Ashes of the Forsaken

Kieran's footsteps echoed through the darkened corridor, the stone beneath him smooth and untouched by time.

This place was ancient, but not in the way ruins were supposed to be. It was preserved, untouched by decay, sealed away from the world above.

As if time itself had refused to claim it.

He could still feel the lingering weight of the vision—the city in flames, the war lost long ago. His war.

But he wasn't here just to remember.

He was here to find why.

The passage stretched ahead, narrowing slightly before descending into a deeper level of the ruins. The air thickened as he moved forward, growing cooler, heavier.

Then, he felt it.

Not a sound. Not a movement.

But a presence.

Something waiting for him in the dark.

The tunnel opened into a vast chamber, larger than any he had encountered before.

And at the center—

Kieran stopped.

A door.

Not like the first.

That one had been a barrier. A gate meant to keep him out.

This one was different.

It wasn't locked.

It was waiting to be opened.

Kieran's hand hovered over the surface of the metal, tracing the symbols carved into it.

Familiar.

Not because he had studied them.

But because he had written them before.

The realization sent a slow, creeping chill through his chest.

His name had been erased.

His past had been buried.

But his own hands had left marks that even time could not erase.

A whisper curled through the air, soft, almost welcoming.

"You are not the first."

Kieran didn't move.

The whisper had no source.

It was part of this place—woven into the walls, the stone, the very air itself.

"You are not the last."

His breath slowed.

He pressed his palm against the door.

And it opened.

The light flickered the moment he stepped through.

Torches burned along the walls, their flames unnaturally still.

This was not like the rest of the ruins.

This place was maintained.

Kept.

Someone—or something—had never left.

The corridor stretched ahead, lined with pillars that curved upward into a vaulted ceiling.

And then—

Kieran stopped.

There were figures in the hall.

Still. Silent.

At first, he thought they were statues, like the faceless one he had encountered before.

Then, he saw them breathe.

The nearest figure stood just ahead, half-shadowed beneath the flickering torchlight.

Cloaked. Hooded.

But not alive.

Not fully.

Their robes hung in tatters, their bodies partially faded, as if they existed between two realities.

And yet, their heads turned as he approached.

Kieran's grip tightened.

"They see you."

The whisper came not from the figures—but from the walls themselves.

"They remember you."

The closest one tilted its head.

Then, it stepped forward.

Kieran moved before his mind had the chance to think.

The figure lunged.

It was fast—too fast. Not in the way a living person moved, but like something that had forgotten the weight of its own body.

Kieran twisted to the side, barely avoiding the strike as the creature's arm passed through the air where he had been standing.

Not a weapon.

A claw.

The edge of its fingers shimmered—half-shadow, half-solid.

A hand that was caught between existence and oblivion.

Kieran spun, his instincts driving him forward. He had no sword, no dagger—only his speed, only his mind.

But this thing—it knew him.

It remembered him.

And it wanted him gone.

The creature rushed him again.

And Kieran had no choice but to fight.

Kieran moved first.

Instinct. Training. Something older than both.

The creature lunged again, its form flickering between solid and shadow, its fingers curved like talons.

Kieran dodged to the left, twisting as the strike narrowly missed his ribs. Fast. Too fast.

His mind raced. It wasn't just attacking him.

It was testing him.

He could feel it in the way it moved—not mindless, not a beast's aggression. It remembered.

It knew how he fought.

And it was adapting.

The second attack came lower—aiming for his legs.

Kieran braced, pivoting sharply to avoid the strike, using the momentum to push forward. He couldn't just dodge.

He needed to strike back.

But how do you fight something that isn't fully there?

The figure's form wavered as it moved, its edges rippling like mist caught in a storm. Every time its limbs solidified for a brief moment, they flickered again—half-there, half-not.

This wasn't normal. This wasn't human.

It was a remnant.

A being caught between two realities.

Kieran exhaled. Then I have to hit it before it disappears.

He feinted left—forcing the creature to shift to intercept.

At the last second, he pivoted—throwing his weight into a precise strike.

His fist connected—solid.

For an instant.

Then, the thing shattered.

Not like glass.

Not like flesh.

Like a dying ember fading from existence.

The remnants of its form scattered into the air, vanishing before they could hit the ground.

Kieran stepped back, breathing hard.

The corridor was silent again.

But he knew.

This wasn't over.

A whisper curled through the air.

"You remember the way."

Kieran's breath slowed.

The words weren't a warning.

They were an acknowledgment.

This wasn't just a test.

It was a gatekeeper.

And Kieran had passed.

The remaining figures that had been waiting in the corridor did not move.

They simply watched.

Then, one by one—they turned away.

Fading into the darkness once more.

Kieran exhaled, his muscles still tense, his mind processing what had just happened.

These creatures—these remnants of the past—they weren't just protectors of this place.

They were part of it.

Or worse—prisoners within it.

His hands curled into fists.

That thing had remembered him. It had known him.

Which meant he had been here before.

Not just in the distant past.

Recently.

Before he had died.

The corridor stretched ahead, and at the end of it—

A final doorway.

But this one was different.

No locks. No sigils.

Just an archway leading into blackness.

Not empty.

Not silent.

Kieran could hear it now.

A voice, faint, waiting.

Calling.

The same voice from the vision.

The same voice from the city in flames.

He stepped forward.

And for the first time since he had returned to life—

The past welcomed him home.