Darkness pressed in from all sides.
Reven's breath came fast, his pulse still hammering from the chase. Dust swirled in the air, stirred by the collapse of the ruins behind him. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. The weight in his chest told him what he already knew—something inside him had changed.
The fragment pulsed within him, unseen yet tangible. A second heartbeat, foreign and unsettling.
Reven leaned against a cracked pillar, forcing himself to breathe. He flexed his fingers, feeling the raw energy coiled beneath his skin. It wasn't normal. It wasn't just power—it was something older, something alive.
His mind reeled, searching for answers, but there was nothing. Just fragments. Just whispers of something he should remember.
The ruins stretched ahead, winding deeper into the earth. Their walls were lined with carvings, their edges worn smooth by time. He ran his fingers over them, tracing symbols he didn't recognize—yet something in him did.
A voice, distant, echoed in his thoughts.
"The First War was not the end."
Reven stilled. The words were not his own.
He turned sharply, scanning the shadows. But he was alone.
The voice had come from within.
He exhaled slowly. Not now. He needed to focus. If he lingered too long, the Voidspawn would find another way in.
Pushing off the pillar, he moved forward, keeping his steps light. The corridor narrowed, its ceiling sagging as if the weight of centuries pressed down on it. Faint glimmers of light seeped through cracks, illuminating the path just enough to see.
Then, a sound.
A low hum, vibrating through the stone.
Reven followed it.
The passage opened into a circular chamber. At its centre stood an altar—or what remained of one. Broken shards of obsidian jutted from its surface, shattered by something—or someone—long ago.
Scattered around it were remnants of weapons, their blades dulled with age, their hilts wrapped in decayed leather.
A battlefield. A tomb.
And at the far end of the chamber, something waited.
A statue.
Towering, draped in flowing stone robes, its face obscured beneath a hood. In its grasp, a long blade, its edge chipped, its surface etched with ancient script.
Reven's breath caught.
Not just any blade.
He knew it.
It had a name, though the word hovered just out of reach.
He stepped forward, drawn to it, but the moment his foot touched the altar's edge.
Pain.
A sharp, searing force lashed through his skull. Reven staggered, clutching his head as the world spun. Visions exploded behind his eyes.
A city in flames.
Shadows, rising from the depths of the world.
A figure, standing where he stood now, gripping the same blade.
And a voice, heavy with sorrow and resolve.
"The last war was never meant to be won."
Reven gasped as the visions snapped away, leaving only silence. His knees hit the stone. He barely felt it. His heart pounded in his ears, his breaths shallow.
The weight of the visions pressed against his mind, suffocating. The war. The shadows. The blade. What did it mean?
His gaze lifted. The statue loomed over him, its empty eyes locked onto him through the stone.
No.
Not empty.
Waiting.
Reven pushed himself up, steadying his breath. His fingers curled into fists. He wouldn't break. Not here. Not now.
Whatever had happened in the past, whatever the visions meant, one thing was clear.
This wasn't over.
His story had only just begun.