The sky burned gold and red, a torn canvas of fire and ash stretched above the battlefield. War drums thundered in the distance, but their rhythm was lost beneath the screams, the clash of steel, and the cry of something ancient overhead.

  He stood at the edge of a great chariot, its wheels made of sunstone, its frame etched with symbols that shimmered as if alive. His hands were stained with blood, ash, and memory. His armor cracked down one side, his breathing ragged. The wind caught in his long black hair, wild and unbound.

  His eyes burned amber, and across the field, chaos raged. Titans of bone and light clashed with serpents of fire, armored soldiers moved like lightning, wielding weapons not forged, but conjured, banners fluttered overhead, symbols he almost recognized, and above it all, the beast descended.

  Wings wider than clouds, scales black as sorrow, eyes like molten moons. A face half-man, half-monster, its voice a roar and a dirge all at once.

  He drew his weapon, something between a spear and a blade, humming with forgotten names. The chariot surged forward, drawn by beasts with fire for flesh and hooves that cracked the earth. He screamed a war cry, not in fear, but in fury, and he met the creature in mid-air.

  They clashed like storms, spear against talon, will against hunger. He struck the beast once, twice, carved deep into its hide, and still it roared, still it came.

  A wing battered the chariot apart, he was flung from the wreckage, slammed into the earth. His spear shattered, the beast descended. Its jaws opened like a wound in the sky. He raised his hands. Not in defense, but in remembrance, and it struck.

  Laughter, wet, rattling, mocking, and from the void came that voice again.

  “You die well,” it said, amused. “But then again... that wasn’t really you, was it?”

  A figure took shape, half-born from smoke and flickering shadow. Hair black and dripping like ink, a face half-twisted, as if sculpted mid-scream, and those green eyes, always those eyes, too bright, too alive, filled with cruel joy.

  “Confused, are you?” it whispered, tilting its head, it's smile like a broken blade. “Don’t worry. It gets worse.”

  He gasped awake, not to cold stone, not to blood, but to silken sheets. A bed, real, soft, warm.

  The ceiling above him was low and smooth, carved from black stone, veined with threads of gold that pulsed faintly like veins beneath skin. The air smelled of myrrh and damp earth.

  He sat up, slowly. No chains, no wounds, not even the usual ache in his limbs. He was dressed in a soft tunic, dark, gray, unfamiliar. A tray of food sat near the edge of the room, untouched.

  He was underground, yes, but this was no cell. This was... a chamber, prepared, waiting. A question pressed against his mind, louder than the remnants of the dream.

  Who?

  Somewhere, far off in his own mind, that laugh echoed once more. Then the sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber, soft, deliberate, and accompanied by the faint clinking of glass.

  He turned his head, muscles tight with caution, just as the door, an arch of stone veined with slow-glowing runes, parted with a whisper.

  A figure entered, robed in layered silks dyed in muted shades of twilight. His beard was short, neatly kept, and streaked with gray. His eyes were sharp, observant, but not unkind. Two others followed behind him, hooded, silent, carrying trays laden with bottles, bandages, and steaming bowls.

  The robed man gave a warm nod.

  “You’re awake,” he said, voice smooth as still water. “Good. I was beginning to worry you might sleep through another cycle.”

  He tried to rise, instinct more than decision, but pain stabbed through his ribs, a raw, immediate reminder. He winced, breath catching.

  “Don’t,” the man said quickly, raising a hand. “Let the body do what it must. There’s no need to force it, not this time.”

  The word hung there, loaded with implication.

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  He narrowed his eyes. “This time?”

  The man stepped forward, placing a small satchel down near the bed. “Yes. The Core always wants to fix, to adapt, to burn through pain with power, but that’s not always wise.”

  Core, the word struck something deeper.

  He looked down at himself. The wounds were still there, dull bruises, red gashes, a few crusted-over cuts. Not gone this time, not even fading.

  His breath stilled. “Why am I not healing?”

  The man gave a nod to the others, who began to quietly unpack the salves and cloths beside him.

  “We activated a rune,” the man said calmly. “A binding one. Gentle, but firm. It interrupts the core’s self-repair drive, just a temporary measure.”

  He tensed, his senses alert.

  The man's hands remained visible, open, non-threatening. “Please, don’t misunderstand me. It’s for your own good. Healing through the Core usage accelerates corruption. Too much power, too fast, it frays the edges of the soul.”

  The word corruption landed like a stone in his gut.

  “You speak like you know,” he murmured, eyes locked onto the man.

  “I do,” the man said, without pride. “My name is Vashisht. Scholar, rune-adept, a healer of sorts, though not the kind that gives miracles.”

