The world around Lysander had shifted. Everything felt... different. The alley, once dark and oppressive, now seemed almost alive, humming with an energy he had never felt before. The relic pulsed in his hand, its strange markings glowing faintly as though it were feeding on the power within him, drawing out a force that he hadn't known existed.
Aric's pained groans echoed from the corner, his body sprawled out against the wet stone. Lysander turned toward him, the cold rain washing over his face, yet he didn't feel the chill. There was no more pain in his body, no throbbing ache from the wound Aric had inflicted. In fact, there was no more weakness at all. He felt whole—stronger than he had ever been.
Aric struggled to lift his head, his hands pressed against the stone wall, his breaths ragged. "You... You should have died," he spat, blood trickling from his mouth. "I watched you bleed, Lysander. I watched you die in my hands."
Lysander stepped forward, the sound of his boots crushing against the wet ground echoing in the stillness of the alley. There was no anger in his heart, no hunger for vengeance. No, there was something else—something far colder. "I didn't die. And neither did you. Not yet."
Aric's eyes widened, and he tried to scramble to his feet, but his body wasn't responding. His hand went to the dagger he had dropped, but it seemed so distant now, the blade far out of reach. He glanced at Lysander, who stood before him, looking like a completely different person.
Lysander's eyes were focused, sharp. His whole presence was commanding. Where there had once been fear, hesitation, and a flicker of doubt, there was now a complete sense of purpose. The relic in his hand seemed to amplify that feeling, as if it had awakened something deep inside him. The very air around him seemed to tremble with its power.
Aric, broken and defeated, tried to find the strength to speak. "What is this? What are you now?" His voice was desperate, the mask of arrogance he had worn for so long slipping away.
Lysander's gaze dropped to the relic in his hand. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice soft but filled with an eerie confidence. "But I intend to find out."
He turned away from Aric, ignoring the weak pleas that followed. Aric wasn't important anymore. Not now. Lysander had a different path to walk—one that was tied to the relic and its power. The gods had taken everything from him, and now he would take it back.
The rain continued to fall, washing the blood from his clothes, but his mind was already elsewhere. He had no destination. No plan. But deep inside, a whispering voice urged him to go on. To move forward. It was faint, almost like a memory of something forgotten, but it was there, driving him.
The relic, pulsing with that strange energy, felt like a compass—guiding him toward something, though he couldn't yet understand what. But the pull was undeniable. He had to follow it.
Lysander's first step into the city's shadowed streets felt like a step into another world. The streets, once familiar to him, now felt foreign. The marketplace, the taverns, the back alleys—it was as if he was seeing everything for the first time, and yet, in the back of his mind, he knew it was all part of something much bigger.
The city of Ydran's Crossing had always been a place of struggle, where people fought to survive. But Lysander had always thought of it as home. Now, it seemed like a cage.
The pull of the relic grew stronger as he walked, drawing him away from the heart of the city toward the outskirts. The more he focused on the sensation, the clearer it became—there was something waiting for him. Something old, something forgotten.
He hadn't known what to expect when he reached the alley where everything had changed. But he had been expecting answers. And now, he realized, he would need to seek those answers in the places where the gods had abandoned the world.
Hours passed as Lysander walked through the streets of the city, the rain slowly giving way to a thick fog that clung to the ground, obscuring his view. By the time he reached the outskirts of Ydran's Crossing, the night was nearly at its end. The market district was far behind him, and ahead, the darkened silhouettes of forgotten ruins loomed out of the mist like ghosts of the past.
A twisted, broken tower stood at the edge of the city, crumbling and half-obliterated by time. It was a relic in itself—an ancient temple long since abandoned, its original purpose lost to history. No one ever came this way anymore. It was a place where even thieves feared to tread.
The relic pulsed again, urging him forward. Lysander's feet moved of their own accord, the instinct to follow the pull stronger than any lingering doubts.
As he approached the entrance to the ruins, he hesitated. The air was thick with the weight of forgotten memories. The relic seemed to grow warmer in his hand, as though it recognized the place. Lysander took a deep breath and stepped through the threshold.
Inside, the ruins were silent. Dust and cobwebs clung to the walls, and the faint scent of decay filled the air. Yet, in the center of the room, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight that cut through the cracked roof above, was a stone pedestal. And on the pedestal, nestled among the rubble, lay another relic.
Lysander's heart skipped a beat. This was it. The source of the pull. The relic had led him here for a reason.
He approached slowly, his steps measured, his senses heightened. The air around the pedestal seemed thick with a strange energy, and as he reached out to touch it, a voice whispered in his mind. A language he didn't understand, but one that seemed to vibrate in his very soul.
"The end begins here."
His hand hovered just above the relic, the message still echoing in his mind. He could feel its power, just like the first relic, but this one was different. It was ancient, filled with the weight of forgotten gods, and it thrummed with an intensity that seemed almost alive.
Lysander took a deep breath and grasped the relic, feeling the surge of energy flood through him. The moment he touched it, everything around him went dark.
For a moment, there was nothing—no sound, no sight, no feeling. Just an endless void.
And then, like a flood breaking through a dam, a vision crashed into his mind.
The vision was not his own, but one of the past. Of gods—mighty beings who walked the earth before time had twisted into what it was now. He saw them battling, warring against each other, their powers shaking the heavens. Their faces were both beautiful and terrifying, their eyes filled with the knowledge of eternity. But one stood apart—a figure of darkness, shrouded in mystery.
The figure was... familiar. It wasn't just an ancient being; it was something more. Lysander couldn't place it, but the feeling of recognition was undeniable.
The vision vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving Lysander gasping for breath. His body was trembling from the power that had surged through him. The relic he held pulsed once more, and a voice—this time clearer—whispered directly into his mind.
"The Fallen God lives through you, disciple."
Lysander stumbled back, his breath caught in his throat. The relic had spoken, and he knew now: his journey was far from over.