The sky above Eternia cracked with thunder.
Rain had not yet fallen, but the storm had arrived—coiled and waiting.
Within the Sanctum of Light, the high cathedral that crowned the Holy District, priests knelt in reverence. But their prayers were not of peace.
They were of fear.
He had returned.
And he was not the same.
The massive doors creaked open with divine weight.
Footsteps echoed—slow, deliberate, heavy with purpose.
A figure emerged through the archway, clad in radiant silver armor etched with celestial glyphs. His golden-blond hair, once shining with youth, was now matted from travel and burden.
The Hero of Light, Auron, had come back from the abyss.
But something in his eyes was gone.
Something holy.
High Priest Gregorin rose from the altar, arms outstretched.
"Blessed be the flame that brought you home, Chosen Blade."
Auron's voice echoed like a dirge.
"The flame flickers."
The priests hesitated.
Gregorin stepped forward, unshaken. "You have returned at the time we need you most. The Empire begins to fracture. Heretics whisper in alleys. A shadow moves behind the throne."
Auron's expression did not change.
"And what do you want from me?"
Gregorin smiled thinly. "The same thing we always did. A symbol. A sword."
Auron's gauntlet clenched. "A pawn."
The word rang out, sharp as steel. A few priests gasped.
Gregorin, however, remained calm.
"We all serve in the war between light and darkness. Even kings and heroes."
"Then perhaps it's time I became something else."
The air seemed to still.
"What are you saying?" the priest asked.
Auron raised his head. The light in his eyes no longer comforted—it judged.
"I've seen the lies behind the light. The gods speak… but they do not answer. And yet you ask me to bleed again, for a cause already stained with rot."
Gregorin stepped closer. "You were chosen."
"No," Auron said. "I was used."
Far below the sanctum, in the darkened undercity, Kael smiled at the reports delivered to him by Evelyne.
"He's broken," she whispered. "He returned… but he's cracked."
Kael's fingers tapped a glass of dark wine.
"Not broken. Not yet."
"Then why smile?"
Kael turned to the balcony, rain beginning to patter against the stone.
"Because now he will question. And once he questions, he'll doubt. And once he doubts…"
He took a sip.
"…he becomes mine."
Auron knelt alone in the Garden of Trials, where once he had trained with divine mentors and relics. His sword rested beside him, untouched.
"What am I now?" he whispered.
A voice answered—not divine, not demonic, but his own reflection.
"You are the blade. And blades do not choose. They are wielded."
He looked up.
A raven perched on the stone wall above him, watching.
No ordinary raven—its feathers shimmered like ink under moonlight.
Its eyes burned crimson.
A sign.
A warning.
Or an invitation.
Elsewhere, deep in the labyrinthine halls of the Imperial Palace, the Empress stood before a sealed mirror—one hidden for decades.
She had seen the Hero's return. She had heard the whispers. But she knew something else was rising.
Kael.
The name lingered like incense on her thoughts.
He was dangerous.
But more than that—he was inevitable.
"Let the game begin," she murmured.
"Let the Hero fall."
To be continued…