The air in the village of Vaelen did not reek of rot, as he had expected. It smelled of ozone, ash, and scorched earth. The houses stood empty, their doors hanging wide open, as if the inhabitants had fled from something that left no trace. Only the remnants of the ritual remained: a circle of black salt and shattered obsidian, and at its center, a stele riddled with cracks that pulsed with a sickly light.
Lyra halted at the threshold, her spear lowered but ready. "Don't touch that," she warned, her voice hoarse. "The chroniclers say that stone corrupts the blood of anyone who looks upon it." But the Core within his chest was already beating in unison with it. It wasn't a warning. It was a recognition. Shadow reached out. The instant his fingers brushed the cold surface, the world faded away.
Thousands of years ago, Eterna was nothing but a desolate wasteland. The echoes of battle rumbled ceaselessly; the stench of blood and ash permeated valleys and seas, suffocating entire kingdoms. Only one law existed: the strongest survived. Demons, elves, dwarves, and humans tore each other apart over every inch of land, every vein of mana, every breath of power. Until the sky tore open. It was neither lightning nor thunder. It was an absolute silence that preceded a descent. A being fell from the heavens, cloaked in a frenzied, shadowy aura that warped reality in its wake. It did not speak. It did not demand submission. It simply existed. And its mere presence rewrote the rules of the world. The ancients called it… the God of Shadows. But it brought no destruction. It brought balance. The magic that flowed from it was no poison. It was the thread that bound life and death, creation and oblivion. That was, until the victors of the First War branded it 'cursed.' Until they burned the temples, outlawed the names, and buried the truth beneath edicts and swords.
When he opened his eyes, he was on his knees in the ash. Lyra had a firm grip on his shoulder, her face pale beneath the gray light of dawn. "What did you see?" she asked, her voice tight. Shadow looked down at his hands. They were still trembling, but for the first time, the darkness coursing through his veins didn't feel like a curse. It felt like… a memory. "It wasn't black magic," he murmured. "It was the balance of the world. Someone called it cursed only because they couldn't control it. Or because it suited them to do so." Lyra frowned, but didn't loosen her grip. "If you say that in the capital, they'll burn you before you even finish the sentence." "I know," he replied, rising to his feet. "Which is why I won't speak. I will observe. I will learn the rules of this kingdom. And when the time comes… I will know who to judge."
A cold wind swept through the village. Amidst the rubble, a half-charred banner fluttered for a brief second: the emblem of House Valtorius, one of the great founding families of the Empire. Shadow recognized it from the forums. From the maps. From the matches where the wealthiest clans bought victories with gold and favors. But here, in this real world, that banner didn't signify wealth. It meant the conspiracy had already taken root. And he was the only blade capable of cutting it down.