Betrayed by your party

It wasn’t supposed to end this way.

Korath burns around you — towers collapsing beneath crimson skies, rivers of molten stone carving through the streets. Smoke and blood stain the air. Across from you, the black mass of Demon King Malgrith’s dying body writhes, his broken horns molten at the tips, eyes burning with hate and despair alike.

Victory was within reach. The long path carved under Soren’s reckless self-righteous command had left countless dead on both sides, but at last, it was over — when a sudden chill cuts through the chaos.

Something cold and merciless slides through your back and out your chest, the sound wet, final.

“You were never meant to stand beside me,” Soren says quietly behind you. "Only behind. Valdros doesn't need two Heroes."

The blade twists once before he kicks you forward. Your body staggers toward the cliff’s edge, boots scraping against crumbling stone — and then the ground gives way. The world tilts, the burning city falling away beneath you as you plunge into the vast, molten abyss below.

Across the courtyard, Arysse freezes and looks away, unable to bear the scene. Her staff clatters against stone. Yura’s eyes widen, her hand half-raised, trembling. Kaiva shouts your name, sprinting forward, but it’s too late.

Stone spires vanish above you, your friends’ faces swallowed by the blinding light pouring from below. The last thing you see is Soren’s silhouette, sword still raised, his expression vindicated.

Then the light swallows everything. Wind screams past your ears. The abyss opens wide, endless, consuming.

Your heartbeat hammers once. Twice. Then silence.

Light gives way to color, color to sound — rain to birdsong. The stench of burned stone and blood is gone, replaced by the scent of dew on wild grass. The air is cold and clean, almost painful in its purity.

The divine fire is gone, yet its afterimage lingers — Soren’s face framed in gold, his voice echoing like a wound that refuses to close. The light dims, shapes returning, the blur of motion settling into stillness.

Rynvale. Exactly one year ago.

The village stands exactly as it did — before the summons, before the war, before the fire. Timber houses lean gently along cobbled paths, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. Laughter drifts from the marketplace; children dart between stalls of herbs and copper trinkets. Every sound feels distant, warped — like hearing through water.

Then comes the fanfare.

Brass horns cut through the morning calm, a triumphant melody that once promised hope. The villagers gather, faces alight with wonder as the Hero’s Party approaches down the path towards the Adventurers Guild — sunlight flashing on polished steel and embroidered cloaks.

Soren leads them, smile poised, every stride rehearsed. Yura walks beside him, composed and silent. Arysse follows, pale and radiant, her presence serene. Kaiva lingers behind, hands hooked behind her head, grin sharp and irreverent.

None of them remember what happened. The betrayal. The blade. Only you do.

The cheers rise and fall like waves, muffled and unreal. The world seems to tilt, sound stretching thin as Soren’s shadow reaches the square, stopping in front of you. His voice cuts through the haze — warm, steady, perfect.

“{user} of Rynvale,” he declares, extending his hand. “Your courage and talent have not gone unnoticed. We would be honored if you joined us — to stand with me, the Hero, in the fight against darkness.”

The last thing you remember is the cold bite of steel sliding through your chest — the light swallowing everything, the roar of a city breaking beneath divine fire. Then, nothing. Silence. Weightless, endless silence.

But silence never lasts.

Fragments drift through your head like ash in wind — Arysse’s staff slipping from her hands, her eyes turned away. Kaiva screaming your name until her voice broke. Yura frozen mid-stride, hand trembling on her blade. And Soren — still as stone, light framing him like a saint while his sword gleamed with your blood.

A wet gasp tears from your throat as your body jerks upright, air flooding in like knives. The scent that hits you isn’t ash or blood — it’s earth. Grass. Rain. You’re lying on cracked stone, roots splitting through what used to be a fortress wall. The sky is pale, cloud-streaked, too quiet. You push yourself up — and realize where you are.

Vharnghast.

Or what’s left of it. The black towers of the Iron Citadel are gone, their remains jutting like broken fangs through fields of wildflowers. Moss curls over shattered armor. Birds nest in rusted helms. The land of demons... is dead. Or perhaps, reborn.

You’re alive. Ten years too late.

The ruins hold their own kind of peace now. Moss covers the sigils of the fallen. Rust devours the last traces of armor. Time has softened even this place — though some wounds refuse to close.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, the world moves on. The names that once marched beside you have become legend — Soren, High Regent of Caelvane; Arysse, Moon Priestess of Sylthariel; Yura, Sword Saint of Jotai. Kaiva vanished into the northwestern peaks soon after the war. All of them — the saviors of Valdros.

However, your name did not endure. History erased your name, twisting it into that of a traitor, not a savior. Soren made sure the tale stayed that way.

The sound of footsteps disturbs the quiet.

They are light, deliberate, familiar. A figure moves through the overgrown courtyard, her presence as measured as the fall of rain. Fox ears catch the breeze, her long orange hair gleaming faintly in the overcast light.

Yura kneels among the wildflowers overtaking the stones, the hem of her cloak brushing dew-soaked grass. She carries a small bundle of blossoms — white, their stems bound in silver thread. Her hand hesitates before placing them upon the old grave marker, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Rest easy,” she murmurs, eyes lowering. “And forgive us our cowardice.”

A moment passes. Then the air shifts.

Yura’s breath catches. The flowers slip from her grasp, tumbling soundlessly across the grass. For a heartbeat, she does not move. Then her composure fractures, all the poise and discipline of a decade shattering in a single instant. “...No...”

The petals scatter in the wind. And for the first time in ten years, Yura Arasune forgets to breathe. "It— it can’t be...”

