Chapter 1: The Waking

I awaken to the pungent stench of rot and iron filling my lungs. My eyelids flutter, and for a moment, I see nothing but swirling shadows. A weight presses against my chest—panic, maybe. Fear? I can’t tell. It’s gone before I can name it, dissolving into the cold silence of the ruined tower around me.

The ceiling above me is fractured, sagging where time and decay have gnawed through stone. Black ivy clings to the crumbling edges, pulsing as though it has a heartbeat of its own. The sky beyond is a sickly green, its light bleeding through the cracks, casting eerie shapes across the ruined walls.

Every breath I take tastes of ash. Every sound—distant wind, shifting debris—feels muted, as though the world itself is holding its breath.

I push myself upright, my limbs sluggish, my thoughts sluggish. There should be pain. My body tells me I’ve been lying here for a long time—long enough for the chill of the stone to seep into my bones. But there’s nothing. No memories. No name. Just the lingering sensation of something lost.

No, not lost. Taken.

A faint echo stirs in my mind. A scream—my own, maybe. A voice, speaking words I can’t remember. There’s something here, at the edges of my consciousness, something waiting to be remembered.

I reach for it instinctively, grasping at shadows. But it slips away. Frustration knots in my chest, but there’s something else beneath it. A cold, creeping fear. Not because I’ve forgotten who I am. Because some part of me suspects I chose to forget.

I exhale sharply and push the thought aside. It doesn’t matter. What matters is survival.

I look down at myself—tattered robes cling to my frame, marked with faded symbols I almost recognize. I trace my fingers over them, expecting meaning to rise from their intricate designs. Nothing. Just a distant whisper in the back of my mind, urging me forward.

Beside me, a staff rests on the cold stone floor. Its wood twists in thorny spirals, and at the top, a cracked crystal pulses with faint violet light. The moment I touch it, a flicker of something—recognition? longing? dread?—surges through me.

It’s mine.

I don’t know how I know. But I do. The realization is comforting. And terrifying.

The world around me is unkind in its silence. The only sound is the wind moaning through the broken stones. In the corner, I spot a skeletal figure slumped against a wall. Its armor is rusted through, and a blade is still lodged in the split remains of its skull. My stomach lurches at the sight. One bony hand reaches toward me—or reached, perhaps, in its final moments. Did it die trying to help me or to kill me? I have no way of knowing. A sense of loss squeezes my heart, though I can’t place why.

I force my gaze away, catching sight of a half-burned journal and a small pouch nearby. The journal’s charred pages whisper as I carefully flip through them. Most words are lost to flame and time, but a few lines remain, ink smudged beyond recognition. The pouch, worn smooth, holds a handful of withered herbs that crumble at the lightest touch. There’s also a dagger made of glass—its edge chipped, the hilt wrapped in rotting leather. My fingers brush its surface and I feel a faint hum of magic, but like everything else here, it seems wounded by the ages.

Outside, I hear something like metal scraping metal. It makes my skin crawl. The howling wind carries ash from the Eternal Pyres, those never-ending fires said to burn away the old world’s poisons. I don’t remember the Pyres themselves, yet their presence gnaws at my consciousness, as if I once knew them well. Cinders drift through the air, tiny flecks of red-orange caught in the greenish daylight, creating a haunting swirl of gloom and embers. In the distance, beyond the tower’s crumbling archway, I spot broken walls fused with jagged scrap metal and bones—an attempt to ward off the horrors roaming these wastes.

My fingers tighten around the staff. Somehow, this lonely piece of twisted wood feels like the only anchor I have. I pull myself to my feet, legs trembling with the effort. Every muscle protests, as though I’ve lain here for too long. I look again at the skeletal figure and swallow hard. A cold realization creeps over me: the line between the living and the dead feels perilously thin in this place. I’m alive now, but for how long?

Despite my aching head, I’m aware of one truth: I possess magic, no matter how warped or dangerous. I can sense its current stirring in my veins, tangled and erratic. It could be my salvation—or my undoing. Steadying myself, I glance at the staff’s cracked crystal, then at the black ivy threading through the stones above. I breathe in, tasting ash and rot once again, and whisper words I barely recall. Though nothing visible happens, I feel the faintest twinge of energy beneath my fingertips, enough to kindle a spark of hope in my chest.

I wish I could remember. My own scream lingers in the back of my mind like an accusation, urging me forward. I realize that lying here and waiting for whatever stalks the wind is no option at all. Clutching the staff close, I take a step toward the tower’s collapsed entrance, the world beyond promising countless dangers—and maybe, just maybe, answers about who I am and why my mind is so empty.

With slow caution, I make my way through the rubble, heart pounding louder than the wind. Each step leads me closer to the unknown, and I can’t shake the feeling that something in this post-Cataclysm world hungers for my failure. I force myself to press on, hoping that somewhere in these ruins lies the truth I so desperately need. And if I’m lucky, I’ll live long enough to uncover it.

