The first thing he felt was cold.
Not the kind of cold that bit the skin—but a hollow, marrow-deep stillness, like time had forgotten to move. The room was dimly lit, torches flickering against carved obsidian walls. Dust hung heavy in the air, unmoving. The only sound was the breathing of thirteen souls.
He gasped.
Eyes wide, lungs raw, he stumbled back and hit a stone pillar. The pain was real. The fear more so.
Twelve others stood in a semicircle facing the throne. It was vast, ancient, and empty—crafted from some blackened bone that shimmered with faint runes. The others… they didn't look confused. Or scared. They were calm. Collected. Like statues that breathed.
The man opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse whisper
"Where… where am I?"
A tall figure stepped forward from the group. He wore a rusted breastplate, one shoulder etched with silver glyphs that pulsed softly with light.
His eyes were old. Older than his face.
"It's always like this at first," he said. His voice had a dry calmness, as if he had spoken these words countless times. "The headache, the confusion, the terror. It fades."
The man clutched his head as pain surged—a flash of memory. Blades. Screams. Fire. A spear in his side. Blood choking his throat.
He fell to his knees.
"I… I died."
The warrior nodded. "We all did."
The man looked up, trembling. "Then why—why are we here?"
"To serve," the warrior said. "To obey. To be sent to do what the living can't."
"By who?"
The warrior glanced toward the throne. "No one knows its name. It never speaks. It simply… calls. But it does have someone to speak for it"
Another memory flickered in the man's mind—a battlefield lit by twin moons, a roaring beast the size of a tower, his own hands ablaze with crimson light. Then darkness.
He winced. "I don't even know my name. Just… just my first. It's—Cael."
The warrior knelt beside him. "That's more than most remember on day one. I only knew my hands could kill, and that my blood once meant something." He offered a hand. "I go by Ardan now."
Cael took it.
"Do we get our memories back?" he asked quietly.
"Some do," Ardan said. "Some remember their old lives. Some wish they didn't." He paused. "The longer you're here, the more it comes back. Bits and pieces. Faces. Places. Regrets."
Cael looked around at the others. There was a woman in frost-lined armor tracing invisible symbols in the air. A silent man with a blindfold, his head bowed in prayer. A pair of twins with matching burn scars and shadowy blades at their backs.
None of them looked lost. They looked… waiting.
"What are we waiting for?" Cael asked.
Ardan looked at the throne.
"When it wants us to do something," he said, "it will send us. We come back here if we die. And very rarely some lose their minds and attack allies. But every mission buys us time—time to remember. To reclaim who we were."
A moment passed in silence—heavy, expectant.
Then, from the shadows above, came a fluttering of wings. Not the soft wings of a dove, nor the wide beat of a hawk. These were sharper, heavier, like the slicing of black silk through air.
A bird descended from the darkness, gliding in a perfect spiral until it perched atop the arm of the throne. It was larger than any crow, with feathers like charred parchment and eyes that glowed a deep, ember-red. Its beak shimmered as though cut from obsidian, and when it opened its mouth, the voice that came forth was not its own.
It was not a voice at all.
It was a presence—ancient, vast, and suffocating.
"Gravewalkers."
The word echoed from within their minds, not their ears.
Cael stumbled back, shielding his face. Even Ardan lowered his gaze.
The bird tilted its head unnaturally. "Four are chosen. Four shall walk once more in flesh. The time is short. The heart stirs."
Ardan stepped forward and bowed slightly. "This is Ashirak," he told Cael without turning. "The Tongue of the Nameless. The only voice we'll ever hear. If the throne has will, it speaks through him."
Ashirak's eyes glowed brighter.
"You are to return to Sal Helios. The veil shall bend, and you shall wear form once more. You are specters no longer—but not yet living. Your purpose defines your flesh."
One of the warriors—an axe-wielding man with a golden circlet embedded in his skull—took a step forward. His voice was a rumble.
"What is our mission, Tongue of the Throne?"
Ashirak's feathers rustled, releasing a scent of old ash and winter wind.
"There are twelve who carry the shards of the Worldheart—scattered in flesh, bound by fate. We have found four. Three have been reclaimed."
Ardan turned to Cael. "We've recovered three already. Pulled them from the edge of death, dragged them through cursed lands. Each one bore power like a god's ember—and madness to match."
Ashirak continued. "The four lies in the hands of the False Flame. You must find them, protect them, and return them to the Hold of Twelve. Their fragment must be excised before corruption takes root."
The blindfolded man finally spoke. "And the others?"
"You will not find them yet. The rest are veiled. When all four is gathered, the path to the next will open."
Ashirak fluttered its wings, and the room shook slightly.
