The village of Lorand wasn't on any Imperial map.
Not because it didn't exist — but because no one wanted to admit that such a place could still be part of their world.
There were no mage towers here. No merchant guilds. Not even a caravan stop. Just stone houses blanketed in mold, a dusty road that led nowhere, and a grey sky that loomed above like it was keeping count of the dead.
Irin was born here. And, most likely, he was meant to die here too.
He sat on a slope just outside the village, where the ruins of an old temple lay hidden beneath moss and ash. The air smelled of damp leaves, rot, and something... ancient.
Something the elders whispered about only when the fires burned low, and the children were half asleep.
The village of Lorand wasn't on any Imperial map. Not because it didn't exist — but because no one wanted to admit that such a place could still be part of their world. There were no mage towers here. No merchant guilds. Not even a caravan stop. Just stone houses blanketed in mold, a dusty road that led nowhere, and a grey sky that loomed above like it was keeping count of the dead.
Irin was born here. And, most likely, he was meant to die here too.
He sat on a slope just outside the village, where the ruins of an old temple lay hidden beneath moss and ash. The air smelled of damp leaves, rot, and something... ancient. Something the elders whispered about only when the fires burned low, and the children were half asleep. He knew he shouldn't be here.
"You're back again," said a raspy voice behind him. "You want them to hang you?"
Irin didn't turn around. "If I'm lucky, maybe the temple will take me first." Old Torv, a former scribe turned drunk, sat beside him, wheezing from the climb. His cloak was as torn as the life he'd lived. "Good men died here," he muttered. "Don't play with this place. It remembers. Even if you don't." Irin nodded but didn't leave.
That night, something howled. It wasn't a wolf. It was... something else. Irin woke to screams. His neighbor, the one-legged war veteran, was shrieking in panic. In the distance, flames danced across the sky. The grain barn was burning. Someone shouted: "They're back! It's them!" Irin knew who they were. Tax collectors. Mercenaries hired by the Mage Houses. They came every three months. But this time — they were early.
He didn't wait. He grabbed his cloak and ran into the night, heading straight for the temple ruins. Safer there than among the "living."
By the time he reached the ruins, dawn was just beginning to bleed across the clouds, casting the world in cold silver light. The temple stood silent. Only broken mosaics remained on the floor — scorched, cracked, showing long-forgotten gods whose names had been erased from memory. He stood in the center, where the altar once stood.
"I know you're here," he whispered. "If you want to take me — do it. I have nothing left. Nothing to hold." Silence. Then — a rustle.
Irin turned. From beneath a tilted stone slab in the corner, a faint red glow pulsed like a dying ember. He stepped closer. Inside — no bones, no dust. Just a smooth, breathing stone, the color of blood and ash. It was calling to him. He reached out.
"You are not a mistake," a voice echoed — not in the air, but inside his mind. "You are the last spark." The flame ignited, and the world vanished.
He woke in darkness. Or maybe it wasn't sleep at all. His body ached. His hand was scorched — but not burned. On his wrist, a symbol glowed faintly: a broken circle, split by jagged lines. It pulsed like it was alive.
"You... should not have survived," said the voice again. It sounded now like a whisper through fire. Irin stood. His legs trembled, but something in his chest had changed. Not anger. Power.
He walked out of the temple — and realized the time had passed. The village… was empty.
He found the bodies later. Not all, but enough to understand — no one had survived. Not Torv. Not old Mama Keril, who used to feed him. On the wall of one house was a message written in blood and soot:
"The blight has come. Cleansed."
Signed beneath it — a skull with a single eye at its center. The mark of the Black Eye.
He didn't cry. He couldn't. The ash inside him had burned his tears dry.
Three days passed. He walked the southern road, ash trailing behind him. Everyone who looked at him turned away. On the fourth day, he saved a girl. Bandits tried to take her. He didn't know her name. But when one of them touched him — the man burst into flame, leaving no scream, no trace.
He didn't understand how. Only that he could feel it now — the power inside him. Awakened. Watching.
"W-Who are you?" the girl whispered, trembling.
He looked at her. At his hands. At the road leading to the mages' city. "Me?"
He smiled — for the first time in days.
"I'm just... ash."