The first thing Aric felt was weightlessness.
The ground vanished beneath him, swallowed by an endless abyss.
The stars above melted into darkness.
And the air—
Thick. Heavy. Alive.
As if he were sinking into something vast and unknowable.
A voice whispered.
Not words.
Not language.
But memory.
Then—
The world snapped into place.
And Aric was no longer himself.
He stood on a throne of bone.
----
The throne loomed beneath him, vast and ancient.
It was not forged by hands.
It was not built from stone or steel.
It was grown.
A lattice of ribs and spines, woven together like the roots of an ancient tree.
Every piece of it was from something that had lived.
Something that had died for him.
Something that had been his.
The hall stretched endlessly, its towering black pillars rising into shadows.
Banners of deep crimson and gold hung from the ceiling—
Faded. Tattered. Forgotten.
The air stank of incense and old blood.
Of power, long abandoned.
And at his feet—
They knelt.
Rows upon rows of warriors, nobles, and scholars.
Men and women cloaked in black and gold, heads bowed, voices murmuring in reverence.
Not at the throne.
At him.
Aric's breath hitched.
Because he had been here before.
He knew this place.
Not as a stranger.
But as its ruler.
A memory not his own whispered through him.
A name—
No.
A title.
Spoken on the lips of thousands.
Spoken across a dying world.
Spoken as law, as faith, as worship.
Aelthar.
Aric shook.
He did not know what it meant.
But the Rift did.
And it wanted him to remember.
----
The vision shifted.
The throne room crumbled away.
The banners burned.
The golden warriors turned to dust.
And Aric—
Fell.
When he landed, it was not upon a throne.
But upon a grave.
A city stretched before him.
Or rather—
What was left of it.
----
The streets were empty.
Buildings collapsed into rubble.
The air hung thick with ash and decay.
And on the wind—
A single, distant echo.
Of screams.
This had been his city.
His empire.
And now—
It was dead.
Aric turned.
And behind him, the throne remained.
Unscathed. Unmoved.
As if waiting.
As if this destruction had never reached it.
As if he had never truly left it.
A presence stood at the edge of his vision.
A figure, watching.
Silent. Still.
A shadow in armor that did not gleam.
And Aric knew—
Before the vision ended—
Before he woke in the ruins of Eldermere—
That this shadow had been the one to take it all away.
And the Rift whispered his name again.
Aelthar.
Aelthar.
Aelthar.
----
The city was empty.
The wind moved through the ruined streets, whispering between the crumbling towers.
But Aric was not alone.
He could feel it.
Something was watching.
Something was waiting.
A shadow stood at the edge of his vision.
Not a beast.
Not a god.
A man.
A warrior, clad in blackened steel, the sigil on his chest scratched beyond recognition.
His armor was cracked, as if from battle.
His sword was drawn.
And the moment Aric saw him—
He knew.
"You."
The word felt foreign on his tongue.
Not because he did not know this man.
But because his throat remembered speaking it before.
The warrior did not move.
But the world shifted around him.
The sky darkened.
The stones beneath them groaned.
The air thickened, crushing against Aric's chest.
Because this was not just memory.
This was something deeper.
Something he had buried.
Something he had refused to see.
A familiar voice drifted through the ruins.
Not the warrior's.
Not the Rift's.
His own.
"Swear to me."
The vision shook.
The ruined city reversed in time, rebuilding itself in flickering flashes of light.
And suddenly—
Aric was no longer standing among the ruins.
He was standing atop the palace walls, overlooking the city in its prime.
Banners whipped in the wind.
Golden towers rose high above the streets, casting long shadows across a city of stone and steel.
And below—
Thousands knelt before him.
A sea of soldiers, their armor gleaming in the dying sunlight.
A kingdom at its peak.
A throne undisputed.
And beside him—
The man in blackened steel.
Not as a traitor.
Not as a shadow.
As his most loyal general.
"You swore to me," Aric whispered.
The memory answered in kind.
"I did."
Aric's vision split.
Two moments, layered upon each other.
Two truths.
The man who had sworn to serve him.
And the man who had taken everything away.
The golden city burned.
The banners tore from their poles.
The towers collapsed.
And the throne—
The throne of bone and ruin,
Where he had once sat unchallenged—
Was empty.
Aric staggered.
Because this was not just history.
It was his history.
He had ruled this city.
He had built this empire.
And it had been taken from him.
The shadow in blackened steel turned to face him fully now.
And when he finally spoke—
It was not with words.
But with the weight of fate itself.
"You were a god."
The warrior raised his sword.
"You fell."
Aric's chest tightened.
Because he knew—
What came next.
Because this was the moment he died.
The blade swung toward him—
And the vision shattered.
----
Aric jerked awake.
His body was cold, drenched in sweat.
The fire in his chambers had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls.
The storm outside had not broken.
And for a moment—
He could still feel it.
The weight of a crown he no longer wore.
The steel of a blade against his throat.
The betrayal.
The fall.
A voice whispered in the dark.
Not his.
Not the Rift's.
Something else.
Something in the room with him.
And when he turned—
He saw a figure standing in the doorway.
Lira.
Her expression was pale, unreadable.
But her voice was clear.
And she spoke a name.
A name he had not given her.
A name he had only just learned.
"Aelthar."
The room felt suddenly smaller.
The air felt suddenly colder.
Because he had never spoken that name aloud.
And yet—
She knew it.