"Four will walk. Ardan The Swifthand. Maire of the Icemaiden. Tolvan the Twinless. and finally Cael"
Two other warriors stepped forward—Maire, the frost-armored woman, and Tolvan, the one with burn scars and a single blade.
Cael felt a chill pass through him. "Why only four of us?"
Ashirak turned its ember eyes on him.
"Because the soul must earn return. Because the living must not notice the dead. Because the world still fears the sound of old boots marching from the grave."
Cael swallowed.
"Go now. The gate is open for but one night. At the end of the moon, you will be flesh in a world that wants you gone. Succeed—and return to reclaim your names."
Then the bird flapped once.
The throne cracked open behind it, splitting to reveal a black void pulsing with starlight.
Ardan looked back at the others.
"Watch the flame," he said.
"Keep the count," they answered in unison.
Cael stood beside him, trembling, but something in his bones remembered command. Remembered duty.
"Ready?" Ardan asked.
"No," Cael replied. "But I think I've done this before."
"Good," Ardan said, stepping into the void. "Then you'll die slower this time."
They walked into it and soon they descend.
The descent was not like falling—it was like being they were particles of unknown energy that constructed their bodies as they descended.
Light poured away, and then there was wind.
They stood on a ridge of red stone, overlooking a vast, breathtaking expanse. The lands of Sal Helios sprawled beneath them like a dream—rolling green valleys kissed by gold light, rivers gleaming like molten silver, and in the far distance, a towering citadel of pale stone and crimson banners the kingdom of Vaelthra, heart of the southern realms.
For a moment, Cael was struck still. It was beautiful. Too beautiful. This world had no right to feel this alive after death. Then he pondered why he has no title like the others and asked Ardan.
"So you're the Swifthand, she's the Icemaiden, and the buff guy is called the Twinless. Why don't I have a title like that?"
"Because you still haven't recovered most of your memories, usually your title is determined by both your past life and how you fight as a gravewalker."
Then, without a word, Maire stepped forward.
Her frost-lined armor shimmered beneath the sun as she walked to the edge, eyes scanning the hills. "I head to the capital. The dream showed me smoke and a child," she murmured.
She stepped off the ledge and, as if walking on memory, descended the path without hesitation.
Tolvan, burn-scarred and brooding, turned west. "I go to the ruins. Something pulls there."
He didn't look back. Within seconds, the both of them vanished from view.
Cael stood awkwardly, only now realizing how isolated he felt in their presence. He turned to Ardan.
"They're just… leaving?"
Ardan nodded, arms crossed over his chestplate. "The Gravewalkers aren't a band of heroes, Cael. We're dead. Most of us died alone. We don't change much in death."
Cael frowned. "So none of you are friends?"
"Some are," Ardan replied. "But most of us were strangers before the Hold brought us together. A few of us even fought each other in the wars when we were alive. I've killed one of them once, long ago. He still remembers." He shrugged. "We work together when we must. But mostly, we walk alone."
Cael hesitated. "So… are you going your own way too?"
Ardan gave a wry smile. "Yes. One of the shards is outside the kingdom. I can feel it."
"How do you even feel it? Maire and Tolvan said something about visions and pulls."
"Each grave walker has a different way of getting information from the unknown entity, I get it a shingles like Tolvan, and Maire gets visions"
Cael looked down. "I don't even know where to begin. I don't know anything. I can't remember how to fight. I don't even know who I am."
Ardan placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a Gravewalker. That's all you need to know—for now. Instincts will return. Trust them. You'll feel the pull, just like the rest of us. And when the time comes, you'll know what to do."
He turned, his cloak fluttering behind him like smoke. "If you survive, we'll meet again in the Hold."
Then he was gone.
"What the?! Ardan!.." Silence "Damn he is fast"
Cael stood alone, the wind pressing against his back. The capital of Vaelthra waited ahead, distant and imposing. The only path left to him.
He took his first step.
The dirt was warm beneath his boots. The path twisted down a slope of wind-smoothed stone, toward a grassy plain. Flowers bloomed in odd colors—blue fire-lilies and gold-thorned roses. The sun hung too still in the sky. Time here felt wrong.
As he walked, the confusion of his current predicament was slowly replaced with unease. Something gnawed at the edge of his awareness.
Then it hit him.
He stopped.
His hands—bare. His body—covered in simple, ragged black. No armor. No sword. No cloak. No gear.
"Shit."
He realizes the others were geared.
He turned back toward the ridge, but there was no sign of Ardan. No Maire. No Tolvan.
Only sky. And wind.
Cael clenched his fists. "Damn it. I forgot to ask how they got their gear…"
He had missed the chance to ask.
Alone. Unarmed. Unsure. And walking into the heart of a kingdom where something—or someone—was carrying a fragment of this mysterious Worldheart.
And if the others were any indication… that someone would not surrender easily.
"Here we go then"