The hero is dead. Only Lucian remains.
The wind howled across the jagged cliffs like a wounded beast, shrieking through the narrow gorges as if mourning something long lost. Snow swirled in wild spirals, dancing atop the crags like restless spirits, never settling, never still. The sky above stretched endless and grey, a frozen ocean of clouds that bled no warmth, no mercy. Only silence—and the wind.
Lucian staggered along the cliffside path, each step a cruel negotiation with gravity. His once-pristine armor hung from him like the relic of a forgotten age, tarnished and dented, patches of rust blooming like rot across its surface. The crimson cape that had once trailed behind him like a royal banner now clung to his frame in tattered strips, soaked through with ice and blood, most of it his own.
His breath came in ragged clouds. His skin—chapped, raw, and pale—cracked under the cold. His eyes, once burning with purpose, were dull now, rimmed with red from sleepless nights and haunted memories.
Behind him, the capital lay far beyond the mountain pass, its towers lost behind a curtain of mist and betrayal.
There was no path forward.
And yet he walked.
Because walking was all that remained.
He didn't know how long it had been since the banquet. Since that night.
Time no longer moved in ways he could understand. Days bled into nights and back again in a colorless cycle. Food had run out long ago. His waterskin was empty. His last coin spent to bribe a ferryman who wouldn't look him in the eyes.
He had become… a thing.
Not a man.
Not anymore.
Not since Kael.
Kael.
The name echoed in his skull, not like a word—but a curse. A wound that refused to scab over. A jagged piece of steel lodged between the ribs of his soul.
He clenched his jaw until pain lanced up his temple.
Kael hadn't bested him with a sword. That would've been mercy.
No—Kael had whispered ruin into the ears of the court. Planted doubts like seeds, nurtured them with secrets, and watched as they grew into poisoned vines that strangled Lucian's legacy.
Whispers in the halls.
Rumors in the church.
Smiles that didn't reach the eyes.
Until one day, the gates closed behind him. The knights turned their faces. The holy texts that had once sung his praises now declared him unworthy.
A vessel no longer fit for divinity.
Even Elyndra had turned away.
Not with hatred.
With pity.
That was worse.
Much worse.
The sacred sword he carried—a blade once kissed by heaven's fire—was silent now. Its light extinguished. Its spirit… gone. Not even cold. Just empty. Like him.
He wanted to cast it aside, to abandon it like it had abandoned him.
But he couldn't.
Because the weight of it was the only thing reminding him that he was real.
He crested a hill and collapsed against a boulder, his lungs burning. Blood crusted at the corner of his lips. His vision swam. The hunger gnawed at his belly like an animal, but it was the silence that hurt most.
No voices. No prayers. No purpose.
Just the wind, screaming in his ears.
Is this what becomes of legends? he wondered. Is this the fate of heroes who fall?
He closed his eyes.
Memories flickered, unbidden.
The smile of a boy he saved in a burning village.
The roar of a crowd as he lifted the sword high.
The soft press of Elyndra's lips on his cheek the night before battle.
And then—
Kael.
In that damned banquet hall.
Standing still while Lucian screamed.
Watching everything unravel with a calm smile, as if he had already won.
He had.
Lucian had walked into the trap with eyes wide open.
The worst part?
He had believed Kael.
Trusted him.
Called him friend.
A bitter laugh escaped Lucian's throat.
It hurt.
Everything hurt.
And yet he still laughed—short, broken, sharp as shattered glass.
Because all of it was so pathetic.
He was pathetic.
He had fought for gods, for kings, for ideals written in books and sung by bards—and none of it had mattered.
Not in the end.
Not when the truth came dressed in Kael's voice, soft and cold, whispering: "You are only heroic so long as they believe you are."
And now?
No one believed.
The sun began to set, what little light it offered staining the icy cliffs in blood-red hues. The shadows grew longer, darker. The cold sank deeper into his bones, turning flesh to stone.
He took another step forward.
And then another.
And then his legs gave out.
Lucian fell face-first into the snow.
The sacred sword slid from his back and struck the rocks beside him with a muted clink.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't care.
The stars above wheeled silently in the darkening sky—distant, uncaring witnesses to his disgrace.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe this was where he died.
Not in battle.
Not in glory.
But alone.
Forgotten.
Then—boots.
Footsteps.
Steady. Purposeful. Soft over the snow, but deliberate. A rhythm that didn't belong to the wind.
Lucian blinked through the haze, trying to lift his head.
Couldn't.
The world was spinning, his limbs unresponsive.
A figure loomed in the growing dark.
A woman.
Tall. Slender. Shrouded in crimson and shadow. Her presence wasn't loud—it radiated. Like a flame behind silk. Her cloak rippled without wind. Her skin, what little of it he could see beneath the veil, glowed faintly, like ember-light beneath ash.
Her eyes—impossible.
Red-gold. Burning. Intelligent.
Wrong.
She crouched beside him, her expression unreadable.
"Well, well," she purred, voice rich as velvet, smooth and wrong in the way honey might feel on a blade. "What's this I've found? A broken little myth crawling into my lands?"
Lucian tried to speak.
Failed.
His mouth moved, but no sound came.
His body betrayed him—again.
She traced a gloved finger along the broken crest on his chestplate, as if tasting history through touch. "You smell of old power," she whispered. "Celestial blood. Forgotten promises. Such… brittle holiness."
She smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
"But beneath all that? Rage. Grief. Shame. Mmm… delicious."
Lucian managed a breath—shallow, ragged.
A spark flickered in his eyes.
He hated her.
He feared her.
He wanted to speak.
She tilted her head.
"Tell me, hero," she whispered, leaning closer. "Do you seek redemption? Or revenge?"
Lucian opened his mouth.
Blood touched his lips.
No words came.
Only darkness.
When he awoke, the cold was gone.
He lay on rough stone, beneath a sky of swirling indigo and dead stars. A sky that didn't move. Didn't blink. A sky that watched.
Strange trees loomed in the distance—skeletal things that pulsed faintly with inner light. The air was thick with magic, old and unfamiliar. He felt it crawl along his skin, probing, tasting.
He sat up slowly.
He wasn't in the kingdom anymore.
He wasn't on the mortal plane at all.
The realm before him was barren and vast. A jagged horizon of stone and ruin. Black rivers coursed through cracked valleys. There were no birds. No wind. Only the distant hum of something sleeping beneath the soil.
The sword was beside him.
Still cold.
Still dead.
Footsteps approached.
The woman stood again.
This time, no veil.
Her face was ageless. Beautiful. Alien.
And her eyes… those terrible, wonderful eyes… promised both salvation and damnation.
"You have been cast out," she said. "By men. By gods. By all who once claimed you."
She extended a hand.
"But I do not cast aside what is broken. I reshape it."
Lucian stared at her hand.
Then at the sword.
Then at himself.
The path ahead was clear.
It wasn't light that waited at the end.
It was shadow.
And he, too, had become shadow.
He took her hand.
And the crucible began.
To be continued...