Ardyn Valen remembered fire.
Not warmth. Not light.
But the kind of fire that screams when it dies. The kind that tears the sky apart and leaves behind nothing but silence.
He awoke with that same fire clawing at his chest.
The inn room was dark. A candle flickered low. Sweat soaked his back, and his breath came ragged, like he had run for miles, though he hadn't moved in hours. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows. The kind of night the world forgot to watch.
He sat up, staring at his hands. Pale scars stretched across his fingers like faded constellations. They glowed faintly, just like always after the dreams.
Fragments. That was all he had.
A sister's scream.
A throne of bones.
And a sword made from starlight.
He didn't know what any of it meant. Not really.
The people in this town called him Cyran. A sellsword with a shattered blade and no past. It was easier that way. Easier to be broken and useful than remembered and hunted.
He rose and reached for the weapon lying beside his bed. A jagged sword, once a legendary relic. Now it was chipped, dull, and silent. Like him.
There was a knock.
Not at the door—but the window.
He turned sharply.
A girl stood outside on the second floor balcony, soaked in rain, her eyes glowing faint silver. She didn't look older than sixteen.
In her hand, she held a sword. One he had only seen in his dreams.
A blade that sang in whispers.
She didn't smile.
"You're late," she said.
He opened the window. "Who are you?"
The girl didn't hesitate.
"Your sister."
The sword in her hand flared to life, stars trailing from its edge like sparks in the wind.
And something inside Ardyn cracked.
Not like breaking.
Like remembering.