The scent of fire lingered, stubborn and sharp, as if the land itself refused to forget.
Leonhart opened his eyes to a darkened sky. Ash drifted downward like snow, coating the ruined ground in shades of grey. He lay among shattered stones and broken weapons, the remnants of a battlefield long abandoned. Every breath stung his lungs, heavy with smoke and silence.
Where was he?
His fingers curled into the dirt beneath him—warm, damp, and alive. The soil pulsed faintly, like it remembered the blood that had soaked it for centuries. He pushed himself up slowly, his limbs aching as if he'd fallen from the sky.
And maybe he had.
No memories. No voice calling his name. Just the burning echo of a war that was never his.
He stood.
Around him stretched a landscape of ruin. Mountains clawed at the horizon like jagged teeth, and forests burned quietly in the distance, smoldering with orange embers. Towers lay crumbled, torn apart by time or worse. Statues of forgotten kings wept dust from hollow eyes.
But there was no one here.
Only him.
And the shadow that watched.
He felt it before he saw it—something ancient, heavy, breathing beneath the veil of silence. It didn't move. It didn't need to. Its presence twisted the air, bent the smoke, pulled at the corners of his mind like a whisper he couldn't unhear.
Then a voice—cold, hollow, and echoing from somewhere both near and impossibly far.
"You are not ready."
Leonhart turned.
No one.
Only wind.
Only ash.