Ashes of the Forsaken

The air grew heavier the moment Kieran stepped beyond the ruined threshold.

It wasn't just the weight of damp stone or the scent of decay—this was something deeper. Something old.

The ruins beneath the collapsed watchtower had been forgotten by the world above, buried under centuries of dust and neglect. But it was clear that not all things here had died.

Kieran moved carefully, his steps measured.

The corridor stretched downward at a gentle slope, the stone beneath his boots slick from moisture that had seeped through the cracks in the ceiling. The air smelled of damp rot and something metallic—iron, or perhaps blood long since dried.

The walls were lined with carvings, their edges worn smooth by time. He ran his fingers over them as he passed, feeling the faint grooves beneath his fingertips.

Not letters. Not a language he knew.

But symbols.

Shapes woven together in patterns too intricate to be simple decoration.

Kieran narrowed his eyes. He had seen these before.

Not in this life, but in flashes—in fragments of memory he could never quite grasp.

The deeper he went, the stronger the feeling grew.

This place wasn't unknown to him.

He had been here before.

Hadn't he?

The corridor opened into a vast, cavernous hall, its ceiling arched high above him, supported by pillars of stone carved with more of the same ancient markings.

A single beam of pale blue light filtered through a crack in the ceiling above, casting long shadows across the walls.

And along those walls—

Kieran stopped.

His breath caught in his chest.

Names.

Rows upon rows of names etched into the stone, some so faded they were barely legible, others still clear despite the years that had passed.

Thousands of them.

Kieran stepped closer, his fingers hovering over the carved letters. The names were unfamiliar—at first.

Then, his gaze landed on one near the bottom.

And the world tilted.

Kieran Valtheris.

His fingers trembled slightly as he traced the name, the letters cut deep into the stone as if meant to last forever.

This wasn't possible.

He had been erased.

His name had been struck from records, burned from history.

And yet, here it was.

Carved into a wall older than any noble archive.

Older than the kingdom itself.

Kieran exhaled, his pulse steady despite the unease curling in his gut.

He wasn't just a man who had been executed.

He was part of something far older than he had ever imagined.

At the far end of the hall, beneath the pale light, stood a door.

Not like the others.

The stone around it had crumbled with time, but the door itself remained untouched—smooth, dark metal, sealed with no visible keyhole or handle.

Kieran moved toward it, his boots barely making a sound against the cold floor.

He already knew what he would find.

And yet, when his gaze landed on the center of the door, his jaw clenched.

Three slashes.

The same mark as his token.

The same mark that had been carved into the slumlord's domain.

The same mark that had followed him since the moment he returned.

His grip tightened.

He reached into his belt and pulled out the token, running his thumb over its worn edges.

Whoever had walked this path before him—whoever had failed—had carried this very same mark.

And now, it was his turn.

Kieran lifted the token, pressing it against the carved symbol on the door.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, the air shifted.

The blue light above flickered.

The walls shuddered.

And then—a voice.

"You should not have come."

Kieran froze.

It was not his own.

The voice came from everywhere—low and soft, echoing through the chamber like a whisper caught in the wind.

Then another.

"You do not belong here."

A chill curled down Kieran's spine.

He wasn't alone.

The darkness around him shifted. The corners of the room seemed to stretch, the walls breathing, pulsing, warping.

Not magic. Something worse.

Something alive.

Kieran exhaled slowly. He had felt this before.

In his dreams.

In the moments just before he woke from death.

The Veil.

This place was caught between.

Between life and death. Between past and present. Between memory and oblivion.

The voices whispered again, but this time, they spoke in unison.

"Why do you walk the path of the forsaken?"

Kieran's grip on the token tightened.

He wasn't sure if the question was meant to be literal.

Or if it was asking something much worse.

Why had he returned?

Why had he been the one to wake up, when the others before him had failed?

He didn't know.

But he was going to find out.

His voice was steady when he finally answered.

"I walk it because you tried to erase me."

A silence stretched.

Then, the shadows moved.

The light flickered—then vanished.

And the chamber collapsed into pure blackness.

Kieran didn't hesitate.

He dropped into a defensive stance, his senses adjusting to the absence of sight, his breathing slow and measured.

Then—movement.

A rush of air. A shape flickering at the edges of his vision.

Kieran turned, but it was already behind him.

Something cold pressed against his back—not a blade, but something far worse.

Like fingers made of shadow.

Like the weight of the abyss itself.

The voices whispered again.

"You were not meant to return."

Kieran exhaled sharply.

Then, he moved.

He twisted, breaking free from whatever force had tried to hold him, rolling forward and coming to his feet just as something crashed into the stone behind him.

A shockwave rippled through the air, the walls trembling from the force.

Kieran spun, his pulse steady despite the sudden violence.

