The ruins stood before them, shrouded in mist. Cracked stone pillars reached toward the sky, their surfaces covered in vines and moss. Time had long since claimed this place, yet an undeniable power still lingered in the air.
Njuwa stepped forward, his heart hammering. The pull—that strange, invisible force—was stronger now. It was as if the temple was calling to him.
Nyoka placed a hand on her dagger. "Are you sure about this?"
Jengo, still pale from blood loss, leaned against a broken statue. "No one sane would be."
Njuwa swallowed hard. He wasn't sure. But something was here. Something he needed to find.
He took another step.
And the ground trembled.
A low hum filled the air, deep and resonant. The mist shifted, curling inward toward the temple's entrance. The air grew thick, heavy, pressing against their skin like an unseen force.
Then, from the darkness within, a whisper.
"You have come at last."
Njuwa's breath caught. His hand instinctively went to his knife.
The voice was ancient, layered, as if multiple speakers spoke at once.
Jengo cursed under his breath. "Tell me I imagined that."
Nyoka didn't move. Her eyes were locked on the temple doorway, where the shadows seemed to twist and move.
Then—a figure emerged.
The Guardian of the Ruins
It was not human.
A towering being, its body composed of black stone and flickering blue flames, stepped into the light. Its face was smooth, featureless save for two glowing eyes that burned like dying embers.
It was old. Older than the ruins. Older than anything Njuwa had ever seen.
The ground trembled as it moved forward.
"You stand before the Forgotten Gate," it intoned. "Only those chosen by fate may pass."
Njuwa's throat was dry. He should have been afraid. His instincts screamed at him to run. But—
He wasn't afraid.
Instead, his heart pounded with something else.
Recognition.
Like he had seen this before.
Nyoka's voice was steady, but wary. "We are only passing through."
The being's gaze locked onto Njuwa. "You are not."
Jengo's eyes darted between them. "Oh, great. Just him? Can the rest of us leave?"
The guardian didn't answer.
Njuwa took a slow step forward. "Why me?"
"The blood remembers," the being said. "You carry the mark."
Njuwa froze.
The mark?
He had no mark.
Did he?
A sudden burning sensation spread across his chest. He gasped, clutching at his shirt. The pain was brief, vanishing as quickly as it came.
When he pulled his hand away, black lines had appeared on his skin.
An intricate symbol, swirling and shifting like ink in water.
The guardian knelt.
"The heir returns," it murmured.
Nyoka took a sharp step forward. "What do you mean heir? He's a—"
The being's voice thundered, shaking the air.
"He is of the lost bloodline. The last of the Eternal Flame."
Silence.
Jengo blinked. "What."
Njuwa's mind spun. Lost bloodline? Eternal Flame? He was a slave. A boy sold to a baron. He had no past. No legacy.
Did he?
His fists clenched. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The guardian's burning eyes bore into him.
"You will."
Then, without warning, the ground beneath Njuwa collapsed.
The Descent
He didn't even have time to scream.
Darkness swallowed him as he plunged downward. The air rushed past his ears, his body twisting as he tumbled through the unknown depths.
Then—
Impact.
He hit the ground hard, his body rolling across cold stone. Pain shot through his limbs, but nothing was broken.
Dust settled around him.
He coughed, pushing himself up.
He was in a chamber.
Dim blue light flickered from torches along the walls, illuminating massive carvings etched into the stone. Scenes of war, of fire, of a figure wreathed in flames standing atop a battlefield.
And then—his eyes locked onto a statue in the center of the room.
A warrior.
Draped in armor, one hand gripping a sword that burned with blue fire.
His own face staring back at him.
Njuwa staggered back, his heart pounding.
This—this was impossible.
He turned as something behind him stirred.
A shadow moved.
And a voice, deep and ancient, whispered:
"Welcome home."