The night was thick with an eerie stillness, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and blood. Lucien Voidheart sat on the jagged ruins of what was once the royal temple, his cloak soaked in crimson, his fingers trembling. The whispers of the dead echoed in his ears, a chorus of agony and despair, yet he remained unmoved.
"You were supposed to protect us..."
"Why did you let them take everything?"
The voices clawed at his mind, memories of the slaughter playing before his eyes like a twisted theatre of guilt. His past self—helpless, weak, forsaken—was burned into his soul, a curse that no amount of vengeance could erase.
A soft shuffle of footsteps broke the silence. He gripped the hilt of his sword but did not rise. There was no need. He knew who it was.
Seraphina. The lone candle in his abyss.
Her golden hair, streaked with dirt and blood, shimmered in the moonlight as she knelt beside him. "Lucien..." she whispered, her voice trembling, as if speaking his name might shatter him entirely.
He did not meet her gaze. "They're all dead, aren't they?"
Her breath hitched. "We couldn't save them all. But some still live... Because of you."
He scoffed, bitterness lacing his voice. "Because of me? Or despite me?"
She reached for his hand, her touch light, yet grounding. "You carry too much, Lucien. You were never meant to save everyone."
He closed his eyes, the weight of his failures pressing against his ribs. "Then what was I meant to do? Be a forsaken monarch? A shadow clinging to vengeance?"
Seraphina squeezed his hand. "No. You were meant to rise. To become something greater than pain. You were never just the prince they abandoned, Lucien. You are the storm that will shake the heavens."
A gust of wind howled through the broken temple, carrying with it the distant sound of drums. War drums. The empire's hounds were near. His reprieve was over.
He exhaled sharply, his grip on his sword tightening. "Then let the gods watch closely, Seraphina. Tonight, the forsaken rises."
The air crackled around him, darkness unfurling like ink as the first sparks of his true power ignited in his veins. The night would remember his name, and so would the heavens he vowed to tear down.
THE END