Night had fallen. Thick mist crawled between the jagged stone remnants of what was once the village of Thornebrook, now silent and lost to war and time. Adrien, cloaked and masked, walked beside Fenrik and a still-grieving Damien. Nyxaris padded quietly ahead, only his glowing horn visible in the dark.
They were waiting. A contact Fenrik had spoken of — one he didn't trust but said "knows things men shouldn't."
The ruins were deathly quiet until a flame flickered to life in the shadows.
Out stepped a tall man, cloaked in gray rags, eyes sunken and amber like burning coals. His steps made no sound, and his smile held too many teeth.
"Took your time. I was beginning to think the Order got to you too."
Fenrik raised an eyebrow. "We move carefully these days."
The stranger glanced toward Adrien, his smile lingering longer than comfortable.
"You're the one carrying the stain of Shadow. The real kind. Not the tricks hedge mages pull."
Adrien narrowed his eyes. "You know about it?"
"I know enough not to say his name in the open."
He lit a second flame in his palm, illuminating symbols carved into his skin — ancient glyphs, mostly demonic, but some older. Forbidden.
Damien stepped forward. "You're not human, are you?"
The man chuckled. "No one who survives the Order this long stays human."
He looked back at Adrien. "They'll come for you soon. Not just the Order, but others. Old ones. Things that remember the world before light swallowed the skies."
Fenrik asked carefully, "Then what do you want?"
"To tell your boy something."
He faced Adrien again.
"There was another like you. Not Ardonis. Someone after him. A mistake. Half-shadow, half-something else. They called him the Ashen Brand."
Adrien blinked. "Never heard of him."
"Few have. That's the point."
He tossed something to Adrien — a shard of black glass, humming faintly.
"That belonged to the Brand. His grave lies in the Maw of Soreth. If you want to know what power costs, dig him up."
Fenrik took a step forward. "What's your price for this?"
The demon's smile faded.
"That you survive long enough to kill the right god. And if you ever do…"
He looked toward Nyxaris.
"…Tell Ardonis his debts are still unpaid."
He vanished in flame and smoke, leaving only ash.
Nyxaris growled softly, then leaned against Adrien's leg.
Damien whispered, "He was scared. Even through all that fire and teeth… I felt it."
Adrien turned the glass shard over in his hand. His voice was low.
"Then whatever's waiting in that grave might be worth finding."
----
The world was gone.
No earth beneath his feet, no sky above. Just a rolling abyss of shifting shadow, not empty — watching. Adrien stood barefoot in the void, the black glass shard hovering before him, spinning slowly.
A whisper echoed behind him.
"You should not have touched that."
Adrien turned. The air bent inward — like the shadows were bowing — and then Ardonis stepped forward. His form wasn't solid. A silhouette woven of starlight and smoke, his face ever-changing: sometimes young, sometimes ancient, sometimes Adrien's own.
Adrien folded his arms. "You really like making dramatic entrances, don't you?"
Ardonis tilted his head.
"And you still speak with arrogance. Good. I feared this world would tame you."
"Not likely," Adrien muttered. "Who was the Ashen Brand?"
A flicker passed through Ardonis's form. His voice grew quieter.
"A consequence. One of my mistakes… when I allowed a mortal to carry my fragment. He was strong. But he wanted too much, too fast. He chased dominion before understanding weight."
Adrien narrowed his eyes. "He failed?"
"He broke."
"And in breaking, he gave birth to a curse."
The shadows around them shifted. Adrien saw flashes: a figure wrapped in chains of flame and shadow, screaming as cities burned behind him.
Ardonis continued.
"The shard you hold is a memory — not just power. It will try to feed you whispers, promises. Resist them."
Adrien frowned. "Why show me this now? Why keep secrets if I'm supposed to carry your legacy?"
The silence stretched… then Ardonis stepped closer. For the first time, his voice lowered into something like… guilt.
"Because you're still young. And because if you knew the full weight, you'd throw it away."
Adrien scoffed, but it was softer. "You think I'd run?"
Ardonis didn't answer. Instead, he raised a hand, and the void rippled. A vision formed: a mountain sealed in chains, a city of silver half-submerged in shadow, and a crown burning on a corpse's head.
"There are trials ahead — none in tournaments, none with applause. The world does not need another godslayer."
Adrien raised an eyebrow. "Then what does it need?"
Ardonis met his gaze, and for a moment, the celestial looked… human.
"A better one."
Then, as if snapped from a string — the dream shattered.
Adrien gasped awake, drenched in sweat. The black shard sat on the table beside him, now etched with a faint sigil that hadn't been there before.
Nyxaris, curled at the foot of the bed, looked up with a soft growl — sensing the change.
Adrien sat up, rubbing his face.
"A better godslayer, huh?"
"You might've set the bar pretty damn low then."
He stared at the shard.
"But fine. Let's see where this rabbit hole leads."