He dreamed of fire.
Not flame—but memory. Cities drowned in golden light. A girl with silver eyes reaching for his hand. A battlefield littered with broken spears and blood-soaked banners. His crown glowing as bright as a sun, while a shadow loomed behind him, whispering, You were never real.
He woke gasping, cold sweat on his brow.
The witch sat across from him, stirring a black liquid in a bowl carved from bone. "You dream loud," she said. "I could hear it in the roots."
"Do you know who I was?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. But I know what they want you to be."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
She set the bowl down. "There is a place, north of here. The Vale of Screams. Where memories are buried in stone, and truths speak through echoes. Go there. Bring the sword. It may wake something. Or it may kill you."
The man looked down at the weapon in his lap. The blade shimmered softly now, alive and aware.
"What is this sword?"
She grinned. "Its name is Sorrow. And once, it belonged to a king who never lost a battle—because he never truly lived."
He stood, unease growing in his chest. "So I'm not the first?"
"No," she whispered. "But you may be the last."
Outside, the mist had cleared. Dawn was breaking.
The man—still nameless, still hunted—tightened the belt around his waist, slung the sword over his back, and stepped into the thinning dark.
The witch's voice echoed behind him:
"Beware the one who wears no crown—yet rules them all."