Amidst the stillness beneath a blackened sky, a figure stood motionless.
The ancient capital of Vhail, with its towering spires and weathered stones, held its breath. Thousands crowded the grand square, yet silence pressed down upon them like the weight of a dying sun. No murmurs, no whispers—only the crackle of torches, their flickering light swallowed by the abyss of night.
A pyre loomed at the center—wood stacked high, drenched in oil, the stench of it thick in the cold air. The scent of incense clung to the scene, a mockery of a funeral rite. But this was no burial.
An execution.
And at the heart of it all, bound in chains and kneeling before the flames, was Adrian Morvain.
He did not struggle.
He did not kneel in prayer.
He was an unmoving shadow in a world that wished him gone.
Beneath the stoic exterior, his mind churned with a thousand thoughts—battles fought and lost, friendships betrayed, promises broken. He had led armies, defied empires, and now, he knelt before death. Yet, amidst the chaos within, there was a strange sense of peace. He had accepted his fate long before this moment. Now, as he faced the inevitable, he found solace in its certainty.
His hair, darkened by blood and sweat, fell over his face. His once-pristine coat had been stripped away, replaced with rags, yet even ruin could not erase the presence of a man who had once commanded legions. His body bore the marks of war and treachery—the price of a world that had tried, desperately, to break him.
And yet—he remained.
Not in defiance.
Not in submission.
The High Inquisitor stepped forward. His ceremonial robes gleamed crimson and gold in the firelight, a priest's garb masking the heart of a butcher. His voice, smooth and practiced, carried over the square.
"Adrian Morvain."
Silence stretched at the name. No cheers. No jeers. Only waiting.
"Warlord of the forsaken. Breaker of the Accord. A man whose existence should never have been." The Inquisitor's voice was steady, but he spoke as if invoking something dangerous. Something that might yet rise from the grave.
"You are sentenced to die."
A pause.
"Your body shall burn. Your ashes will be scattered to the wind. Your name erased from history."
The crowd did not celebrate. The city did not weep. Even the executioner, a veteran of the pyres, hesitated as he stepped forward, torch in hand.
The Inquisitor smirked, stepping closer, his shadow stretching long in the firelight.
"No last words?"
For a long moment, Adrian did not move. Then, slowly—too slowly—he lifted his head.
His eyes caught the firelight.
Unblinking. Unreadable.
The Inquisitor faltered.
"Get on with it."
The words fell from Adrian's lips like dust from a forgotten tomb. Weightless. Thoughtless. Inevitable.
The Inquisitor swallowed.
And gave the order.
"Light the pyre."
A torch was thrown.
Fire roared to life, greedily consuming the oil-drenched wood. The heat surged outward, forcing onlookers to step back.
But Adrian did not move.
Pain followed.
It started at his feet, licking at his flesh, then climbed higher, wrapping around him like the grasping hands of the damned. His clothes disintegrated. His skin cracked and blackened. The scent of burning flesh filled the air, pressing against the crowd's throats, forcing some to turn away.
And yet—
He made no sound.
No screams. No gasps.
Only slow, steady breath, even as his body crumbled.
A noblewoman covered her mouth with trembling fingers. A child buried his face in his father's cloak. The executioner, a man who had burned hundreds, shifted uneasily.
This was not how a man should die.
This was not how a man should burn.
Flames consumed him.
Bones cracked.
The world turned black.
Finally.
Oblivion.
Darkness.
Deep. Endless. Silent.
For the first time in his life, Adrian felt nothing. No pain. No weight. No warmth.
It should have been peaceful. It should have been the end.
But something held him.
Not a hand. Not a voice. A tether.
A thread wrapped around him, invisible and unbreakable. Not pulling him, not binding him—simply refusing to let him go.
Something boundless, beyond the mortal reach.
"Not yet."
A voice? No. A whisper of something older than gods and kings. A weightless decree, unfathomable in its meaning.
The void shuddered.
And then—
Light.
His lungs burned.
A sharp, ragged gasp tore from his throat. He choked—on air, on existence, on the weight of being.
His body jerked forward, iron chains biting into his wrists. His arms trembled. His knees scraped stone. He tried to rise, but the shackles held firm.
Pain bloomed through his limbs, real and undeniable.
He was alive.
But that wasn't possible.
His breath came in slow, measured inhales. The air was thick with filth—the stench of damp straw, unwashed bodies, and blood. The cold bit at his skin, whispering a truth his mind had not yet grasped.
Slowly, he forced his gaze downward.
His hands—
They were not his hands.
His fingers were thinner. His skin rougher. Wrong.
Everything was wrong.
His pulse remained steady. Not in fear. Not in panic. He was analyzing, processing the impossible, carving reason from madness.
Something caught his eye. A dented brass plate, discarded near his feet, reflecting dim torchlight from beyond the bars of a cell.
Slowly, carefully, he reached for it.
The reflection stared back at him.
A face.
Not his face.
Not Adrian Morvain.
The plate slipped from his fingers, clattering against the stone.
His mind remained an abyss. Still. Hollow. Unmoved.
He knew who he was.
He knew what had happened.
He had died.
And yet—
He still existed.
The world believed Adrian Morvain was gone.
That was their mistake.
He did not curse.
He did not rage.
He simply accepted one truth.
He was not finished.