The Ashen Beginning
The forest was dying. Once lush and alive, its branches now reached skyward like charred fingers grasping for mercy. Through the choking fog rode a knight, nameless to history, known only by the crimson cloak that billowed behind him like spilled blood. His armor was battered, dulled by years of ceaseless war, and the sword strapped to his back bore the notches of countless slain foes.
He had not come to save the land, for he no longer believed in salvation. He came because of the dream.
In that dream, a voice called to him from beyond the veil—a voice both ancient and familiar. It whispered of unfinished oaths, of a pact once made under moonless skies and sealed with blood at the foot of the world-tree. It spoke of fire, of crowns forged in ruin, and of a throne that waited still.
The Rise and the Ruin
Long before the forests withered, he had been a squire, wide-eyed and noble-hearted. He served a lord who believed in justice, who fought for the weak. But justice faltered in the face of politics and betrayal. One winter night, the lord fell to poison, and the boy found himself alone in a world that rewarded treachery and punished honor.
That was when the figure appeared—hooded, nameless, with eyes like embers. It offered him strength, respect, vengeance. It asked only a drop of blood, a vow of obedience. He accepted, thinking himself clever, thinking he could master what others feared.
And for a time, he did.
He rose through the ranks. He won wars. He was hailed a hero. But peace never followed. His eyes began to burn at night. His hands trembled. He heard whispers in stone and dreamt of flame. Where he walked, the ground cracked. Where he knelt, crops died. And still he sought more—a deeper power, a final answer.
The Journey North
When the stars fell silent and even the gods turned their gaze, the knight rode north.
They called it the Black Spine—a jagged range of mountains where no map dared to linger. Thunder rolled eternally there, and lightning etched runes across the heavens. Here, time had ceased its march. The knight climbed alone, the weight of memory pressing heavier than steel.
He passed ruins that whispered of ancient empires, bones too large to be human, and altars stained with old blood. The air burned colder than death and hotter than fire, a paradox of suffering. Yet he climbed still, for at the summit, it waited.
The Summit of Reckoning
There, under a sky ablaze with unnatural flame, the mountain split. A wound in the world opened, and from it rose the thing from his dreams.
A dragon, vast beyond measure, its hide a tapestry of scars and molten scales. Smoke coiled from its maw. Its breath warped reality. It gazed upon him not as prey, but as progeny.
"You wear the cloak well," it said. "I came to end this," the knight replied. "You came to become it."And the world exploded into fire.
Sword clashed against claw. Flame met flesh. The knight fought with fury forged in regret, but every strike was echoed, anticipated. The beast did not merely defend—it taught. With each parry, with each scream, it offered him more. Visions of conquest. Kingdoms bowing. Time kneeling.
At the battle's height, the knight plunged his sword into the creature's heart—and felt nothing.
The Descent of a God
When the smoke cleared, the beast was gone.
No corpse. No victory.
Only silence.
And the knight, glowing faintly, his eyes twin embers in the dark.
He returned to the land of men, but they no longer welcomed him. Villagers barred their doors. Animals fled his scent. The rivers turned black. His name, once sung, was now cursed. And as he passed, the land died anew.
For he had not killed the dragon.
He had inherited it.
