Chapter 1: The Dust Beneath the Ink
The midday sun beat down on the sandstone roofs of Marukh, painting long shadows across the marketplace. Kael weaved his way through the narrow alleys, scrolls bundled under one arm, careful not to disturb the dust beneath his sandals.
He wasn't a warrior. Not a priest. Just a scribe—someone who copied the words of others, day after day, so the noble families could keep their version of the past neat and polished.
But that day, the past refused to stay buried.
It began with a stranger. An old man in silver-stained robes appeared at his stall, silent and unreadable. He wasn't listed in any registry. No name. No request. Just a pouch of heavy gold, and a scroll wrapped in black cloth.
"Copy this," the man said quietly. "Then forget you ever saw it."
Kael tried. He really did.
But as his quill danced across the parchment, the letters seemed to move under the ink—shifting, changing. Images flashed behind his eyes: cities consumed by flame, towers floating in a sky of ash, and a crown split in two, falling into darkness.
When he reached the end of the scroll, four words stopped him cold:
Narezz shall rise again.
His hand trembled, the ink smearing across the page.
Something had awakened—and somehow, it was calling him.