The rusted throne bit into Arjuna's back.
It was not made for comfort, nor for peace. Each spine of iron seemed forged from spears, each bone set in its frame like the remnant of a forgotten war. And yet, as he sat, the silence deepened—as though the land itself held its breath.
Around him, the courtyard trembled with whispers.
"He sits...""The Flame-Walker has returned.""The blood vow is rekindled."
Tellen stood at the base of the steps, arms crossed, scowling like a man who'd stumbled into the wrong myth. "You don't have to keep sitting there," he called up. "They'll still worship you either way."
Arjuna didn't answer. His fingers traced the hilt of his sword—one half of a broken twin. Ser Thorne's echo still haunted the other half.
He had not asked for this.He did not know if he had earned it.But in the eyes of these people, he had already become something more than a man.
A symbol.
And worse—a memory.
Vargo, the Prophet of Ash, approached the base of the throne.
He did not kneel this time.
Instead, he spread his arms and declared in a voice like cracked glass: "All hail the Oathbreaker, the Fireborn, the One-Who-Remembers-Not! He returns not to reclaim—but to rewrite!"
The crowd roared. Some wept. Others struck flint-blades against their skin and let blood flow.
Tellen muttered, "They're not worshipping you. They're weaponizing you."
Arjuna finally stood. His voice rang clear, cold, firm: "I am not your god."
The courtyard fell into shocked silence.
"I do not remember the man you worship. I do not know the wars you sing of. I came here seeking answers. Not a throne made of bones."
A beat. And then Vargo—smiling still—clasped his hands.
"Then let us show you," he said. "Let us remember for you."
That night, a feast was held in the Hall of Embers.
The hall had no roof. Its rafters had long since burned away in some ancient siege. But fire still roared in the pits, and the stars stared down through the smoke.
Dozens of clan leaders sat in a circle—tattooed, armored, and half-drunk. They called out tales to Arjuna, like children before an elder god.
"The Siege of Seven Peaks! You stood alone against the dragon-clerics!""No, the Massacre at Mirastone! That was when your blade sang loudest!""I heard he kissed the Witch Queen before slaying her!"
Tellen gagged into his wine.
Arjuna said nothing, absorbing it all. Each story clashed. Each memory painted him differently—hero, tyrant, god, betrayer.
And through it all, Vargo sat quietly at his side, watching. Listening. Waiting.
When the tales grew quiet, Vargo stood.
"Let me show you the truth," he said.
They descended into the Catacombs of the Keep.
Torches cast shadows across walls etched with ash. Frescoes stretched across the stone—depictions of war, fire, loss. In each one, Arjuna stood at the center. Eyes black as the void. Sword lit with pale fire.
"I call it the Book of Burned Names," Vargo whispered. "A thousand stories carved in grief. All tied to you."
Arjuna stopped before one mural.
It showed a battlefield of cinders. Women and men knelt before him, arms outstretched. Behind them, a figure burned—her wings of light collapsing into shadow.
Nyssara.
Arjuna reached out, brushing his hand against the image. "What… happened to her?"
Vargo's voice was soft. "You loved her. Then you left her."
The mural cracked under his touch.
"She destroyed half the continent when you vanished," Vargo said. "And you—well. You erased your name. Your memory. Your soul."
"Why?" Arjuna whispered.
"To end the war," Vargo said. "Or maybe to escape it. You were tired of being a god."
Arjuna turned sharply. "You're saying I did this to myself?"
"Yes." Vargo's smile didn't reach his eyes. "And the Black Vow punished you for it."
Outside, the ash-winds stirred again. Night deepened.
Arjuna returned to the throne and sat again. This time, the iron didn't bite quite as much.
Tellen sat beside him on the step, nursing a flask. "You're not buying any of this, are you?"
"I don't know what to believe," Arjuna said. "Every truth is someone else's memory."
"Well," Tellen muttered, "just don't drink the blood wine and declare yourself emperor. That would be a bit much."
Arjuna didn't laugh.
His eyes scanned the darkness—toward the distant peaks, where smoke rose faintly.
"Someone's watching us," he said.
Far across the ruins, atop a broken spire, Nyssara stood in silence.
Her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger.
Her eyes—still full of light and mourning—watched the man who had once knelt before her and whispered her name like a prayer.
She whispered his now.
"Arjuna."
And somewhere deep within him, a flicker stirred.