The crowd gathered in the city square, a sea of grim faces illuminated by torchlight. The air was heavy with the acrid stench of smoke and despair, and whispers rippled through the onlookers like a restless tide. At the centre of it all stood a great wooden pyre, bound tightly with chains and drenched in oil.
Aric knelt before it, his once-proud figure reduced to a shadow of its former self. His regal armour had been stripped from him, replaced by a tattered tunic stained with blood and ash. His dark hair hung in matted strands over his face, and his wrists were bound by iron shackles that dug into his flesh.
The High Inquisitor stood before him, draped in robes the colour of flame, a golden emblem of the Divine Flame glinting on his chest. His voice rang out over the square, cold and unyielding.
"Aric of House Valen, traitor to the gods, bringer of ruin to your people, and heretic who has spat upon the sacred light—you are hereby condemned to the pyre, that your soul may burn and be judged in the eternal flames."
Aric raised his head, his grey eyes blazing with defiance despite the exhaustion etched into his face. "Judge me as you will, Inquisitor. But don't pretend this is justice. You and your gods are nothing but tyrants, hiding behind masks of divinity."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of shock and admiration at his words. The Inquisitor's expression did not change, but his grip on the ceremonial torch in his hand tightened.
"The gods will have the last word, heretic. May their judgement be swift."
Aric barked a hoarse laugh, his voice ragged but sharp. "There are no gods. Only men like you, hiding behind fire and faith."
The Inquisitor stepped forward and thrust the torch into the pyre.
The flames roared to life instantly, leaping hungrily up the oil-soaked wood. Heat seared Aric's skin, but he refused to cry out. He locked eyes with the Inquisitor, his lips twisting into a defiant snarl.
"You think this will silence me? You think your fire will erase the truth? Even if I die here, the shadows of your sins will rise, and they will consume you."
The Inquisitor's gaze flickered, just for a moment, but his resolve did not waver. "Burn, and let your soul be damned."
As the flames engulfed him, Aric clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until blood dripped to the ground. The fire licked at his skin, but it was not the pain that consumed him—it was the weight of his failure.
He thought of his people, the thousands who had trusted him. He had failed to protect them, failed to see the betrayal coming, and now their screams haunted his every waking moment.
The flames grew brighter, and the crowd shielded their eyes. But Aric's voice cut through the roar, rising above the inferno:
"I will return! By shadow or flame, I will return, and I will tear down everything you have built!"
The fire flared violently, and for a brief moment, the crowd swore they saw the flames turn black. A terrible wind swept through the square, snuffing out torches and leaving an unnatural silence in its wake.
The High Inquisitor turned and walked away without a word, his expression as unmoving as ever. But deep within, a shadow of unease began to stir.
When the pyre collapsed into ashes, Aric was gone.
Aric awoke to nothing.
No light. No sound. No heat or cold. Just an endless void, vast and suffocating, pressing against him from every side. His body—or whatever essence he had left—floated weightless in the abyss. He couldn't feel his limbs, couldn't breathe, yet somehow he existed.
"How…?" He tried to speak, but his voice fell into the void and disappeared. Panic flared in his mind, a sudden, overwhelming need to escape this oppressive emptiness, but no matter how he struggled, there was no escape.
Time ceased to have meaning. Minutes, hours, or centuries might have passed, but Aric remained adrift, trapped in a realm beyond comprehension. Slowly, his thoughts turned inward.
He had failed.
The memories came rushing back like a tide: the screams of his people as the invaders poured through the gates, the betrayal of his closest allies, the faces of the dying who had looked to him for salvation.
The pyre. The fire. The pain.
A scream tore from his throat, but it was swallowed whole by the abyss.
"This is my punishment," he thought bitterly. "This is what the gods wanted—for me to suffer, to be lost and forgotten in this endless void."
But as the weight of his failure threatened to crush him, another feeling began to stir: rage.
"They will not forget me," he growled, his voice carrying within his mind even if the void refused to echo it. "I will not be erased!"
The void began to shift. At first, it was subtle—a faint vibration, a flicker of motion. Then came the whispers. They were faint at first, a distant hum that grew louder with every moment.
"Do you seek vengeance?"