He couldn't fight a shadow.

But he could survive it.

The darkness shifted again.

Another rush—this time from the left.

Kieran braced—but it didn't hit him.

Instead, the voice spoke one last time.

"Then prove that you are worthy."

A cold wind surged through the chamber.

And the door unlocked.

The darkness didn't fade.

But the presence receded.

Kieran remained still, waiting for any sign that the whispers would return.

They didn't.

He stepped forward cautiously, toward the door that had once been sealed.

It had changed.

The metal was no longer smooth.

It was cracked.

As if something had tried to break through—from the other side.

Kieran exhaled, rolling his shoulders. Whatever lay beyond this door was not meant to be found.

And yet—he was still standing.

Still breathing.

Still walking the path that had been meant to end.

He reached out.

And with a slow breath, he pushed the door open.

The air shuddered.

And the past welcomed him home.

The door swung open with a slow, aching groan.

Beyond it, the air was different.

Not damp like the ruins he had passed through. Not thick with dust or decay.

It was still.

As if the very space beyond the threshold had been sealed in time, untouched by the world above.

Kieran took a slow breath and stepped forward.

The moment he crossed the threshold—the door slammed shut behind him.

He didn't flinch.

If this place was meant to keep him out, it had already failed.

The chamber beyond the gate stretched out before him—vast, cavernous, untouched by time.

The floor was made of smooth, dark stone, polished and free of dust. The walls curved upward into an arched ceiling lined with intricate carvings.

But unlike the worn etchings of the ruins above—these were untouched.

Clear. Sharp. Preserved.

Kieran traced his fingers along the surface, following the delicate swirls of symbols. The craftsmanship was unlike anything he had seen before—not just old, but ancient.

Older than the kingdom.

Older than the history he had known.

Something lost.

Something deliberately buried.

His jaw clenched. This was what they had tried to erase.

And now, he was standing in it.

At the center of the room, a circular platform stood raised above the floor.

And at its heart—a sigil.

The same three slashes that had followed him through every step of this journey, carved into the stone like a scar.

But here, the mark was different.

It glowed.

A faint, pulsing light—not golden, not blue, but something in between. Something Kieran couldn't quite name.

He stepped forward, his heartbeat steady.

If this was a test, he had already passed it.

If this was a warning, he had already ignored it.

He reached out and touched the mark.

The room vanished.

Or rather, it shifted.

Kieran's vision blurred, the edges of the chamber melting away into something else.

The polished stone beneath him turned to ashen ground.

The air turned thick with the scent of fire.

And ahead of him—a city in flames.

His breath caught.

This wasn't real.

It couldn't be real.

But his hands—they were his hands, but not his hands.

Dirtied with soot. Fingers curled around the hilt of a blade he had never seen, yet had always known.

His body moved on its own.

He was running.

Through streets lined with collapsing buildings, past the bodies of those who had fallen.

His pulse hammered in his skull.

He knew this place.

But he didn't remember it.

Not in this life.

Not in the life of Kieran Valtheris.

A voice rang out behind him—not a whisper, not an echo, but real.

Urgent. Desperate.

"We have to go! It's too late!"

Kieran turned.

And for a brief, shattering moment—

He saw their face.

Not a stranger.

Not an enemy.

Someone he had known.

Someone he had trusted.

But before his mind could grasp the memory, before he could pull their name from the depths of his fractured past—

Everything shattered.

Kieran gasped, his knees hitting the stone floor as he collapsed forward.

The room was back.

The chamber. The carvings. The silent air.

The city of fire was gone.

The past had vanished.

But the name—the name of the one who had called to him—was still missing.

Kieran clenched his fists, his breath ragged.

That had not been a dream.

That had not been a vision.

It had been real.

A memory.

Not of this life. Not of Kieran Valtheris.

But of who he had been before.

His fingers trembled as he pressed them against the sigil once more.

Nothing happened.

The energy that had surged through him was gone.

But the truth remained.

The city in flames.

The voice calling to him.

The war that had already happened.

And the knowledge that he had been there when it ended.

Kieran forced himself to his feet, his mind racing.

Everything he had uncovered so far had led to this.

His name had been erased, his existence struck from history.

Not just because of a crime.

Not just because of noble scheming.

But because he had already lived this before.

Because he had walked this road once before—and something had tried to stop him from coming back.

And yet, he had returned.

The whispers.

The voices in the dark.

They had been warning him.

Or perhaps, they had been pleading.

"You were not meant to return."

Kieran exhaled sharply.

Then why had he?

Who had brought him back?

And more importantly—what had he failed to do the first time?

His fingers curled into a fist.

He wasn't leaving this place without answers.

And if the past had tried to erase him—then it was time to make it remember.