The sky bled ash, and Ardent Flix burned a village to save it.
He stood at the edge of Emberfall, where the ground had turned to black glass—fused by a god's tantrum long before he was born. The air reeked of iron and regret, thick with the echoes of screams he couldn't unhear. In his grip, his half-broken greatsword glowed molten, thrumming with Aether pulsing through his veins. It whispered to him—more, more, more—but he was already hollow, his mother's face just a blur he couldn't claw back.
They were infected, he told himself, boots crunching on charred bone. Aether Ghouls. Beyond saving. But guilt gnawed deeper—he hadn't even looked twice before unleashing Sunfall. A column of light had torn the village apart, etching shadows into glass.
And then, the child. Curled in the wreckage. Eyes wide. Accusing.
"You promised," she whispered, before her skin cracked like porcelain—and her breath stopped.
Ardent dropped to his knees. His blood burned, lava fissures spiderwebbing across his arms—the cost of Sunfall, creeping closer. Was it worth it? The question stabbed deep. He pressed his forehead to the glass, ash sticking to his sweat. I had to. I had to. But the village was gone. And the child's silhouette lingered in his vision—a stain he couldn't burn away.
Footsteps crunched behind him. Measured. Deliberate.
Not Syl—she would've mocked him by now.
Not Johan—his silence was heavier. Like a blade drawn but not swung.
Ardent's grip tightened.
"Monster," rasped a voice—low, jagged. Like a sword dragged over stone.
He turned.
Johan Mayers. The Empty Blade.
Cloaked in ash-streaked leather, twin blacksteel katanas at his hips, Johan's face was all scar-tissue and ice. No Aether in him. Just skill, forged to a razor's edge. Ardent's half-brother—though neither used the word.
The silence between them crackled. Ancient. Unforgiven.
"They were already dead," Ardent said, steady despite the fire raging in his chest. "Ghouls. You've seen them."
Johan didn't blink. "I saw a child. Not a ghoul."
The words hit like a spear. Ardent's jaw clenched. "I saved what I could."
"You burned everything." Johan's hand slid toward his hilt. "Like always."
Ardent rose. His sword hummed, heavy and wanting. The Aether screamed—Ember Cleansing. Burn him. Burn the doubt.
But he choked it down.
Johan wasn't the enemy.
Not yet.
The real threats were out there.
The Hollow King, calling Ardent the world's last mistake.
The Radiant, feasting on memories to cheat death.
This? This was just blood. And history.
"Walk away, Johan," Ardent murmured, voice like coals. "I don't want to bury you too."
Johan's mouth twitched—not a smile. More like a wound.
"You don't bury. You burn."
They stared through the ashstorm. Then Johan turned, his cloak flaring behind him.
"Next time," he said, "I won't just watch."
And then he was gone.
Ash settled on Ardent's shoulders. The sword in his hand thrummed, hungry. He looked to the horizon—where the Godscar pulsed like a wound in the world. The Aether Well called to him, promising answers, power.
Ruin.
He took a step forward. The child's shadow followed, etched into the glass beneath his boots.
The ash fell heavier now, veiling Emberfall in a curtain of grief. Ardent trudged toward the city's edge, where the ribcage of a dead god had been carved into spires. The air thickened—charged with the hum of an oncoming Aether Storm. Lightning that didn't strike, but sang. That melted flesh and supercharged madness.
He needed shelter.
A tavern's sign creaked in the wind, half-burned:
The Veinmother's Rest.
He pushed through the door. Ash spilled from his cloak. The air inside stank—godseed ale and fear. Eyes met his, then darted away. Whispers followed.
"Aetherborn."
"Monster."
He ignored them. Slid into a corner. Let the shadows hold him. His sword leaned against the wall—its glow dim, but ever-present.
At the bar, a familiar figure slumped.
Syl Caffix.
Scarred mercenary. Mage-hunter.
The only one who'd ever laughed at his martyr complex.
Her chain-whip lay coiled beside her like a sleeping serpent. Her fingers traced the glowing scar on her cheek—lying again. Her curse made her scars glow when she lied. She wore them like medals.
"Rough day, hero?" she said without turning. Her voice was a half-laugh, half-cut.
Ardent grunted. "You heard?"
"Whole Dominion heard. Burned a village. Saved the day. Same old Flix."
"They were ghouls," he muttered, but it felt like lying.
Syl's eyes finally met his. Sharp. Tired.
"All of them?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned back, her scar dimming. "Magic ruins everyone, Flix. Even you."
"I'm not ruined."
His voice was flame. But small. Flickering.
She smirked. "Keep telling yourself that."
The tavern door slammed open.
Ash howled in. And with it—a man cloaked in crow feathers.
Duke the Silent.
His grin was too wide. His eyes too bright. Aether warped the air around him—phantom limbs flickering like ghosts.
The room froze.
"Well, well," Duke said, his voice a choir of whispers. "The hero's moping. How poetic."
Ardent's hand moved to his sword. "Not now, Duke."
Duke laughed—shards of broken glass. "Oh, but now is perfect. Hollow King's got a bounty on you. Big one. Even I'm tempted."
He leaned in close. "But no… I'd rather watch you fall apart."
Syl's whip shifted, but she stayed seated.
"Back off, freakshow. He's already haunted."
Duke's grin widened. "Says the walking scar collection." He pulled back, ghost-arms curling like smoke. "Fine. I'll play nice. For now."
He vanished into the storm, leaving the tavern colder.
Ardent's chest ached. The bounty wasn't a surprise. Just confirmation.
The prophecy was a lie. A leash.
And he was marching straight into the Godscar.
Syl downed her drink. "You're gonna get us all killed, y'know."
"Then walk away."
She laughed. Rough and raw. "Nah. I'm too stubborn to die easy."
Outside, the storm broke. Lightning sang. The sky screamed.
Ardent's sword flared—hungry for chaos. He rose, ash falling from him like a second skin.
"Where you going?" Syl asked, already knowing.
"To the Well," he said. "To end this."
She sighed, grabbed her whip. "You're an idiot. But I'm in."
They stepped into the storm. The world dissolved into fire and ash.
And far behind them, a single crow perched on the tavern's swinging sign.
Its eyes were too human.
It had no shadow.