Night came fast on this cursed sky.
Tarn wandered alone.
The wind was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the clouds held their breath.
He clutched the chain link with "Drethis" scorched into its iron.The name pulsed like a heartbeat.
Then he saw it.
A temple.
Not glowing.Not grand.Dead.
No gods prayed here.
No guards stood watch.
Only silence.
The door was carved from bone-white stone.Old. Forgotten.
But something behind it waited.
He knew.
He stepped forward anyway.
Inside, the air was dry.
Dust thick.Time untouched.
Pillars crumbled.Statues wept black resin.
No flames burned.
But light leaked from cracks in the walls — unnatural. Cold.
At the center of the ruin:A slab.
On it, a corpse.
No, not quite.
Not dead.
Not alive.
Frozen.
Tarn approached.
The body was wrapped in cloth, but the chains were unmistakable.
The same as Drethis.
Same burn marks.Same symbols.
This one was sealed.
Runes danced across the bindings, glowing dimly.
As if still holding something back.
"What are you?" Tarn whispered.
No reply.
But a whisper echoed in the chamber.Not from the body.
From below it.
"He was the first."
Tarn spun, spear raised.
Nothing.
Just echoes.
"First to take the flame… and lose."
Tarn narrowed his eyes.
"Flame of what?"
"Of hunger. Of wrath. Of death."
"The weapon you hold — it's not a tool. It's a prison."
Tarn looked down at the black spear.
It was pulsing again.Faintly.Like it liked what it heard.
He gritted his teeth.
"Then who made it?"
The voice laughed.
Old. Sad.
"We did."
The walls shook.
Runes cracked.
The corpse's head twitched.
Eyes fluttered beneath wrappings.
Tarn backed away.
"No—"
Chains rattled.
The voice whispered again.
"Leave now… before it wakes."
Tarn didn't need a second warning.
He ran.
The temple shook behind him.
Dust rose into the sky.
The entrance sealed itself with a thunderous roar.
And Tarn knew:
He wasn't the first god to take the cursed flame.
And if he wasn't careful…
He'd join them in that tomb.