The days that followed bled into one another — steel, sweat, and the cold echo of orders barked through the training fields.
Julian had thought he knew exhaustion once — back on Earth, after nights of working odd jobs, after losing everything — but this was different. This was a constant, relentless forge.
Taron was the blacksmith.
Julian was the blade.
Each morning began before dawn. Sword drills until his arms screamed. Sparring until his vision blurred. Marches up the ridge in armor too heavy, too foreign.
And through it all, Taron's voice cut sharper than any blade.
"Again."
"Your footing is wrong."
"Strike like you mean to kill, not hesitate like a child."
Julian obeyed, bruised and breathless. He didn't understand everything about this world, not yet — but he understood pain, and how to push through it.
Lira was always there, watching from the edges of the training yard. Sometimes she'd bring him water, or a word that anchored him when his resolve faltered. Other times, she'd correct his stance, quietly murmuring, "He's not teaching you to fight — he's teaching you to survive."
It was on the seventh day, beneath a blood-orange sky, that Julian finally asked.
They were alone — him, Lira, and Taron — standing beside the training grounds as the soldiers dispersed for evening rations.
Julian wiped the sweat from his brow. "You keep saying we fight for a kingdom," he said, his voice rough. "But who are we fighting against?"
Taron glanced at him, silent for a moment before answering. "The ones who wear the white sigil. The Crown of Purity."
Julian frowned. "And they're the enemy?"
"They were our allies," Taron said, voice low, controlled. "Until they turned. Their ruler — King Daeron — calls himself the Heir of Light. He preaches purity, order, and salvation. But what he's done is carve this land apart, city by city, until only ashes remain."
Lira's jaw tightened. "His soldiers burn villages that refuse to kneel. They call it cleansing."
Julian stared between them, struggling to reconcile the fragments. "So this Daeron… he destroyed your kingdom?"
Taron nodded once. "He didn't just destroy it. He rewrote it. Took what wasn't his and painted it holy."
His eyes narrowed. "You've seen what he's done, Julian — you just don't remember it yet."
Julian blinked. "What do you mean?"
Taron didn't answer. He turned toward the fading horizon instead. "You'll understand when the time comes. For now, your questions are distractions. Focus on becoming what you were meant to be."
Julian clenched his fists. "And what's that?"
Taron looked at him then — not as a commander, but as someone staring into a mirror of his own past. "A weapon sharp enough to cut through gods."
The words lingered long after he walked away.
Lira stepped beside Julian, her voice soft. "He's not lying — but he's not telling you everything either."
Julian sighed, staring at the distant mountains. "Then I'll find out the rest myself."
Over the next few days, his training intensified. He sparred against men twice his size, learned to read movement, to strike before thinking. Taron's methods were merciless — he'd knock Julian to the ground, then order him to stand again and again until he couldn't lift his blade.
But something inside Julian was changing. The fatigue began to fade faster than it should. His reflexes sharpened beyond human rhythm. Once, when Taron swung a heavy blade meant to break his guard, Julian's hand moved before thought — catching the sword's edge barehanded.
Steel bit into his palm — yet instead of blood, faint gray embers sparked from the wound, fading like ash into the wind.
Taron's eyes widened for just a heartbeat, before narrowing again. "Good," he said. "Now you're beginning to remember."
That night, as Julian and Lira sat by the fire, she bound his hand in silence.
He watched the flicker of the flames reflected in her eyes and asked quietly, "You knew, didn't you?"
She hesitated. "I've seen things I can't explain. When you fought, when you fell… the way the ash moved around you. It's as if it recognises you."
Julian frowned, flexing his hand. "Recognises me?"
"Maybe you're not the only one reborn," she said softly. "Maybe something else came with you."
He looked into the fire for a long time, her words echoing in the hollow of his chest.
Above them, the night spread like ink — endless, waiting.
And for the first time, Julian felt the weight of what he might become.