The voice was deep and guttural, as though it had clawed its way from the depths of the abyss. Aric's pulse—if he still had one—quickened.
"Who speaks?" he demanded.
"A shadow, like you. A soul that the gods have abandoned, cast into the dark for daring to defy their will."
The words slithered around him, wrapping him in cold tendrils of familiarity. Aric narrowed his eyes, though there was nothing to see. "I've been abandoned, yes. But I defied no gods. There are none to defy."
The voice chuckled, a sound that made the void tremble. "Ah, mortal arrogance. You believe in nothing because nothing answered your prayers. But I know your heart, Aric of Valen. It burns with hatred—hatred for those who wronged you, for the gods who did nothing, for yourself."
"I need no gods," Aric spat. "I need nothing but the chance to make them pay."
The whispers grew louder, the void rippling with every word. "Then you shall have your chance. But vengeance does not come freely. There is a price—a price that even you may hesitate to pay."
"I don't care about the cost," Aric growled. "I will pay anything."
For a moment, the void was silent, as if considering his words. Then, a blinding flash of light erupted from the darkness, and a mark seared itself onto Aric's chest—though he had no physical body, he felt it burn. He gasped in agony as flames and shadows intertwined to form a sigil, pulsing faintly with a life of its own.
"You are bound, mortal. Bound to the power you crave. Through me, you will rise again. But know this: I am no savior. My gifts come with their own chains. You will walk a path of shadow, and it will consume you if you falter."
The mark burnt brighter, and the void began to shatter around him. Aric's anger swelled, his determination igniting into a blaze of will.
"Chains or not," he growled, "I will never falter."
The voice laughed, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to shake the fabric of reality itself. "Then rise, Aric of the Forsaken Flame. Rise… and burn."
The void collapsed entirely, plunging him into an explosion of light, fire, and searing pain.
When Aric awoke again, the world was different. But the sigil burnt on his chest, and the voice echoed faintly in the recesses of his mind.
He had made a pact. And now, there was no turning back.
Aric awoke to the world once more. His senses were raw, every inch of his existence searing with unfamiliar power, but there was no time to revel in the sensation. His body, though not entirely his own, was driven by the burning mark on his chest—the sigil that now defined him.
He lay in the ashes of what had once been a thriving forest, the remnants of a smouldering world stretching out before him. The landscape was barren, scarred by the flames of the Order's conquests, the land echoing with the remnants of lost lives. The air was thick with the stench of burnt earth and charred wood.
Rising to his feet, Aric looked around. The world felt different now, as if it were caught between death and life, in a state of fragile equilibrium. His fingers, trembling slightly, traced the burning sigil that pulsed against his chest. The warmth of it spread through him, an ever-present reminder of the pact he had made. The voice of the entity that had forged this bond still lingered at the edges of his mind, a whisper that refused to fade: "You are mine now."
The thought sent a thrill through him, mingling with a deep unease. What had he truly agreed to?
"What now?" he muttered aloud, though the wind carried his voice away.
His question was answered not by words, but by a sudden surge of power that radiated from his core. He felt it course through him, burning through every vein, every fibre of his being. His eyes flared with unnatural light as shadows and flame intertwined around him. With a single thought, the ground before him cracked open, and from the fissures, black fire erupted, reaching toward the sky. The flames had no heat, only the cold hunger of darkness.
A deep laugh echoed in his chest, unbidden but familiar. It was the voice again, the one that had promised him strength. "Feel it, Aric. The power of a forsaken soul, burning with the fury of all that has been lost. This is only the beginning."
Aric's hands clenched into fists, the dark fire swirling around his arms like an obedient pet. He knew what he had become—what he was now. The Forsaken Flame.
But the flames inside him were not just power. They were rage, they were sorrow, they were vengeance, and they were hunger. His body no longer felt like his own, but that didn't matter. His mind, his will—it was all that mattered.
The forest around him had once been a sacred place to his people, a symbol of life and renewal. Now, it lay in ruin, its trees scorched and its creatures long gone. He could feel the weight of the loss pressing against his chest, suffocating him. But it was not the loss that burnt the hottest in him. It was the betrayal, the betrayal by those who had once sworn loyalty, the Order of the Divine Flame, and their leaders who had set his world ablaze.