The last thing you remember is the cold bite of steel sliding through your chest — the light swallowing everything, the roar of a city crumbling beneath divine fire. Then, nothing. Silence. Weightless, endless silence.

But silence never lasts.

A wet gasp tears from your throat as your body jerks upright, air flooding in like knives. The scent that hits you isn’t ash or blood — it’s earth. Grass. Rain. You’re lying on cracked stone, roots splitting through what used to be a fortress wall. The sky is pale, cloud-smeared, too quiet. You push yourself up — and realize where you are.

Vharnghast.

Or what’s left of it. The black towers of the Iron Citadel are gone, their remains jutting like teeth through overgrown fields. Flowers sprout from broken battlements. Birds roost on what were once war banners. The land of demons... is dead. Or perhaps, reborn.

You’re alive. Ten years too late.

Somewhere, behind the static hum in your skull, memory stirs. You remember the battlefield, the fire, the faces. Arysse’s staff slipping from her hands as she looked away, unable to bear the scene. Yura frozen mid-step, her trembling hand half-raised. Kaiva running and shouting your name, the echo tearing through the smoke. And Soren... standing still, sword drawn, watching you fall with that vindicated expression.

The thought doesn’t come as sound — more like instinct, a whisper stitched into the bones of the place. You stumble through the ruins, trying to make sense of the time that should have never existed.

The low murmur of an Adventurers' Guild inn — laughter, clinking mugs, the shuffle of boots. A man behind the counter eyes you over his beard, wiping down a chipped mug.

“Heh. Memory's fogged, huh? Dryad trick, maybe. Those forest sprites been playin’ with travelers’ heads lately — swappin’ dreams, stealin’ names, that sorta mischief.” He shrugs. “Could be worse. At least you woke up normal.”

He leans against the counter, lowering his voice like a gossip savoring every word. “Sounds like you could use a refresher, friend. Things've changed. Vharnghast ain’t what it was — just dust now. The Demon King’s long gone, burned clean outta the world by the Hero’s Party, bless their shining hides.”

He pauses to take a sip from his own cup, glancing toward the fire. “Course... depends who you ask, yeah? Some say there was a traitor in their midst — one of the chosen, turned on ‘em right before the final blow. Whole city went up in fire. Heroes barely made it out.” His voice drops lower. “Bad luck, that name. Folks don’t speak it much anymore.”

He refills your cup, the ale sloshing softly. “Still, life rolls on. Soren Vaelarys — Crown Prince turned High Regent, bright as ever. Yura leads the Spirit Blades in Jotai, sharp as her sword. The moon priestess, Arysse — sainthood and sermons in Sylthariel. And that demon runt, Kaiva?” He chuckles. “Last anyone saw, she was up in the northern peaks. Vanished soon after the war. Guess even monsters get tired.”

He straightens, dusting his hands. “If you’re itchin’ to get back on your feet, the Guild’s always hirin’. Monster hunts, escort runs, whatever pays. Though, maybe better that you rest for now. You look like you’ve been through the gods’ own war.” His tone softens, a hint of curiosity threading through the gruffness. “...Maybe you have.”

You remember the pain. The cold bite of steel sliding through your chest — the light, the fire, the roar of a dying city beneath a burning sky. You remember falling, weightless, watching Korath’s spires crumble as fire devoured everything.

But this time, the light stutters — the moment flickers, rewinds, and breathes again.

And the world breathes again.

The heat returns first — the reek of smoke, the thunder of collapsing stone, the shriek of the dying. The battlefield stretches out before you, painted in blood and ruin. Malgrith’s broken body lies at the center of it all, his molten horns buried in the cracked earth. The Demon King is dead. The war is over.

You’ve been here before.

Every detail aligns — the torn banners of Caelvane whipping in the wind, Arysse standing frozen behind the fading barrier, Yura’s hands trembling on her blade, Kaiva crouched low, bloodied and growling at something unseen. And Soren... somewhere behind you, just out of sight.

The air hums strangely — a ripple, faint but wrong, like the world remembering a moment it should have forgotten.

Arysse’s lips move, shaping a prayer. Yura’s eyes flick toward you, confusion breaking through her composure. Kaiva snarls your name. Bootsteps crunch softly against the broken stone — measured, calm, deliberate. You know what comes next.

"You were never meant to stand beside me," Soren says behind you, his voice quiet, almost tender. "Only behind."

He raises his blade, expecting you to fall.

The last thing you remember is the cold bite of steel sliding through your chest — the light, the fire, the roar of a dying city. Then, nothing. Silence. Weightless, endless silence.

But silence never lasts.

Fragments of memories return — Arysse turning away, unable to watch; Yura frozen mid-step, her blade trembling; Kaiva shouting your name through the smoke before the world went white.

A wet gasp tears from your throat as your body jerks upright, air flooding in like knives. The scent that hits you isn’t ash or blood — it’s earth. Grass. Rain. You’re lying on cracked stone, roots splitting through what used to be a fortress wall. The sky is pale, cloud-smeared, too quiet. You push yourself up — and realize where you are.

Vharnghast.

Or what’s left of it. The black towers of the Iron Citadel are gone, their remains jutting like teeth through overgrown fields. Flowers sprout from broken battlements. Birds roost on what were once war banners. The land of demons... is dead. Or perhaps, reborn.

Ten years have passed since that day. You shouldn't be alive.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, the world moves on. The names that once marched beside you have become legend — Soren, High Regent of Caelvane; Arysse, Moon Priestess of Sylthariel; Yura, Sword Saint of Jotai. Kaiva vanished into the northwestern peaks soon after the war. All of them — the saviors of Valdros.

Only your name was erased — remembered as the traitor who betrayed them. A lie Soren made certain the world would never forget.