As the last light of the Flame faded, Frederic Kaosbane stood

alone in a darkened hall, his face illuminated only by the dying embers drifting

like ghostly fireflies. His shoulder-length dark brown hair, once lustrous, hung tangled in strands around his face, casting shadows upon his crimson-tinged eyes, the only trace left of fire within him. His once-iron grip on his greatsword wavered, betraying hands that held firm through battles fierce and endless, an ultra greatsword as ancient and battle-worn as himself, bearing countless scars from the journey he'd undertaken. Shadows clung to his Fallen Knight armour – a battered set of armour now covered in dents scratches and scars, a tattered cloak failing to hide - swallowing it in twilight, making it seem as if he were becoming

one with the darkness itself. And in his mind – a mind now fragile, stitched together

by shards of memories that barely held him together - the finality of the Fire's

death carved a wound deeper than any blade could manage.

Frederic always known the cost of his journey. The friends he'd

made, those rare few souls who'd shared his burden, had already fallen. Siegward's

laughter echoed in his thoughts, as faint as a dying breeze – a memory of camaraderie

and loyalty that seemed like it had come from a different world. Together, they

faced Yhorm, the towering Lord of Cinder, with steadfast resolve, driven by shared

purpose. But even that victory was as hollow as it was bittersweet; Siegward had

given his life, and with his passing, Frederic felt the weight of solitude settling

in as heavily as the greatsword on his back.

He forced himself to remember why he wore the Fallen Knight armour

– an homage to a home he could no longer recall, a feeble anchor to the life he

had once known. His memories of that life, of his days as Jason the Dragonslayer,

had been reduced to shattered fragments; the gleam of a dragon's scales, the weight

of his sword as it cleaved through mythic flesh, the blood mingling with his own,

gifting him a cursed second chance at life. Those memories flickered like embers

in his mind, igniting brief flashes of who he once was, only to fade again into

darkness. He could no longer be certain whether these memories were real or fevered

dreams of a soul burdened by a ceaseless cycle of death and rebirth.

The Firekeeper had been a strange comfort to him, a silent companion

who understood his burdens without the need for words. Her presence had grounded

him, gave him someone to share his isolation with, even if only for fleeting moments.

As he watched her form dissolve into shadow, he realised that he'd been abandoned

yet again. He was the last remnant of an age he had sacrificed everything to protect,

only to watch it die in his hands.

His sanity frayed, thoughts slipping  from his grasp like grains of sand. Memories twisted,

clashing and intertwining, dragging him through moments he wasn't sure he'd truly

lived. He could remember the weight of Gwyn's firstborn son's  gaze upon him, the silent approval that once fuelled

his resolve as Jason the Dragonslayer. He remembered the taste of dragon blood seeping

into his wounds, burning with an unnatural fire as it seeped into his veins, bestowing

him with a second life – a twisted blessing that ensured he would rise again, but

always incomplete, as parts of him had been left behind in the tombs he escaped.

As he wandered through the endless dark, time melted into a formless

mass, weeks bled into years, years into eons. He moved forward, one aimless step

after another, his mind a fragile mosaic of purpose and shattered memory. The coldness

that settled within him grew into an emptiness he could not escape, a gnawing void

that devoured everything, even his name. He began to question Frederic Kaosbane

– a name he took upon himself – had ever truly existed or if he was merely a mask,

a facade created to shield him from the horror of his fragmented soul.