The first thing he remembered was the screaming.
Not his own—but the screaming of the gods as they cast their final judgment upon him. A blaze of white light, the roar of a collapsing sky, and the cold weight of eternity pressing into his bones. When the smoke cleared, every god's eye turned away from him, and he knew the curse had taken root.
He would never again feel the embrace of death.
Centuries passed like drifting dust. Cities rose, empires fell, kingdoms devoured one another in endless cycles of fire and steel. And he—Aeron, once a nameless soldier—walked through every age like a ghost wearing mortal skin. Wounds closed. Poison failed. Time slid from him like water from stone.
But immortality was no gift in a world born from conflict.
Aeron's legend changed with each generation. Some called him the Wanderer in Ash, others the Deathless Herald. Conquerors sought to bind him to their thrones, mages tried to dissect his soul, and zealots branded him the gods' forsaken mistake. Yet Aeron bore the centuries in silence, searching for an answer none could give him:
Why did the gods curse him?
And what must he do to die?
Now, the world trembles once again. Rumors speak of a rising empire welding sorcery and steel into one brutal force. The land's most feared sword masters gather under blood-red banners, and ancient beings stir beneath the earth, restless and vengeful.
Aeron has seen a thousand wars. He has watched kingdoms burn and tyrants rise. But this conflict feels different—like a thread woven into the same divine tapestry that damned him long ago.
And for the first time in centuries, Aeron feels something close to purpose.
If the gods would not grant him death…
…then perhaps the world itself would reveal the path.