I saw an empty throne.
No pain. No feeling. Pure paralysis. Pure Var.
When I wake up, I am surrounded by bones. My bones.
Rot, something dry and brittle, like dust from crumbling marrow. Everything is still. No breeze. No movement. Just the weight of dirt and silence pressing in.
The bones around me are twisted and uneven—some small, others long. Some fit together, forming the rough outline of a body. Ribs. A spine. Four wings?
They must have buried a wyvern.
Pieces lay snapped and scattered like broken branches. I don't know how long I've been here.
I don't know how I died.
I move slowly, trying not to disturb the pile too much. My breath is shallow. I listen.
The walls are tight, thick with packed earth. There is no light. No space. Only the weight of the grave, pressing down.
I reach up, fingers pushing into the dirt above me.
CRUMBLE
It shifts slightly—then pushes back, heavier, hungrier.
My lungs burn. My hands claw at the soil, scraping against unseen roots, broken bone. My breath quickens. The weight grows. Dirt spills into my mouth, my nose. I choke, body spasming as the darkness drags me down.
And then a throne.
And then a throne.
And then a throne.
And then—I awaken.
Again.
I choke back a scream, covering my mouth with trembling hands. My body shakes. The bones shift beneath me. Each time I awaken, I push, I struggle, I suffocate, and then—I see the throne.
An empty throne.
Rage boils within me. I want to destroy this village. I don't know if I can, but I know I will try.
I push through the dirt again, and this time, I break through. I emerge into the swamp, damp air rushing into my lungs.
A thin barrier shimmers in the distance, enclosing the village just beyond my reach. The place is alive with movement—figures gathered near a central well, dancing in the flickering light of torches.
I step forward, concealing my Var as best I can.
The villagers are thin, malnourished. Any anger I had fades. They look human, like me. But why did they kill me? They are outcasts—some with sharp ears, others shorter than the rest.
Most appear human, mostly women and children, though they all seem to rally around a young man at the center of the gathering.
His core glows gold—the same shade as Ryllie's. But it shines less brightly, subdued. His pearl is a Baroque Pearl, its shape irregular, imperfect.
I watch him. And I wait.
In the center of the village, I saw myself.
Not just flesh—my flesh, cut into careful strips, steaming atop wooden mats. The scent of cooked meat clung to the air. It's nauseating.
And my blood—bottled.
Small glass containers lined a worn wooden table, each filled with dark red liquid. The villagers had drained me, butchered me, and now they tended to their harvest.
Elves—tall, gaunt, with knife-like ears—stood over the table. They handled the bottles with practiced care, inspecting them, swirling the contents, murmuring in a language I did not understand.
Kill them.
I swallowed back bile, the thought twisting through my mind like a whisper.
At the village's center, a darkened pit remained—a stain of red, the place where they had carved me apart.
I watched.
Kill them.
The words echoed, a drumbeat in my skull. And yet, I did not move. I did not break.
I stepped out from my hiding place.
The village erupted into chaos.
Women and children fled. The elves turned sharply, eyes wide, hands reaching for the bottles—my blood.
The men surrounded me, weapons drawn—knives slick with a green, shimmering toxin. A poison made from crushed plants. The same thing they must have used before.
Kill them.
They spoke, but their words were lost to me. I only heard the hum of the Var in my bones, the ragged sound of my own breath.
Kill them.
I did not want to fight.
I raised my hands, a show of surrender. It did not matter. They looked at me like a ghost, a monster risen from the dead.
Kill them all.
They lunged.
Fire flared around my arms.
"I don't want to hurt you!" I shouted.
Pain.
A stab in my side.
I gasped—blood spilling down my ribs. An arrow, tipped with the same toxin. My body wavered, strength draining.
Chains of white Var shot forward, wrapping around me, dragging me down.
I struggled. Their cores shone around me—different colors, different shapes.
The flames coating my arms did nothing to the chains. I pulled, and one of them went flying. The moment my arm was free, I let loose a surge of fire, sending it crashing toward the crowd.
The blaze raged, hungry and wild.
The young man moved.
He threw himself in front of the villagers, his right side glowing as a golden shield formed.
I tore through the chains, staggering. My limbs feel heavy. The poison burned in my veins.
But I still had strength left.
I dashed toward him, pinning him beneath my weight.
I opened my mouth—but nothing comes.
Then—
Darkness.
And a throne.