The bells tolled half-past dawn, but the light that bled through the crumbled ruins was no comfort. Smoke coiled like serpents in the dying sun, carrying a bitter tang that clawed at Liora Ashwind's throat. Each breath was a reminder of what remained — charred timber, scorched earth, and the lingering taste of fear.
Her limbs ached with every step, yet her feet dragged her forward. The cursed fire in her veins pulsed erratically, a heartbeat of pain that mirrored the rhythm of the world around her. Sweat and ash plastered her hair to her forehead; her fingertips bore the faint black of ember dust. She paused, gasping, vision blurred from the haze.
A metallic scrape echoed behind her. Instinct made her spin, and through the fog, a figure emerged — tall, cloaked, silent. Amber eyes, unnervingly still, tracked her every movement. Her pulse slammed against her ribs, threatening to betray her.
"You shouldn't be here," the voice rumbled, low, almost indulgent in its calmness.
Liora opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her body tensed, every muscle screaming to run, yet her feet remained rooted in place. There was something about him — a presence that demanded attention, even as terror clenched her chest.
He stepped closer, and she noticed the armor, ink-black with edges glimmering faintly, like moonlight on obsidian. A scar streaked down the right side of his face, cutting across a high cheekbone — a wound that had clearly survived a thousand battles. He stopped just short of her, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Rise of the Crimson Rift," he muttered under his breath, almost as if speaking to the smoke itself. "And you… are its catalyst."
Liora's heart seized. Every instinct in her body screamed to flee, yet a tremor of curiosity — dangerous, unwelcome — rooted her to the spot. She could feel it now: the fire inside, the curse she had always tried to ignore, thrumming with hunger.
The stranger tilted his head slightly, studying her. "Do you even know what you are?" he asked.
She swallowed hard. No. She had no answers. Just questions that clawed at her mind like ragged shadows.
The ground shivered beneath them. A distant roar split the morning air, deep and hungry, as though the earth itself had exhaled in anger. Liora stumbled back, teeth gritted. The pulse of the curse within her surged, almost in tandem with the distant cry.
He tensed, hand brushing the hilt of a sword that seemed impossibly alive, runes glowing faintly along its length. "Shadows are rising," he said, voice tight with a tension that made the hairs on her neck prickle.
Her chest heaved, lungs burning, as fear and something stranger — a prickling thrill — mixed like fire and ash in her veins. She wanted answers, but the air was thick with danger and smoke, suffocating and sweet in a twisted, intoxicating way.
A sudden gust of wind sent debris spinning between them. Liora's fingers curled into fists. Her heart thumped violently. The fire within her flickered — alive, hungry, insistent.
"Why me?" she whispered.
The stranger's amber gaze softened, just a fraction. "Because only you can ignite what the world has forgotten."
Before she could respond, a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision — fleeting, impossibly fast. The air grew heavy, and the hairs on her arms stood on end. Something moved within the ruins, watching, waiting.
Liora's breath caught. Her pulse surged. The fire in her veins roared like a beast awakened.
And then — the shadow lunged.