His gaze turned northward, toward the distant mountains where the seat of the Order lay—where the zealots who had executed him would be found. He had been wronged. He had been forsaken. But he was not powerless anymore.
"I will make them burn," he whispered, the flames in his chest growing hotter with his words. "I will burn them all."
The voice of the dark entity laughed again, a sound that echoed in his bones. "Then rise, Forsaken Flame. Rise and show them the true cost of defying me."
Aric's eyes flashed as he focused, drawing the power within him to the surface. His body felt as though it were becoming a part of the flame itself, his senses heightened to the point where he could feel the heartbeat of the world beneath him.
He wasn't alone. Not anymore.
He began to walk, the earth trembling beneath his every step. The sigil on his chest flared with dark fire, casting an eerie glow over the landscape. The world trembled in response, as if it were awakening to the threat he now posed.
Every step forward was a step into his destiny, a path drenched in the blood of those who had betrayed him. The fire inside him was both a gift and a curse. But he would not shy from it. He had made his choice, and now, nothing would stand in his way.
The Forsaken Flame had risen. And the world would burn.
The night settled like a shroud over the desolate land, and Aric stood alone amidst the ashes. The kingdom that had once flourished under his father's rule was now reduced to smoldering ruins, a symbol of the fire that had ravaged everything he held dear. The weight of the past hung heavy in the air, yet there was something else—a sense of awakening.
His chest still burned with the sigil's mark, the symbol of the pact he had made with the entity that now called him its own. His body had been remade, reshaped by the dark power that coursed through his veins, and with it came an unfamiliar sense of purpose. His soul was both raw and renewed, transformed by the fire that had killed him and brought him back.
Aric could feel the shift deep within him—the way the fire no longer felt like a burden, but a part of him. It wasn't simply power; it was life and death, destruction and creation, all wrapped into one searing force. It pulsed beneath his skin, a reminder that he had been reborn, forged anew from the ashes of his former self.
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply as the wind whispered through the scorched earth around him. The familiar scent of smoke filled his lungs, mingling with the sharp tang of something ancient. He could feel the land, feel the weight of what had been lost, but also the promise of what was to come. The fire was not done yet. Neither was he.
For a moment, he thought of his father, of his mother, of the people who had once filled these streets. Their faces, once so vibrant and full of life, were now memories—flickering ghosts that haunted the corners of his mind. The Order had taken everything from him, and yet, as much as he burned for revenge, as much as the flames within him howled for their blood, something else stirred.
In the silence of the night, Aric stood there, his body trembling with the intensity of the power that surged through him. The sigil on his chest pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, its dark fire crawling across his skin like tendrils of shadow, reminding him of the bond he had formed. A bond that was unbreakable. A bond that had made him something more than human.
His hand reached for the ground, the earth cracked and brittle beneath his fingers. The power that had been awakened within him responded instantly, surging through his arm like lightning, cracking the earth open in jagged lines. Black flames erupted from the fissures, twisting and writhing like serpents of the abyss.
A surge of exhilaration coursed through him, and for the briefest moment, Aric thought he could feel the heartbeat of the world itself, thundering beneath him. He was no longer a man. He was the Forsaken Flame. A being of fire and vengeance, reborn from death itself. The past was gone—his old self, his old life—lost in the inferno of his death and resurrection.
But even as he reveled in the raw power, a shadow lingered at the edge of his mind. The fire was consuming him, burning through his soul, and there would be no turning back. He was not the same man who had once walked these streets, a prince with hopes of reclaiming a kingdom. That man was gone.
Aric stood tall, his gaze now fixed on the distant horizon, where the silhouette of the capital city, Valdraeth, loomed in the distance. The Order had claimed it, but it was still his. He could feel it—his kingdom, his birthright, was calling to him. It was waiting for him to return, to reclaim what had been stolen.
The flames inside him flickered, responding to his thoughts. The sigil on his chest burned brighter. His power was limitless now, but at what cost? Was it worth it?
As he gazed toward the city, the fire burning in his chest grew hotter, more insistent. A final, painful breath escaped his lips, and the answer came to him without hesitation: Yes.
The man who had once ruled this kingdom was dead. Aric, the Forsaken Flame, had been reborn.
And the world would burn to ash in his wake.