The city faded behind them.
Lysander didn't know how long they walked—maybe hours, maybe longer. The woman didn't speak much. Just led him through narrow alleys, over rooftops, then down into the older bones of the city. The parts no map ever showed.
At some point, they passed through an old aqueduct covered in moss. The air got colder. Quieter. Like the city itself had stopped breathing.
Finally, she stopped before a cracked stone arch hidden behind thick vines. At first glance, it looked like part of a collapsed ruin—but she touched one of the stones, whispered something in a language Lysander didn't recognize, and the wall shifted.
The vines slid back.
The arch glowed faintly.
And then it opened.
Beyond it lay a narrow stairway carved into the earth. And at the end of that stairway… was something else entirely.
A sanctuary.
It wasn't large. Maybe the size of a chapel. But it felt older than anything he'd ever seen. Pillars lined the walls—twisted, crooked, and marked with faint red script. Floating candles hovered in midair, flickering silently. The air was thick with power—not violent, but watchful.
And at the center was a massive stone mural.
It showed a man kneeling in the middle of a battlefield. His face was hidden, but wings—dark, torn, and vast—spread behind him. Around him were other figures—gods, maybe—all looking down on him with weapons raised.
Lysander stared.
"That's him," the woman said quietly.
"The Fallen God?"
She nodded. "Vaerun."
Lysander stepped closer. "So… he was one of them?"
"One of the greatest," a voice said behind them.
Lysander turned sharply, hand halfway to his dagger.
A man stood near one of the far pillars—old, but not weak. His body was lean, wrapped in robes of faded crimson. Hair white, eyes dim but sharp. And on his left wrist hung a broken chain with golden links.
"He was their brother," the old man said. "Until they feared what he gave us."
Lysander blinked. "And who are you?"
The man walked forward slowly. "I am Erevan. Once, I was Vaerun's voice. His scribe. His memory." He studied Lysander with eyes that seemed to look through him. "And you... are the echo that should not be."
"Comforting."
Erevan smiled faintly. "The last Disciple. I never thought the prophecy would come true."
Lysander frowned. "What prophecy?"
Erevan gestured toward the wall behind the mural. He touched it gently, and the stone shimmered—revealing more carvings.
This time, the figure at the center wasn't kneeling.
He was reaching out.
And standing before him... was another man. Small. Hooded. Marked by a single symbol on his hand.
Lysander's symbol.
"The day he fell," Erevan said, "he left a sliver of himself behind. Not just power—memory. A piece of thought that would awaken only when the world was ready. Or... broken enough to need him again."
Lysander swallowed. "And I just happened to touch it?"
"Not by accident. The relic found you."
"But why me?"
Erevan tilted his head. "Have you ever felt like you didn't belong?"
Lysander said nothing.
"That's why."
---
They sat for hours.
Erevan told him stories—half-whispers of things no temple would ever teach. Of gods who once walked freely. Of Vaerun, who gave mortals the gift of "Truth-Sight"—the ability to see beyond lies, beyond divine illusion. He taught men to question, to refuse, to challenge.
That's what broke the balance.
The gods feared what they'd made. They turned on him. Stripped his name from every monument, burned his temples, slaughtered his followers.
Only a few survived.
Erevan was one of them.
"So, what now?" Lysander asked.
"You're marked. They'll keep coming for you. The Purifiers. The Sanctum. Maybe even worse."
"Great."
"You have two choices," Erevan said. "Hide. Or rise."
Lysander looked at his hand. The mark pulsed faintly.
"Can I even fight them?"
Erevan's smile was bitter. "You won't win with swords. Not yet. Your path is deeper. And far more dangerous."
"Meaning?"
The woman—who still hadn't given her name—stepped forward again.
"You need to awaken the rest of it," she said. "The relic you touched is just the seed. The true power is buried. Split. Sealed in pieces."
"Let me guess," Lysander muttered. "I have to go find them."
She nodded.
Erevan stood. "There are three remaining fragments. Each one hidden, each one cursed. They were buried in the old kingdoms—before the Concord erased them. Reaching them won't be easy. They're guarded."
"By who?"
"By what remains of the Old World. Guardians left behind by Vaerun. Trials meant only for his chosen."
"And if I fail?"
"You won't," the woman said.
He looked at her. "You're very confident in a guy who just got stabbed in a library."
"You survived."
He almost smiled. Almost.
---
Later that night, as Lysander stood near the edge of the sanctuary, he heard the wind hum through the broken murals. The mark on his hand burned gently.
He was no longer just a street thief.
No longer just a survivor of betrayal.
Something ancient had reached for him.
And he'd reached back.
But questions still crowded his mind. Who had sent the Purifiers after him so fast? Was the Temple already aware of his awakening? And why did it feel like something—someone—was still watching?
He didn't notice Erevan approaching until the old man was beside him.
"There's more I haven't told you," Erevan said quietly.
"Of course there is."
"There's someone else. Another... candidate."
Lysander turned to him.
"What do you mean?"
"Before you touched the relic, there was another. A girl. Strong. Gifted. But... unstable."
"What happened to her?"
"She vanished. Left with part of the memory. I believe she's trying to awaken Vaerun's wrath—through fire, not balance."
Lysander's eyes narrowed.
"So there's someone else out there with this mark?"
Erevan hesitated. "Not exactly. Hers changed. Twisted. Became something darker."
Lysander didn't like the sound of that.
"She may try to find you," Erevan warned. "Or stop you."
"What's her name?"
The woman behind them finally spoke, voice low.
"Elira."
Lysander filed the name in the back of his mind.
Great. Another threat.
Another mystery.
Another shadow with a face.
He glanced at the mark on his palm again.
Burning faintly.
Waiting.