Morning broke cold and gray. The camp stirred early, soldiers whispering of movement near the river outpost — a patrol that hadn't returned.
Julian was still half-asleep when Taron's voice cut through the fog.
"Gear up. You're coming with me."
Julian blinked. "A mission?"
"A test," Taron said, strapping on his pauldrons. "You've trained enough in the dust. Time to see if you can bleed for a purpose."
Lira stood nearby, adjusting her cloak, her expression unreadable. "He's ready," she said, though her tone betrayed the faintest trace of worry.
Taron gave a low grunt. "We'll see."
They rode out at dawn — four riders cutting through the pale mist. The forest was silent, trees skeletal and blackened by old fire. Crows circled overhead.
Julian could feel the tension in the air — not fear, but anticipation. The kind that came before something went wrong.
By midday, they reached the river outpost. Or what was left of it.
Smoke still rose from the shattered wooden walls. The air smelled of blood and ash. Corpses littered the ground — men in red and black, Taron's colors — cut down where they stood.
Lira dismounted first, scanning the carnage. "No survivors."
Taron knelt beside one of the fallen soldiers, brushing the ash from a burned insignia. His jaw tightened. "Daeron's hunters," he muttered. "He sent his Purists this far north…"
Julian's stomach turned. "Hunters?"
"They don't take prisoners," Taron said flatly. "They take trophies."
A sound broke the silence — the creak of shifting wood. Then another. The rustle of armor.
"Ambush!" Lira shouted.
Figures burst from the treeline — white-cloaked soldiers bearing the Crown of Purity. Their blades gleamed, eyes burning with fanatical light.
Taron drew his sword in a blur. "Hold the line!"
The clash came fast and brutal. Steel rang, arrows hissed. Julian barely raised his weapon before the first soldier was on him. Their blades met — the shock running up Julian's arms, numbing his hands. He staggered, blocking again, then ducking a killing blow that sliced through his cloak.
Another came from behind. Julian turned too slow —
— until instinct took over.
He moved without thinking, faster than he ever had. His sword carved a clean arc through the air, gray ash swirling from his wrist as if drawn to his motion. The soldier froze mid-swing — then collapsed, eyes empty, armor blackened where Julian's blade had passed.
Julian stumbled back, staring at his sword. The air shimmered faintly around him, particles of ash glowing before fading into nothing.
"What…" he breathed.
Across the battlefield, Taron's gaze locked onto him — sharp, assessing, almost hungry.
Another Purist charged. Julian turned, and the ash followed. It curled from his skin, weaving like smoke, hardening into streaks of light with each strike. He felt weightless, unstoppable — until the last man fell.
Then the strength vanished. He dropped to one knee, chest heaving, the world spinning.
Taron approached, sword still dripping. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with quiet fire.
"You've felt it now, haven't you?"
Julian looked up weakly. "What… what was that?"
Taron sheathed his sword. "Not what. Who."
Julian frowned, shaking his head. "You're not making sense."
Taron crouched before him, voice low, almost reverent. "The ashes that answer you — they remember your will. Once, they burned kingdoms. Once, they followed a king."
Julian's heart pounded. "A king?"
Taron's gaze didn't waver. "You were no ordinary man, Julian. You were the flame that Daeron feared most."
Julian stared, stunned. "You think I was someone else? Some… king?"
Taron rose, turning toward the wind-scattered battlefield. "I don't think," he said. "I know."
He looked back, eyes like tempered steel. "The Ashen King has returned — whether he remembers his throne or not."
The words struck harder than any blow.
Julian felt the chill run through him, deep and unshakable. Lira came to his side, her hand steadying him as the last embers faded from his skin.
"Don't listen to him," she whispered. "Not yet."
Julian's gaze lingered on the fallen soldiers, the quiet drift of gray dust curling through the air — dust that moved like breath, like memory.
And though he didn't say it aloud, part of him already knew:
something inside him had awakened.
Something old.
Something dangerous.
The Ash remembered its king.