The Abyss.

  A wound carved deep into the world.

  A dungeon so vast and cursed, it had devoured entire kingdoms without a trace.

  Even the dragons—proud, eternal rulers of the skies—dared not fly too close.

  Not because they feared it.

  But because something deep within them warned them away.

  They simply knew.

  Everyone who ventured too far into the Abyss… never came back.

  Not as themselves.

  Not at all.

  Because the Abyss was ancient.

  Because it was alive.

  A bottomless grave hollowed out beneath the bones of forgotten gods.

  It was a haven for nightmares—

  Creatures that should never have existed.

  Void-born horrors that screamed instead of spoking.

  Titanic corpses still leaking hatred into stone.

  And through this pit of madness…

  He crawled.

  Alaric Valeblade.

  Once the greatest mage the world had ever known.

  The only Tenth Circle Mage in recorded history.

  A man who had once touched the sky with his bare hands.

  Now?

  Just a broken figure, dragging himself through the remains of dead giants and void-born terrors.

  His robes hung in wet, torn shreds—soaked in blood.

  His own… and others’.

  Every bone creaked.

  Every step tore at his flesh.

  Every breath felt like knives scraping against his ribs.

  But none of it mattered.

  Not the pain.

  Not the smell of death clinging to his skin.

  Because it was here.

  Floating at the center of the Abyss—wrapped in serpentine runes that pulsed like heartbeats—was the Heart of Vel’nareth.

  A relic of impossible power.

  A wish-granter.

  A soul-devourer.

  A weapon of divine wrath.

  They said it demanded everything in return.

  But what more could it take…

  When everything he had was already taken?

  Alaric dropped to one knee.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His vision blurred.

  The last sparks of his magic flickered like embers in the wind.

  “After everything...” he whispered, his voice cracking like broken glass. “You’re finally mine.”

  His hand trembled toward the crystal—

  Then—

  “Alaric of House Valeblade!”

  The voice crashed through the darkness like thunder.

  Before he could move, six figures closed in—

  swift, silent, absolute.

  The Royal Vanguard.

  The Empire’s enforcers.

  The unbroken.

  The executioners.

  At their head stood Commander Kael, encased in gleaming silver armor that shimmered even in the Abyss’s gloom.

  “In the name of the Crown,” Kael called out, voice cold and resolute, “you are condemned for treason, for consorting with voidspawn, for the theft of sacred relics… and the assassination of royal blood.”

  Alaric coughed a dry, bitter laugh—blood flecking the altar like spilled ink.

  “You forgot surviving,” he rasped, his voice rough and ragged. “That was always the Crown’s favorite sin.”

  Kael’s lip curled. “And the royal banquet. You made quite the mess of that.”

  “I left early,” Alaric smirked, crimson staining his teeth. “Didn’t like the taste of betrayal.”

  Kael raised his blade, silver catching the light.

  “Your death will be a mercy.”

  In a burst of motion, he lunged—a silver streak trailing behind him, radiant and swift as a falling star.

  But Alaric didn’t flinch.

  With the last embers of strength, he lifted his hand.

  From his outstretched palm, a barrier took form—not flat or fragile, but a dome of glowing hexagons, like a honeycomb forged from sunlight, pulsing with raw, desperate magic.

  The clash came an instant later.

  Steel met light.

  An explosion of energy burst at the point of impact, sending sparks and dust flying into the air like a miniature star detonating between them.

  Kael’s lip curled into a sneer.

  “Let’s see how long a broken ten Circle mage’s shield lasts.”

  Another blow.

  Then another.

  Each strike was heavier than the last, slamming against Alaric’s shield with enough force to carve pain into his very bones.

  He was breaking.

  He couldn’t hold it much longer.

  His eyes flickered—past Kael, past the knights—toward the relic, glowing faintly on its pedestal.

  The Heart of Vel’nareth.

  The black crystal pulsed weakly, runes twisting beneath its surface like ink spreading through water, alive and ancient.

  With trembling fingers, he sliced open his palm and slapped it onto the relic.

  “Take it,” he hissed, his voice strained with desperation.

  His blood soaked into the stone, slipping through the ancient runes like oil into cracks.

  “Take everything. My blood, my soul, my everything—and give me the fire to make them scream. Let me rewrite fate. Let me burn their empire to ash!”

  He waited.

  Nothing.

  The Heart remained still.

  It didn’t pulse.

  It didn’t shine.

  It didn’t hum.

  It was dead.

  Alaric’s breath came in ragged gasps. His vision blurred, his grip slipping.

  He slammed his bloody hand harder against the relic, crimson smearing across the crystal.

  “Take it! TAKE IT!”

  The runes remained dull. Silent.

  Kael laughed.

  “I can’t believe the great Tenth Circle mage, of all people, believes in such a ridiculous myth.”

  Alaric’s knees hit the stone.

  His heartbeat was the only thing he could hear, thundering in his skull like a war drum.

  'Why?'

  His throat tightened.

  His voice rose—a scream torn from the edge of madness and grief.

  “WHY?!”

  He slammed his hand again, harder, harder.

  “Don’t you want a soul?! Are you not hungry?! WHY?!”

  The crystal remained still.

  Cold.

  Unmoved.

  Then the golden barrier shattered behind him—sliced clean through by enchanted steel.

  Alaric turned.

  Just in time to see Kael’s blade rise.

  “For the Empire,” Kael said, cold and absolute.

  The blade drove into Alaric’s chest.

  He gasped—eyes wide, lips parting in silence as pain exploded through him like a dying star, collapsing inward.

  His knees buckled.

  He crumpled beside the altar, blood seeping out in thick ribbons, staining the ancient stone.

  “Alaric Valeblade,” Kael declared. “For your sins—your name will be erased.”

  Alaric's fingers twitched.

  One hand—numb, trembling—dragged itself across the cold floor.

  It touched the Heart of Vel’nareth.

  Just once. Barely.

  But enough.

  His lips moved. Blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth.

  Just let me burn every single one of them.

  Let me hear their screams.

  Let me watch their world burn like mine.

  Let the Empire drown in its own lies.

  Let me...

  Let me...

  Kael raised the blade again.

  The final blow fell.

  And Alaric’s head rolled across the stone floor, eyes frozen open, hand still resting against the ancient relic—his blood sinking into its veins like ink into parchment.

  The Heart of Vel’nareth pulsed.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Then—

  Silence.

  Then—

  A breath.

  Then—

  Air.

  Light.

  Pain.

  And then—

  A heartbeat.

  And Alaric gasped.

  His eyes flew open—

  And locked onto the ceiling above.

  Not stone.

  Wood.

  Old beams creaked overhead. Familiar cracks ran through the ceiling like old scars, and the faint, warm glow of morning light filtered through warped glass, casting long shadows across the room.

  This place—this room—had burned. It had crumbled to ash.

  That means—

  It worked.

  It finally worked.

  His heart raced as he bolted upright, disoriented, legs unsteady. He stumbled toward the mirror across from his bed, driven by a force he couldn't yet understand.

  Staring back at him—

  He saw it.

  A boy.

  No older than fourteen.

  Soft, round cheeks, unmarred by time or battle.

  Wide, unscarred eyes, clear and full of life.

  His face.

  A fragile echo of the man who had once stood before the mightiest empire.

  The man who had defied gods.

  The man who had died screaming for vengeance.

  Alaric Valeblade was reborn.