The sun never quite reached the ruins.
Even as morning crept across Ydran's Crossing, the temple remained shrouded in mist. Lysander stood at the edge of the chamber, still breathing hard. His hand trembled, not from fear—but from the raw energy pulsing beneath his skin. The second relic had fused into his palm, leaving behind a faint symbol that now glowed faintly like a dying ember.
He looked at it.
And for a brief second… he wasn't alone.
A shadow moved behind him—not in the room, but in his mind. Tall. Silent. Watching.
He turned fast. Nothing.
The silence stretched. The vision from earlier—the gods, the battle, the figure cloaked in black—lingered like smoke after a fire. He wasn't ready for all this. But ready or not, he was already in too deep.
Crunch.
He froze. That wasn't a memory.
There it was again—soft footsteps against the stone. Someone was here.
Lysander dropped into a crouch, eyes scanning the shadows. His instincts screamed at him, but his body responded like it had done this before. Natural. Swift. Quiet.
He backed into a broken pillar and waited.
Another step. Closer.
Then, she appeared.
A girl—no, a woman. Cloaked in black. Slim, her movements quiet like a whisper, but deliberate. Her boots barely made a sound. She stepped into the shaft of light that cut through the broken roof.
And that's when he saw them.
Her eyes.
Bright red.
Not glowing, but… unnatural. Blood-colored irises that stared directly at him like she had known where he was all along.
"You've awakened it," she said softly.
Lysander said nothing. His fingers hovered near a jagged piece of stone he could use if it came to that. But she didn't move aggressively.
"You don't have to hide. I'm not here to kill you," she added.
"That's what people usually say before they try to," Lysander muttered, rising slowly.
The woman tilted her head. "Fair enough."
Now standing, Lysander took her in fully. She was young—maybe around his age—but there was something older behind her eyes. Not just experience. Something else. Like she'd seen things no one should.
"Who are you?" he asked.
Instead of answering, she stepped toward the pedestal. Her fingers traced the edges of the stone where the second relic had rested just moments ago.
"It's real," she whispered. "After all this time…"
"You knew it was here?"
"I knew something was." She finally turned to him, her voice still calm. "But not who would find it."
Her gaze dropped to his hand—the mark that hadn't stopped glowing. "And I definitely didn't expect you."
"Gee, thanks."
She smirked, just slightly. "You're not a priest. Not a scavenger. You don't even look like someone who knows what he's holding."
"I didn't ask for this," Lysander said.
"No one ever does."
Silence.
She stepped closer, and Lysander didn't back away. His body was still tense, but some strange part of him didn't feel threatened by her.
"Do you know what that is?" she asked.
"The relic?"
She shook her head. "No. What's inside it."
Lysander hesitated. "A god."
"The Fallen God."
She said it with weight—like a name that shouldn't be spoken aloud.
Lysander's chest tightened. "You believe in him?"
"I follow him," she said simply.
Those three words dropped like a stone in a still lake.
She walked past him then, toward the entrance, but paused beside him.
"You're not just a bearer. You're his last disciple."
Lysander turned sharply. "Why do people keep calling me that? I didn't choose this."
"No," she said, stepping into the light. "But he chose you."
Then she vanished into the mist, leaving nothing but silence behind.
---
Hours passed before Lysander moved again.
He didn't know whether to chase her or forget she existed. But the words stuck. Last disciple. He chose you.
Why him?
He wasn't powerful. He wasn't noble. He wasn't even particularly lucky. But something in the way she spoke told him she wasn't lying. And deep down, the way the relic had reacted to him… he couldn't deny it anymore.
The city was different when he returned.
More eyes on him. Whispers.
People who once ignored him now glanced at him like they sensed something. Or maybe he was just paranoid. Either way, Lysander kept his hood up and his head low as he moved through the lower district.
His first stop wasn't some secret vault or ancient library.
It was the tavern.
Not for a drink, but to find someone.
He pushed through the creaky door, the stale scent of ale and sweat hitting him in a wave. The barkeep looked up from polishing a mug.
"You look like hell," the man grunted.
"Thanks," Lysander replied. "Is Ryn here?"
The barkeep nodded toward the back. "Corner booth."
Lysander made his way over, and sure enough, there she was—Ryn. Pickpocket. Informant. Sometimes friend. One of the few who didn't try to stab him last time.
She looked up from her mug and raised an eyebrow. "Well, well. Thought you were dead."
"Almost was."
"What happened?"
Lysander sat across from her. "I need information."
Ryn narrowed her eyes. "You usually pay first."
"I'll owe you."
"You already owe me."
"Double, then."
That made her smile. "Alright, what do you need?"
"Anything about the Fallen God. The relics. Old temples. Secret worshippers."
Ryn blinked. "That's... oddly specific."
"I've got reasons."
She studied him a moment. "You're not joking."
"No."
She leaned in. "You heard the rumors too, didn't you?"
"What rumors?"
"People disappearing near the eastern ruins. Strange symbols appearing on walls overnight. A noble's son going mad after digging up something that glowed red." She lowered her voice. "Some are saying the Fallen God's not dead."
Lysander stayed still.
Ryn leaned back. "That's what you're chasing, isn't it?"
"I'm not chasing it," he said. "It found me."
---
Later that night, Lysander sat alone in his small, one-room apartment above the butcher's shop.
The relic pulsed again—faint, warm. His thoughts drifted to the red-eyed woman.
I follow him.
He didn't even know her name.
But something told him this wasn't the last time they'd meet.
He stared at the mark on his hand.
A god lived inside him now.
And the world would come for him soon.
He just didn't know if he'd survive long enough to understand why.