The dream came again.
But this time, it wasn't fire or battle.
Lysander stood alone in a quiet forest—tall, black trees that stretched far into the sky. Mist hugged the ground. The air was heavy, like the forest was holding its breath.
And then he heard it.
Chains.
Dragging across stone.
He turned, heart quickening.
A figure sat slumped against a tree—tall, armored, face hidden behind a shattered crown and black metal mask. Shackles bound his wrists, thick and old, with faint golden runes carved into them. The armor was cracked, bleeding black mist from its gaps.
The figure didn't speak.
But Lysander felt the voice.
"They will come. The ones who wear white. The ones who burn my name."
Then the world snapped—and he woke up, breath caught in his throat.
---
Rain hit the roof like falling pebbles. The city was still asleep, but Lysander didn't bother trying to close his eyes again. The voice echoed too loud in his head.
The ones who wear white.
He didn't know what it meant. But it didn't sound good.
By morning, the sky was still gray, and Ryn hadn't sent word yet. Which meant it was up to him to do something stupid on his own.
He threw on his coat, tucked his dagger into his belt, and wrapped his marked hand with cloth. No need to let anyone see that again. Last time someone did, he was almost stabbed behind a bakery.
He was headed to the Temple Archives—not the official ones. Those were for nobles, priests, and people with real names. Lysander knew the lower archives. The kind hidden beneath collapsed shrines and paid for in coin or favors.
The city's underbelly was a maze, even for locals. But Lysander had grown up in it. He knew where the stone gave way to hidden doors, which bricks to press, and how to find the old world beneath the new.
He made it to the archive entrance by midday.
It was nothing more than a worn-down alley behind a spice market. But past the rusted gate and down three flights of stairs was a vault of forgotten things.
Old texts. Broken relics. Cracked statues.
And the woman who kept it all running.
"Back again," grunted Irma, a sharp-tongued woman in her sixties with ink-stained fingers and a missing eye.
"I need something specific," Lysander said, brushing off the rain.
"Everyone does. What is it this time? Forbidden gods? Cursed armor? Deadly love potions?"
"Fallen God," he said flatly.
Irma blinked. "You always bring me trouble."
"Only the good kind."
She sighed and waved him through. "Two hours. No touching the teeth. Someone died last time."
---
The records were scattered. Nothing official. Just scraps, old texts banned from temple shelves, or half-burnt pages saved by lunatics.
But slowly, piece by piece, Lysander found things.
A name: Vaerun.
A title: The One Cast Down.
And a symbol—the exact one burned into his hand. A spiral of jagged wings.
He found whispers of a war between gods, and one among them who refused to obey the order of balance. One who gave mortals power they weren't meant to hold. The others turned on him. Stripped his name. Erased him from stone, memory, and record.
But some remembered.
A line scrawled across a fragment of parchment caught his attention.
"His voice lingers in those who hear silence."
He read it again.
And again.
What did that mean?
A creak behind him broke the moment.
He turned fast.
A man in a white cloak stood at the entrance of the archive chamber. Hood up. Face hidden.
"Looking for something?" the man asked.
Lysander didn't respond.
Another step.
Two more figures entered behind the first—same robes. Same silence.
Irma should've stopped them. Where was she?
The man pulled down his hood.
His face was clean. Pale. Sharp-jawed. Eyes the color of bleached stone.
"I see it," he said quietly, nodding at Lysander's wrapped hand. "Even through the cloth. It hums."
Lysander stepped back. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "We are the Purifiers."
"Sounds friendly."
"We burn what should not exist. And you…" He tilted his head. "Should not exist."
The first swing came fast—too fast. A flash of silver, a curve of a crescent blade slicing through air.
Lysander barely ducked.
The impact shattered the stone wall behind him.
He rolled to the side, grabbed a broken piece of table, and blocked the second strike—but the wood splintered instantly.
These guys weren't normal.
The relic pulsed.
Not a whisper. Not a voice. But an instinct.
Lysander let the cloth drop from his hand.
The Purifiers paused.
The mark glowed. Slowly. Deep crimson.
"Blasphemy," one of them muttered.
"You have no idea what you've touched," said the leader.
Lysander gritted his teeth. "Neither do I."
He slammed his palm into the floor.
There was a shockwave. Not huge—but enough to send cracks spidering across the ground and toss the nearest Purifier back.
The other charged—dagger in hand—but Lysander ducked low, swept his leg, and rammed his shoulder into the man's ribs. He hit the floor hard.
But the third one moved differently. Calm. Fast.
He raised a blade of white metal—etched in runes—and drove it down.
It struck Lysander's marked hand.
Pain.
Blinding. Sharp. Like fire crawling up his veins.
He screamed.
The mark dimmed.
The blade was still lodged in his palm.
The leader walked forward slowly. "That's a Sealing Blade. Blessed by the High Sanctum. Your god won't speak again."
Lysander gritted his teeth, blood dripping.
Then the room went dark.
Not black. Dark.
Shadows stretched unnaturally. The flame torches snuffed out. The air grew heavy.
The Purifiers froze.
A voice whispered—not out loud, but into their bones.
"You trespass on my echo."
Their faces went pale.
The blade in Lysander's hand shattered.
The mark blazed back to life, brighter than ever.
From the corner of the archive, shadows moved.
No—something stepped out of them.
A figure in red eyes and black mist. Cloak fluttering without wind.
The red-eyed woman.
She raised a single hand.
And all three Purifiers vanished.
No scream. No fight.
Just... gone.
The shadows folded around her again, and then—
She was standing beside him, looking down.
"You're getting better," she said.
Lysander looked up, half-dazed. "You followed me."
"No," she said. "I never left."
She reached down, her hand gently closing over his burned one.
"We're not alone anymore," she said softly. "They've started hunting again. And they won't stop."
Lysander nodded faintly, still catching his breath.
"Good," he whispered. "I won't run."
She looked at him.
Then nodded once. "Come. There's someone you need to meet."