The wind howled across the dead plains of Vareth, carrying the scent of ash and rust. Crows circled above cracked stone monuments, their wings cutting black arcs through the dying light. Beneath one such monument—an ancient obelisk split down the middle like a cracked tooth—a hand broke through the soil.
Fingers twitched. Earth fell away.
Then came the arm, pale and thin as bone, clawing its way out of the dirt like a worm wriggling from the belly of the world. The grave, if it could be called that, was shallow—an insult more than a burial. And yet, from it rose a man.
He coughed dust. Eyes fluttered open.
Sky. Blood-red sky.
He gasped, rolling onto his side, shivering with the cold of someone who had not felt air in a long time. Or ever. He did not know his name. He did not know where he was. He only knew pain—and the weight on his head.
He reached up.
Fingers touched cold metal.
A crown.
He sat up slowly, crown glinting like a knife in the dusk. Around him, there was nothing but dead grass, stone, and wind. His clothes were royal—a deep blue tunic with golden thread, soaked in grave-dirt. Boots laced with silver. A sword lay beside him, half-buried. When his fingers closed around its hilt, he heard something—faint, like a whisper.
A name.
His?
"Who am I?" he muttered, voice raw.
The wind answered with silence.
A crack echoed in the distance. Then another. Hoofbeats. Riders.
He turned toward the sound, staggering to his feet. Legs weak. Vision blurred.
The sword pulsed faintly in his grip.
Six riders crested the hill, clad in dark armor with banners like torn wings. The man saw their swords. Their eyes. No time for questions.
He ran.
He did not know where the path would lead. He did not know why the earth had vomited him into a world that wanted him dead. But as the sky darkened and the riders gave chase, only one truth echoed in his mind:
Someone buried him.
And someone would regret it.