, wary and growling.
He could barely lift his head, but deep inside, he felt it—that dormant, dangerous power now awake, whispering like an old friend.
Then he blacked out, the last thing he heard being the distant sound of approaching footsteps and the cries of the guards rallying around him as the light faded from the square.