  The two assistants came closer, one gently lifting his arm, the other dabbing a greenish salve onto the torn skin near his ribs. He flinched at the sting but didn’t pull away.

  “Good,” Vashisht said softly. “You still know restraint.”

  He let the ministrations continue in silence. The salve smelled of crushed herbs and something faintly metallic, tingling as it soaked into the wound. Bandages followed, tight, efficient.

  Vashisht finally exhaled, lowering himself to sit on a stool near the edge of the bed. The lines around his eyes deepened with the weight of whatever he carried.

  “You must have so many questions,” he said at last.

  He did, and so he only nodded, letting the silence stretch.

  Vashisht folded his hands in his lap, his eyes studying him, not with the clinical gaze of a scientist, but the quiet concern of someone who had seen too many come and go.

  “You must have appeared suddenly,” he said, “somewhere unfamiliar, your memory torn away like old cloth. No past, only questions.”

  He stared at him, heart quickening. “How did you know?”

  A small smile touched the old scholar’s lips. “Because that’s how everyone arrives, myself included. Thirty years ago, I opened my eyes under a sky I didn’t recognize, with stars that didn’t belong to any chart I’d ever studied.” He paused, glancing at the low-burning runes on the stone walls. “That’s how this island works. It doesn’t take prisoners. It... summons.”

  The word sat heavily between them.

  “Where did you appear?” Vashisht asked.

  He looked away. “A place beneath the Hollowed City. A ruin, full of broken towers and echoing corridors. There were chains... cells. I think it was called the Sunken Prison.”

  The change in Vashisht’s face was immediate. His expression darkened, a flicker of pity tightening the corners of his eyes.

  “That’s the worst place to appear,” he murmured. “Most don’t survive it, and those who do... often turn.”

  That word, turn, stabbed deep.

  His stomach churned as memories clawed their way back. Warped bodies, twitching limbs, mouths full of teeth where no mouth should be. The Fleshshapers, the blood puppets, the abysswretches.

  All of them, they were like him, once.

  A laugh echoed faintly in the back of his mind, wet, distant, familiar.

  Vashisht leaned forward, voice quiet. “There are things you must understand, things no one tells you when you arrive. Three forces shape us here. Eclipse. Core. Acclimation.”

  He spoke the words like they were sacred.

  “Eclipse,” he began, “is your fire. Your potential. Your power. Every person summoned here falls into one of three castes. Those of blood, who shape flesh and bone; those of shadow, who command dark and strange arts; and those of nothing, who have no gift at all. Their Eclipse remains at zero. And they rarely last long.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Which one are you?”

  Vashisht tapped the side of his head. “I am one of the nothings. I’ve survived with knowledge. But you..” his eyes narrowed, appraising, “ ...belong to the shadows, from what I understand.”

  He felt a weight settle in his chest. Eclipse, was that what had poured from his hands, the darkness that tore the Fleshshapers apart?

  Vashisht continued. “Core is what fuels you. The well beneath the flame. It is your vitality, your stamina, your ability to continue using Eclipse without being consumed. It refills over time, or with proper nourishment. And it grows... slowly.”

  “And Acclimation?” he asked.

  Vashisht looked away, just for a second. “The most enigmatic score. It rises or falls for reasons we don’t fully understand. Some believe it measures how in tune you are with the island. Its laws, its cycles, its hunger.” He paused. “Others believe it’s something darker. That the island changes you as you adapt. Shapes you into something it needs.”

  Before he could ask more, the door creaked open and a hooded figure stepped in, face hidden in shadow. The newcomer bent to Vashisht, whispering something low and hurried.

  Vashisht frowned. “I see,” he muttered, standing. “You’ll have to excuse me, duty calls.”

  He turned to go, but paused when the question burst from him “What did you mean before? About corruption?”

  Vashisht’s face clouded for a moment, then softened. “Sleep, new friend. When you wake, I promise, I’ll tell you everything.”

  He made it to the door, hand brushing the stone. Then he stopped, glancing back with a small, amused smile.

  “Your name,” he asked. “What is it?”

  He hesitated, shame bloomed in his chest like a bruise. “I... I don’t remember.”

  Vashisht chuckled, not unkindly. “None of us do. That’s not what I meant.” He turned fully now, eyes curious. “What would you like to be called?”

  The moment hung still.

  And then, unbidden, a word rose through his bones, through his breath, like it had always been waiting there.

  “Arjun,” he said quietly.

  The name tasted familiar, like a blade returned to its sheath.

  Vashisht gave a small nod. “Then Arjun it is.”

  Then he left, the rune-lit door closing behind him with a hush.