Sakamoto's Age: 18
Time Since Leaving Braelor: 8 years
Current Location: Unknown region — somewhere near the Obsidian Verge
Known Alias: Ash Crown, Death-Touched, The Black Ember
World Status: The Age of Silence has begun
---
The wind screamed over black rock and frozen bones.
No birds. No voices. Just snow that never melted and skies that hadn't seen blue in years.
Sakamoto trudged alone across a narrow ridge. His boots were torn. His cloak, stitched dozens of times. The only clean thing on him was his sword — and even it was cracked along the center, whispering softly in his ear.
Niris didn't speak in words anymore.
She groaned with old weight.
With memories.
With names no one dared say out loud anymore.
---
Eight years had passed.
Not quickly.
Not gently.
Each year felt like a blade across the soul.
Sakamoto didn't keep track of months. Only the scars.
He remembered the last time he saw Ravian — bleeding but grinning.
He remembered Eira's eyes, flickering between herself and someone else.
He remembered promising to return.
And he remembered breaking that promise every morning he opened his eyes and realized...
He was still alone.
---
He passed through dozens of towns over the years.
Most refused him entry.
A few worshipped him.
One tried to kill him.
He never stayed long enough to let any of them know who he really was.
The legend of the Ash Crown had grown without him.
They said he burned mountains.
They said he walked with a sword that ate souls.
They said he was the left hand of a forgotten god.
He never denied any of it.
It kept the cowards away.
---
The only companion he carried was silence.
And the sword.
And the weight.
---
That night, he found shelter under the remains of a broken skyship — rusted hull tilted like a dying beast in the snow. He lit a small fire using scrap metal and dried moss.
He sat with his back to the wind, unwrapped some old meat, and stared at the blade leaning beside him.
> "Still with me?" he muttered.
A hum. Low. Echoing from the steel.
It wasn't a voice anymore.
But it wasn't nothing.
> "Thought so."
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
For a moment, sleep teased him.
And in that sliver of darkness, he dreamed of her.
---
Aelira.
Silver hair, wild laughter, eyes full of pain she tried to hide.
He saw her — standing in the field that never existed, holding out a hand toward him.
> "You said you'd be strong enough to come back."
He stepped toward her, lips trembling.
> "I wasn't."
She smiled — and it broke him all over again.
> "Then keep walking."
---
He woke to the sound of steel scraping ice.
His hand was already on Niris.
From the darkness outside the wreck, a figure approached — hooded, tall, scarred armor covered in frost.
But this wasn't Lucis.
No.
This wasn't anyone he remembered.
> "State your name," the stranger said.
Sakamoto stood slowly.
His voice was deeper now.
Low. Steady. Unshaking.
> "Sakamoto."
The stranger didn't react.
> "And your title?"
He paused.
Then turned his back to the fire, letting the shadows catch his silhouette.
> "I buried my title eight years ago."
> "That's funny," the man said.
"Because the world's been screaming your name since the capital burned last month."
Sakamoto's eyes narrowed.
> "The capital fell?"
> "Not fell," the man corrected.
"It was cleansed.
By someone bearing the Mirror Sigil."
Sakamoto's breath stopped.
Lucis.
---
The man tossed something into the fire.
A burned crest.
One that still glowed faintly red with magic.
The sigil of Arkenvale — cracked down the center.
> "They said if the Ash Crown still lived, he'd find this."
> "And if he's dead?" Sakamoto asked.
The man smiled.
> "Then maybe you'll do."