Lance Valtheron emerged from the ruins beneath Blackthorn Dungeon, the cursed tome clutched in his hands. The night sky greeted him, vast and unfeeling, as the chill of the mountain winds bit into his skin. He should have been dead. Instead, he was something else—something reborn.
The knowledge burned in his mind, a constant whisper of spells and secrets that should have been lost to time. Power surged beneath his fingertips, coiling like a caged beast, hungry to be unleashed.
But with power came a price.
A sharp pain lanced through his chest. Lance gasped, stumbling against the jagged ruins. He yanked back his sleeve—black markings crawled across his arm, shifting like living ink. The pact had been made. The book had not given freely.
"You wish for power?"
The words echoed in his mind, a memory of the moment he'd surrendered himself to something far greater than he understood. And yet, he did not regret it. He couldn't.
Not when he had unfinished business.
He set his sights on the distant lights of Ironvale, the nearest adventurer outpost. Orin and his treacherous party were still out there, celebrating his supposed death, enjoying the spoils of whatever they had found in those ruins.
Lance flexed his fingers.
He would return.
And they would pay.
—
The Ironvale outpost was a bustling den of mercenaries, adventurers, and traders, built around the massive dungeon entrance that swallowed the land in shadow. Fires burned in the watchtowers, casting eerie flickers against the palisade walls.
Lance pulled his hood low as he entered, careful to hide the strange markings now etched into his skin. He couldn't afford to draw attention—not yet.
The tavern was filled with the usual noise of celebration and drunken boasting. But one voice cut through the crowd, familiar and grating.
Orin.
Lance's grip tightened on the grimoire at his side as he moved closer.
"—never stood a chance," Orin was saying, leaning back with a smirk as he downed his drink. "Poor bastard probably bled out before the door even shut."
The table erupted in laughter. Dain clapped Orin on the back, grinning. Sera, for all her earlier hesitation, now raised a toast.
"To dead weight finally being useful."
Lance stepped into the light.
"I'd hold that toast," he said, voice steady. "Wouldn't want to choke on it."
The laughter died instantly. The color drained from Orin's face as his eyes locked onto Lance, very much alive and standing before him.
Sera's glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor.
Dain was the first to recover, standing abruptly. "No way. We left you—"
"Left me to die?" Lance finished for him, stepping forward. "Yeah. You did."
The air in the room shifted. Whispers spread like wildfire. No one came back from being abandoned in a dungeon.
Orin's hand went to his sword. "You should've stayed dead."
Lance smiled. A cold, cruel thing.
"That's funny," he said, as dark energy coiled around his fingers. "I was just about to say the same to you."
Chapter Two: A Debt in Blood
Lance stood in the dimly lit tavern, his presence like a shadow stretching unnaturally across the wooden floor. Power pulsed beneath his skin, unfamiliar yet intoxicating. The ancient book at his side whispered softly, its voice threading through his thoughts like a siren's call.
Across from him, Orin, Sera, and Dain sat frozen, their faces tight with disbelief and unease. They had left him to perish in Blackthorn Dungeon, abandoned in the depths where no one was meant to return from.
Yet here he was.
Orin's fingers twitched toward his sword. "Lance…" he said carefully, his voice measured. "How?"
Lance tilted his head slightly. "How did I survive?" His lips curved, but the expression lacked warmth. "That's what you're asking?"
Dain, the group's strongest fighter, exhaled sharply. "This—this isn't possible. We saw what happened to you."
Lance's fingers curled, and the shadows at his feet seemed to shift, responding to his emotions. Their unease hung thick in the air, almost tangible.
"You left me there," Lance corrected, taking a slow step forward. The dim lanterns overhead flickered, casting jagged shadows across his face. "And now, I'm here."
Sera tightened her grip on her staff, her expression unreadable. "Lance, listen—"
He moved before she could finish.
A pulse of dark energy rippled through the air, sending a wave of pressure across the room. Around them, tavern patrons scrambled, knocking over chairs in their rush to distance themselves.
"Lance!" Orin barked, drawing his sword in one fluid motion.
The steel gleamed under the dim light, but Lance didn't react. The book's whispers pressed against his mind, a chorus of voices offering paths forward.
"You abandoned me," Lance said, his voice steady but cold. "Tell me, Orin—what should I do with traitors?"
A tense silence settled between them.
Sera took a step forward, her expression shifting. "Lance, please. This isn't who you are."
Lance exhaled slowly.
For all his resentment, for all the power urging him forward, something in her words tugged at him—something that reminded him of the person he had been before.
The tension in the air remained, but the energy surrounding him ebbed slightly.
Dain let out a quiet breath, his hands still clenched.
Orin kept his sword raised. "You don't have to do this," he said.
Lance let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "You don't know anything about me."
He turned toward the door. This wasn't over. Not yet.
But revenge could wait.
He had far greater things to do.
That night
Lance stepped out into the cold night air, his breath curling in the dim glow of street lanterns. The weight of the book hung at his side, pulsing faintly as if aware of his turmoil. The encounter with Orin and the others had stirred something deep within him—an ache, a hunger, a realization.
He was no longer the man they had abandoned.
The power flowing through him was proof of that.
The city of Ravencross stretched before him, its twisting alleys and towering spires cloaked in mist. The streets were restless, filled with murmurs of adventurers returning from the day's hunts, of merchants peddling their final wares before the night claimed the city.
Lance pulled his hood up, his mind already moving toward his next step. He needed answers. About the book. About the voice whispering in his mind. About what he had truly become.
A sudden shift in the air sent a chill down his spine.
Someone was watching him.
Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes scanning the rooftops, the darkened alleys. The usual dangers of the city lurked—pickpockets, rival adventurers, bounty hunters—but this presence was different. It was heavier. Intentional.
Then, he saw it.
A figure stood in the shadows of a narrow alley, barely visible beneath the flickering lantern light. They didn't move, didn't speak, but Lance could feel their gaze locked onto him.
His fingers twitched toward the book at his hip.
And then—
The figure vanished.
Not into the alley. Not into the streets. One moment they were there, and the next, the space where they stood was empty, as if they had never existed at all.
Lance's heartbeat quickened.
Whatever had just happened… it wasn't normal.
And somehow, deep in his bones, he knew—
This was only the beginning.
[To Be Continued…]