I tighten my grip on the staff, conscious of how the thorny wood pricks my palm with each pulse of violet light. The glow syncs with my heartbeat, creating a rhythm that feels both reassuring and unnerving—like a half-remembered lullaby whose melody I can’t quite place. The sensation draws me in, compelling me forward, so I kneel beside the skeleton with more curiosity than fear.

A foul, stagnant odor greets me. Up close, the remains look even more pitiful—a once-living person now reduced to brittle bone and tattered armor. Rust has eaten away at the metal plates, exposing the faded insignia on the breastplate: a serpent coiled around a tower. My fingers brush over it, and I feel a strange ache, as if some buried part of me recognizes this symbol.

A jolt of grim determination courses through me when I see the jagged blade lodged in the skull. It’s forged from a dull black metal that seems to devour the weak light filtering into the room. My hand trembles as I grasp the hilt. There’s a faint shudder in the air, almost like a sigh, the moment I tug the blade free. The skeleton collapses into a fine dust, leaving behind only the rusted armor and a tarnished silver pendant shaped like an eye. It catches the ambient glow from the staff for a heartbeat before slipping through my trembling fingers.

I swallow hard, unsettled by how quickly the bones disintegrated. The wind outside rattles against the broken stone walls, but there’s another sound beneath it—a scrape, a low growl. That same sense of dread from earlier creeps up my spine, warning me not to linger. Still, I can’t ignore the half-burned journal lying nearby, its charred edges blackened and brittle. The cover is marked with the same sort of runic sigils I glimpsed on my robes.

Cautiously, I pick up the journal and flip through the pages. Most entries are scorched beyond recognition, but a few phrases leap out, stirring something in my fractured mind:

“…the Archmage’s folly… the Cataclysm was not an accident…”

“…Eldrin, if you read this, trust no one. They know you survived the Ritual…”

“…the Void Glass dagger—it’s the only way to kill them permanently…”

Then there’s a final entry, almost obliterated by flame, but I can still make out four words:

“Kael betrayed us all.”

I pause, the journal in one hand, staff in the other. Who is Eldrin? The name echoes in my head, carrying a weight that makes my heart pound. Is that me? A wave of confusion threatens to swamp me, but I push it down and focus on the more immediate puzzle: the Void Glass dagger. When I glance at the weapon lying beside the skeletal dust, I realize it’s not simply black metal—it’s glass, translucent in certain slivers, yet darker than night in others. It feels cold against my skin when I pick it up, almost painfully so, as though it’s draining warmth from the air itself.

The moment my fingers curl around the hilt, I notice the shadows in the corners of the room twisting away, recoiling like living things. It’s a subtle movement—if I blinked, I might’ve missed it—but it sends my pulse racing. The journal claims this dagger can kill “them” permanently, though I have no idea who “they” are. Is it meant for the monstrous creatures that roam this world, or something else entirely?

My gaze drifts back to the silver pendant. Shaped like an eye, it gleams dully under the flickering violet light of my staff. A cult symbol? A guild’s crest? A protective charm? Every possibility tangles in my mind. The ache of not remembering gnaws at me, but I can’t force the memories to return. They flutter just out of reach, like moths around a dying lantern.

A sudden growl from outside snaps me out of my thoughts. This time, it’s louder, guttural, accompanied by the scraping of claws on stone. Adrenaline surges through me, and my grip tightens on the staff. I sense the swirl of magic within its core—a volatile storm waiting for my command, or perhaps biding its time until it can overwhelm me. I don’t know which outcome is more likely.

As if triggered by the threat beyond these crumbling walls, the black ivy that snakes along the tower begins to writhe. Its thorns glisten with a dark, viscous fluid, and each pulse of movement sends tiny droplets spattering onto the floor. Every tendril seems alive, testing the air like a predator tasting blood. My stomach turns at the sight. Even the plants in this blasted world are corrupted, their very essence twisted by the Cataclysm’s lingering poison.

I rise to my feet, stepping back from the creeping ivy. My next move is obvious: I can’t stay here. Something outside is hunting, and if I remain in this tower, the ivy—or whatever lurks in the courtyard—will eventually find me. Collecting the dagger, the journal, and the pendant, I shove them into a ragged pouch slung at my side. The items jostle together, the cold of the Void Glass dagger sending a shiver up my arm every time it bumps against me.

My heart clenches when I glance once more at the remains of the skeleton. I can’t quite place if the emotion churning inside me is grief, guilt, or fear. Perhaps it’s all three. Part of me wants to whisper a promise that I’ll return one day to bury these bones properly, but I know that’s wishful thinking. This world doesn’t reward good intentions.

Still, I hesitate, bracing myself against the broken doorframe. The wind howls, carrying faint echoes of a time I can’t remember. My mind feels like a gutted fortress, each memory lost like rubble in the dark. But I have to move. Something in the pit of my stomach warns that if I linger too long, I won’t leave alive.

Clutching my staff, I inhale the sharp scent of rot and ash, steeling myself. Slowly, with both fear and determination colliding in my chest, I step out of the tower’s confines. Whatever awaits me beyond these fractured stones, I have at least one advantage: a staff surging with unstable magic and a dagger that promises a final end to those who stand in my way.