Dawn broke red over the horizon—thick clouds smeared the sky like blood, and the wind carried the scent of scorched earth.
Althar rode at the head of his chosen retinue: Rorek by his side, Seris close behind, and a dozen scouts trained to track demons by scent and silence. The Princess of Ilvaren wore traveling armor now—light chain over leather, a sapphire clasp holding her cloak, her long hair braided tight. She didn't look like a visiting noble. She looked like she belonged.
As they neared the Whispering Hills, silence fell over the group. Even the birds had abandoned this place. The wind no longer carried whispers—it carried voices. Soft. Incoherent. Like fragments of dreams trying to crawl into their minds.
Seris was the first to speak. "This place is cursed."
"No," Althar said, narrowing his eyes as the ridge came into view. "It's open."
They dismounted on a rocky ledge overlooking the hollow valley below. What should've been rolling grass and wildflowers was now cracked stone, and in the center—where an ancient shrine had once stood—was a tear in reality itself.
A rift.
Black, jagged, and pulsing like a wound in the world.
The scouts instinctively stepped back. Idria, who had rejoined them at the capital, approached slowly. "This is not natural magic," she said. "It's not even living. It's void magic."
Rorek drew his sword. "Meaning?"
"Meaning something from outside our world forced its way in," she said. "Something cold. Ancient."
Seris pointed to the edge of the rift. "There's movement."
Out of the shadows crawled figures—twisted mockeries of men. Skin like dried leather, arms too long, eyes glowing a sickly green. Not undead. Not demon.
Something else.
"They're not attacking," Rorek muttered, uneasy. "Why?"
"They're waiting," Althar said, stepping forward, the mark on his chest burning anew. "For me."
He didn't wait for a plan. He drew his sword and descended the slope.
The creatures didn't move until he stepped within ten paces. Then, slowly, they bowed—not in reverence, but in recognition. One raised its head and spoke in a voice that was both whisper and thunder.
"Bearer of the old spark. You walk once more."
Althar didn't flinch. "Who sent you?"
"The gate calls all fragments home."
The air crackled. More creatures appeared from the rift, dozens, perhaps hundreds, each as grotesque as the last. But they didn't swarm. They watched him. Waited.
Then, a new figure emerged.
Taller.
Clad in armor made of black glass, pulsing with veins of fire. Its helm was crowned with twisted horns. A blade too long for any man hung from its back. And when it stepped forward, the very ground seemed to flinch.
Althar felt his pulse surge. This wasn't a beast.
It was a knight.
No—something older.
The figure stopped ten feet from him and removed its helmet. Beneath was a face eerily similar to his own.
Aged. Scarred. But undeniably him.
A future?
A past?
A shadow?
It spoke.
"I am what you were meant to become."
Althar tightened his grip on his sword. "Then I'll choose a different path."
The figure smiled—sadly. "You always say that. And yet the cycle turns."
Lightning cracked overhead.
Rorek shouted, "Althar! Behind you!"
One of the creatures lunged. Althar turned in a blur, severing it in one strike—but more followed.
The rift began to churn violently.
"Retreat!" Rorek shouted.
Seris unleashed a spell of shimmering ice, freezing three of the monsters mid-leap. Idria summoned a barrier of wind, shielding them as the scouts fought to regroup.
But Althar didn't run.
He faced the armored doppelgänger, blade raised. "I don't care what you are," he said. "You're in my world now."
Their blades clashed.
The force of it shook the valley.
For the first time, Althar felt not just power—but rage. Pure, cold fury that crackled from his fingertips. The same energy from the crown. The same fire from his dreams.
He didn't know how to control it.
But it answered him.
He struck again—and this time, the armored knight staggered.
"You are awakening," the figure said, voice filled with both pride and sorrow. "Soon, you will remember. And when you do…"
The figure stepped back into the rift.
"…you must choose what kind of god you wish to be."
With that, the knight vanished into the dark—and the rift sealed shut behind him, collapsing in on itself like a snuffed star.
Silence fell.
Only Althar remained standing near the crater, his breathing shallow, the fire within him barely contained.
Later, when they made camp at the edge of the hills, Seris approached him. She didn't ask what he saw. She only sat beside him in silence, watching the flames of the campfire dance in his eyes.
"You're not just a king anymore," she said. "Are you?"
"No," Althar replied. "I'm something else."
"What?"
He looked toward the night sky.
"I'm a memory reborn."