Rain fell slowly on the ruins of Elhar. The drops were cold, piercing, wetting the cracked stones and the blood that had not yet dried. From the balcony of the half-collapsed palace, Gorath stood still, staring at the dark horizon. His eyes were unblinking.
Below, the city streets were still silent. There was no life. Only shadows.
The wind carried the sound of chains jangling, faint... then footsteps.
Someone emerged from the mist. A thin man with a skull-like face, tattered robes, and eyes that seemed to have known the world for too long. He carried an iron staff and a small, unsettling smile.
"Gorath," he said softly. "Still collecting bodies? Or have you started playing king now?"
Gorath did not answer.
The man stepped closer. The sound of his boots echoed softly on the wet stone.
"It's been a long time since we last met. I hardly recognized you. You're more... lonely now."
Finally, Gorath spoke. His voice was low, full of gravity.
"Have you come to surrender... or just to die?"
The man laughed, lightly. "You haven't changed. Always jumping to conclusions. No. I came to warn you."
Gorath turned his head. Slowly.
"Warning?"
"Yes," the man pointed to the sky. "Heaven is getting hot. Hell too. And the Priests of Origin—they're rising from their old graves. They don't like what you're doing here. You're making too much noise… the world is finally taking notice."
There was a pause.
Gorath looked straight into his eyes. "I want them to hear."
The smile on the man's face vanished.
"You're crazy."
"No. I'm tired of waiting my turn."
Then suddenly, the man's figure disappeared. As if swallowed by the air.
Gorath stared at the empty space left behind.
Night was coming fast.
In the no-man's-land beneath Elhar, hundreds of shadows moved. Dark troops sharpened their weapons, lined up, trained in silence. They didn't need sleep. They didn't need motivation. They followed only one voice.
Gorath stood in the center of the room, watching them with unblinking eyes. In his hand, an old dagger quivered, as if absorbing the light around it.
Then a voice echoed in his mind.
[Active Aspect: Dominion of Dread]
[New Effect Available: Command Chain]
He frowned.
The aspect was growing. Its speed... uncanny. But unnatural.
The darkness was not simply following. It was shaping him.
And Gorath began to ask—who was controlling whom?
In another corner of the world, a pair of eyes opened. Old, ancient, and scarred.
"He has risen," whispered a voice muffled in the stone cavern. "The Shards of Fate lead us to destruction at last... or rebirth."
Then, from behind the curtain of time, one by one the ancient entities began to stir.
Gorath sat in an unnamed chamber, deep beneath the grounds of Elhar. Before him stood a stone table. On it, a shard of black crystal reflected a strange light—light that came not from fire or sun, but from something far older.
He stared at the shard for a long moment, brow furrowed. His hand, scarred and dusty, gently touched its surface.
In an instant, the world collapsed.
—
…And when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the dungeon.
He stood in a barren field. The sky was purple. No sun. No shadows. Just an empty plain stretching endlessly. It was strange, for there was no wind, no sound, but he could hear something. Far on the edge of consciousness.
Footsteps.
Not his own.
Gorath looked up.
Someone approached in the distance. A human figure… almost. But its skin was like burnt stone, and its eyes glowed silver. It carried a weapon that was shapeless—the idea of a weapon, not a real thing.
"Gorath," he said. His voice was deep, echoing from within his skull.
"I know you?" Gorath asked flatly.
"No," the figure replied. "But I know who you were meant to be."
Gorath narrowed his eyes. "What is this?"
"That shard—the one you touched—was no mere remnant. It was a door. And only those who hold true darkness can open it. You have just proven that you are… more than you think."
The figure paused. "But you are not ready. Not yet."
Gorath clenched his fists. "Ready for what?"
"To remember."
In an instant, the world collapsed again.
—
He woke with a gasp. The crystal shard on the table had cracked—dissolved into dust. His head throbbed, but not from pain. More like… loss. Something important had touched him—and then gone.
Heavy footsteps approached.
A large shadowy being bent over.
"Sir. Envoys from the north have arrived. They… bring prisoners."
Gorath stood, grabbing his robes.
"Who?"
"A woman. She mentioned your name. She said she knew you."
Gorath froze for a moment.
"…What was her name?"
"She called herself Rynn."
There was a long silence.
Then, without a sound, Gorath walked out. In his eyes, something moved. A memory, vague. A name that should have been buried deep.
Behind the black bars, a young woman sat cross-legged. Her clothes were dirty, her lips were cracked, but her eyes—her eyes were no less than Gorath's. When the door opened and the sound of footsteps approached, she did not turn around.
"It took so long," she said softly. "You even forgot my face, huh?"
Gorath stopped a meter from the bars.
"…Rynn."
Slowly, the woman stood up and looked directly at him.
"I am not here to beg for mercy, Gorath. I am here because you need me. And because there is something you should know."
Gorath stared at her, silent.
"Do you think you control the dark army?" Rynn smiled faintly. "You don't even realize it yet, do you… you're just part of something much bigger."
And in the distance, the clink of chains could be heard… again.