Rain poured over the capital like judgment from the heavens. The square in front of the Imperial Fortress was filled with the stench of wet stone, iron, and fear. Thousands stood in silence as the sound of chains scraped against the platform. Soldiers lined both sides, their armor glinting with dull reflections from torches that burned despite the storm.
Arlan Voss was dragged to the center of the stage.
His wrists were bound, his face bruised, and yet his gaze remained fixed — cold, unflinching. The same eyes that once led armies for the Empire now stared at his own commander, Kael Draxen, who stood before him in polished armor.
Kael's expression didn't waver. "Arlan Voss," he declared, voice steady enough to drown the storm, "you are charged with treason against the Holy Empire, accused of conspiring with foreign assassins, and the murder of twenty-seven royal guards. Do you deny these crimes?"
The crowd murmured. Arlan lifted his head, his voice hoarse but clear.
"I deny nothing."
A ripple went through the soldiers. Kael's jaw tightened, his tone sharpening.
"Then you accept your fate?"
"I accept that this Empire was never worth my loyalty," Arlan replied. "If standing against a corrupt throne is treason, then yes, I am guilty."
Gasps spread through the square. Kael's hand twitched at his sword hilt, but he didn't draw. Instead, he turned to the priest standing beside him — an old man clutching a holy seal.
"The Emperor's will is final," the priest said, voice trembling. "By divine decree, the condemned shall be executed at dawn."
Arlan's knees hit the cold platform. The rain mixed with blood that trickled from his split lip. He looked toward the far side of the square — through the sheets of rain, he saw a small figure struggling against the guards.
"Liora!" he shouted.
His sister's cries pierced through the storm. "He's innocent! You all know he's innocent!"
A soldier struck her with the butt of a spear. She fell, but her voice didn't stop. "Brother!"
Arlan's rage burned deep, silent and sharp. His muscles strained against the chains, but his body was weak from days of torture. Kael finally turned toward her, his expression grim. "Take her away."
"No!" Arlan lunged forward, only for two soldiers to slam him down. His face hit the wood, pain exploding through his skull. He spat blood but never looked away from Kael.
"Coward," Arlan hissed. "You swore an oath to protect, not obey."
Kael's lips tightened. "And you swore to serve the Empire. Remember that."
He turned and walked away, his boots echoing down the platform steps as the soldiers dragged Arlan back to the holding pit.
The dungeon beneath the square smelled of rust and damp stone. Torches flickered weakly, throwing long shadows across the walls. Arlan sat shackled to a post, his breathing shallow.
Every movement reminded him of the betrayal — not the pain of the wounds, but the sting of watching men he'd trained obey another's command.
Hours passed. The sound of rain above faded into silence. He tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.
He expected the end to come quietly.
But instead, something stirred in the darkness.
At first, it was only a faint vibration — like the hum of a blade being drawn. Then, a low voice, sharp as steel.
"You've been wronged, mortal."
Arlan's eyes snapped open. The torches dimmed, and the air thickened. He looked around, but the cell was empty.
"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice steady despite the chill crawling down his spine.
"You seek vengeance."
The voice came again — closer, deeper, vibrating through his skull. He gritted his teeth. "If this is a trick, end it now."
Silence followed. Then, a presence — not seen, but felt. The temperature dropped. His breath came out white.
"I offer you power."
Arlan's fists clenched. "Power? I've already lost everything. My men, my name, my blood."
"Then lose your humanity too."
The words sank into him like blades. For a moment, he thought it was madness — the final delusion of a dying man. But then, he saw it: a faint glow spreading across the floor, forming runes he couldn't recognize. The chains around his wrists trembled.
"What are you?" he whispered.
"A forgotten god. The last of the shadows men once feared."
Arlan's heart pounded. "Why me?"
"Because you died unjustly. Because you still hate."
He wanted to laugh, but his throat was too dry. "If this is hell, then fine. Let it burn."
The glow intensified, and pain surged through his body. It felt like molten fire crawling under his skin, rewriting his veins. He screamed, but the sound was swallowed by darkness.
"Remember this, mortal — vengeance has a price. When you take your first life with my mark, your fate and mine become one."
The last thing Arlan saw was a symbol burning onto his palm — black as obsidian, shaped like an eye surrounded by three blades.
Then everything went black.
When he woke again, the world was silent. His chains were gone. The dungeon door lay broken.
He stood, dizzy, and looked at his reflection in the puddle below.
His eyes were no longer brown — they glowed faintly crimson.
Above him, he could hear distant horns. The sound of soldiers preparing for the dawn execution — unaware their prisoner no longer waited in chains.
Arlan flexed his hands. The mark burned faintly. He could feel it — power pulsing under his skin, heavy and alive.
He glanced at the torchlight flickering near the door.
With a slow breath, he raised his hand.
The flame bent toward him.
It obeyed.
Outside, the storm had stopped. The Empire slept under false peace. Kael Draxen stood on his balcony, unaware that his "traitor" had already escaped his grave.
As the first light of dawn touched the capital, Arlan stepped out from the fortress ruins, cloak torn and eyes cold.
He looked toward the distant spires of the Imperial Palace.
"This time," he muttered, voice low and steady, "I won't die begging for mercy."
He turned, vanishing into the alleys as the mark on his hand pulsed — faintly, like a heartbeat.
The Rebirth had begun.