The dawn was pale, though no true sun touched this place.
When Draven opened his eyes, he thought night still lingered. Only when he rose and stepped outside the alcove did he see a thin gray wash seeping through the smoke above, too weak to be called morning. The Ruins swallowed light, the sky above its spires a wound that refused to heal.
Feyra padded beside him, ears flicking at every drip of falling ash. Stonehide lumbered close behind, tail dragging, eyes restless. Both beasts had slept poorly, twitching through the night as whispers pressed on them too.
Draven adjusted his pack and tightened his grip on his walking staff. His knife hung at his belt, but he did not touch it. Steel felt too small here.
"Come," he murmured. His voice was steady, though every instinct whispered turn back.
They went deeper.
The path curved into a spine of broken stone, half-collapsed but still vast. Arches rose overhead, black stone ribbed with glowing veins that pulsed faintly as if blood still flowed beneath. The walls were etched in glyphs, cracked and fading, yet still alive with faint light.
Not human work. Not ruins of men. Something older. Something built when laws themselves had been written into stone.
The air hummed faint, like blood rushing in ears. Draven slowed, pressing fingers to his temple. The sound wasn't in the air at all. It was inside him, threaded through his heartbeat.
Feyra's fur bristled. Stonehide hissed, tail lashing. Both felt it too.
The first signs of men came further in.
Burned torches, their stubs scattered across the floor. Rusted blades, snapped and left to rot. Bones half-buried in dust — men's, brittle and thin, and beasts' with chains still fused to bone.
Draven knelt beside one. A ribcage, cracked open. Across its sternum, someone had carved lines — crude marks meant to mimic glyphs. Slave marks, scratched into flesh long before ink and ritual refined them.
His stomach twisted.
"This is where it began," he whispered. "Where they taught themselves to chain."
His voice echoed strangely, carrying down the corridor as though the stone wanted the words remembered.
The path stretched further, narrowing into a corridor that warped space itself.
Draven counted his steps. Ten, twenty, thirty — but when he looked back, the alcove was only a dozen paces behind. He frowned, turned forward, walked another ten — and the walls leaned closer, ceiling dipping low, though he felt he'd gone nowhere at all.
Stonehide panicked first. The beast scraped claws against the floor, but the marks stretched and twisted as if scratched into water. It hissed, tail whipping, scales shivering like rattling stone.
"Easy," Draven said, laying a hand on its flank. The plates were hot, trembling.
Feyra moved closer, fur faintly glowing emerald at the tips. She pressed against Stonehide, breathing softly. The larger beast stilled, its trembling slowing, eyes focusing again.
Draven exhaled. Even the Ruins themselves bent space to break will.
Whispers came again.
This time, not flashes — but shadows moving across the walls. Men hunched over beasts, pressing brands into their hides. Screams, chains rattling, shadows writhing. None were real, but the sound filled his ears, as if the Ruins themselves replayed their memories.
Draven gritted his teeth, clutching the knife at his side. His hand trembled. One strike, and he could lash out at the walls, at the shadows.
He lowered it.
"I won't repeat your sin," he said through clenched teeth.
The shadows stilled. Silence pressed in once more.
Further down, the corridor opened into a chamber. The walls here curved inward, their glyphs brighter, pulsing in rhythm with Draven's heartbeat.
He stepped closer. The symbols shifted faintly as he approached, lines crawling as though alive. Feyra growled low, Stonehide hissed, both beasts reacting to something unseen.
Draven touched the wall.
The glyph pulsed once, green light racing across the chamber. For an instant he saw vines sprouting from cracks, ash crumbling into soil, the air rich with the scent of rain.
Then it was gone.
He staggered back, heart racing. Feyra pressed to his side, Stonehide blocking him instinctively, protective now.
The Ruins had not just shown him memory. They had shown him possibility.
At the far end of the chamber lay an arch. Sealed. Its stone was whole, unbroken, but glyphs etched into its curve flickered faintly, as if waiting.
Draven's breath caught. He didn't know why, but he felt it pulling him. As though something beyond waited — not beast, not man, but something older still.
Feyra's ears flattened. Stonehide gave a low growl. Both sensed it too.
The ground trembled faintly beneath them, dust falling from cracks above.
And from deeper still, beyond stone, a sound rumbled — not the Magma Drake, but something else, something that lived in these halls.
Draven laid a hand on Feyra's back, another on Stonehide's plated neck. His voice was quiet, but unshaken.
"The trials begin."