The wind howled across the charred valley as Asher moved through the ruin. The world around him was jagged and broken—black spires jutted from the earth like ancient claws, and molten cracks veined the ground beneath his feet. Ash drifted through the air in lazy spirals, mingling with the strange, sulfurous scent that clung to everything.
He had no idea where he was.
The sky was wrong. The stars were scattered in unfamiliar constellations, the moon hung blue and enormous, and the very air felt heavier, charged with something unseen. This wasn't Earth. It wasn't Hell either—not the way he imagined it. Wherever this place was, it bore no name he recognized.
Still, one thing was clear.
He was alive.
More than alive—changed. His limbs moved with a lightness he wasn't used to, his vision was sharper, and somewhere deep in his chest pulsed a warmth that hadn't been there before. Like a second heartbeat. A fire.
He moved carefully between collapsed towers and crumbling statues, their faces worn away by time or something far more violent. The black stone beneath his feet shimmered in places, reflecting twisted versions of himself in the warped sheen. He spotted something in the distance—jagged motion, twitching shapes.
He crouched instinctively and watched.
Figures emerged from the shadows ahead. Dozens of them. Men—or what was left of men. Their skin was cracked and hard, gray like stone. Eyes glowed faintly green beneath tattered hoods and shattered helms. Some dragged broken weapons, others merely clawed at the earth like beasts searching for prey.
They shambled together, twisted and jerking, as if their limbs had forgotten how to move like humans.
A wave of dread crashed through Asher.
They hadn't seen him yet. He ducked behind a fractured column and tried to still his breathing, heart pounding in his ears.
Then he stepped on a shard of black glass.
Crunch.
The horde turned as one.
A dozen pairs of glowing eyes locked on him, their faces splitting into silent snarls. They moved.
Fast.
Asher bolted.
He raced through the ruins, leaping over rubble, ducking beneath collapsed archways. The cursed things were faster than they looked, scraping and shrieking behind him. One reached for his shoulder—he spun, ducked, and flung his arm forward by instinct.
A burst of fire roared from his palm.
The creature screamed—its stone-like skin blackening, cracking, and falling away in molten chunks. The others hesitated only for a breath, then charged again, shrieking in fury.
Asher turned, hand trembling, and fire exploded again from his fingertips—wild and unfocused, but real. It arced across the air and struck another one full in the chest, lighting it up like dry wood. Panic surged through him, but beneath it was something else—something fierce.
He wasn't powerless.
More came from the sides. Asher gritted his teeth, spun, and swept his arms outward. Flame erupted in a circle, forcing the creatures back. A scream. Another fell. His breathing grew ragged, vision blurring with heat and smoke.
He could feel the fire responding to him—not like a weapon, but like a part of him. Still, he knew he couldn't keep this up forever. His arms trembled. Every blast cost him something.
He had to escape.
Breaking through the edge of the ruined square, he spotted a narrow, broken path leading down a slope, half-hidden behind the bones of some colossal winged creature long turned to stone. He ran for it, ducking a thrown spear, and vanished into the misty gulch beyond.
---
The chase faded. The sounds behind him grew distant, then silent.
Asher limped forward, muscles burning, the fire within him reduced to a flickering warmth. His hands were scorched, his knuckles scraped. But he was alive.
He followed the gulch until it opened into a quiet clearing—a place strangely untouched by the ruin around it.
At its center stood a structure.
It rose from the black stone like a memory. Elegant, arched, and somehow intact. Its walls shimmered faintly in the low light, carved from pale marble and trimmed in red-gold veins that pulsed like dying embers. Two great doors stood slightly ajar, and from within came a soft breeze carrying the scent of burned incense and dust.
But it was the symbol above the doors that made him stop.
A bird, wings flared wide, engulfed in flame.
A Phoenix.
The same creature that had spoken to him in the flame after his death.
His feet moved of their own accord. Up the cracked steps. Toward the doors.
The world behind him—ruin, madness, monsters—fell away for a moment. Before him stood something different. A place untouched by time. Perhaps the only one in this strange world where answers waited.
He stepped through the threshold—and the doors groaned open as if welcoming him.