Ashen fell.
Not through space—through thought.
The white light had no end. No shape. Just weight. He wasn't moving anymore. He was sinking. Through silence. Through something thicker than air, gentler than water, but suffocating all the same.
Then—his foot touched ground.
The world returned, slowly. A narrow path stretched before him, hovering above a sea of darkness. Endless. The path was made of red stone, smooth and polished like bloodied marble. No walls. No sky. Just blackness pressing in from all sides.
And at the far end of the path stood a figure.
Tall.
Wrapped in pale cloth from neck to toe. Its arms were folded behind its back, and its head—if it had one—was covered by a metal mask, cracked down the center. Where eyes should have been were empty sockets.
It did not move.
Ashen approached, cautious.
Each footstep echoed for too long.
When he came within reach, the figure turned its head—not in sight, but in attention. The air grew sharp. Dry. Like he stood at the edge of something long dead.
Then it spoke. Its voice was quiet. Not deep, but thin, as if each word was borrowed from someone long forgotten.
"You walk with no memory, yet memory clings to you."
Ashen stood still. "What are you?"
The figure tilted its head. "You call yourself 'Ashen.' That is not wrong. But it is not all."
A flash pulsed behind his eyes.
He saw—just for an instant—a mountain wrapped in storm. A dying god laid beneath it. And above, a single boy stood among a thousand falling stars, weeping.
Then it was gone.
Ashen's knees weakened. "What… is this place?"
The Watcher turned away. Began walking.
"You walk the Trial of Endurance. Most see fear. Pain. Guilt. Yours is different."
It paused. "Yours was not built for you."
"What do you mean?"
The Watcher stopped before a floating monolith. It was covered in carvings, shifting symbols that twisted when Ashen tried to focus. The figure reached out and touched it gently.
The stone screamed.
Not with sound. With memory.
Ashen fell to his knees, clutching his head.
A hand on a shoulder. A crown breaking apart. A memory taken. A name stolen. A god forgotten.
It ended as suddenly as it began.
The Watcher looked down at him.
"You are not like them."
"You carry something buried."
Ashen staggered up. "I didn't ask to carry anything."
The Watcher's mask cracked a little more.
"None of us do."
Then it turned and pointed down the path.
A new figure stood at the far end.
It was Ashen again—but taller, older. Dressed in black, his eyes glowing faintly with golden light. His face calm. Cold.
The Watcher whispered: "That is who you could become."
Ashen stared.
And the older version of him stared back.
Then—it smiled. Gently. Sadly.
And stepped off the path.
Into the dark.
Gone.
Ashen shouted, ran to the edge—but there was nothing. Just the empty sea again.
He turned. The Watcher had vanished.
Only one thing remained: a glowing sigil etched into the path. A spiral of overlapping eyes, each one weeping dust.
It pulsed once.
And the world began to shift again.
The red stone cracked beneath his feet, and Ashen was falling once more—this time, toward a whispering wind, a broken mirror, and something old beginning to awaken.