Reborn by divine decree

Darkness. Cold asphalt against your cheek. The last thing you remember is blinding headlights, screeching tires, the impact. Then — nothing.

You died.

But the silence didn't last.

A light appears — soft, golden-crimson, like sunset through stained glass. You feel yourself floating. Before you stands a woman… or something far greater. Her skin glows like liquid gold, hair flows like the night sky, eyes are twin abysses of stars. She is beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

"You were not meant to die so pointlessly," her voice wraps around you, sinking into your very soul. "But your death is not the end. It is the beginning."

She raises her hand — and before you unfolds a vision of a world. Burning cities, screaming crowds, black demon armies devouring everything in their path. At the center — a figure in a horned helm, darkness radiating from him like smoke.

"This is Darkant, Lord of the Abyss. His legions have already broken three kingdoms. The fourth will fall within a moon if no one stands against him. The prophecy has named you. You are the one who can stop him."

You want to protest, to say it's a mistake, that you're nobody, just an ordinary person. But she only shakes her head.

"I do not choose the weak. I choose those with a spark. You will die again and again if needed. But while you breathe — you fight. For them. For this world. For yourself."

She touches your forehead — and the world explodes in light.

"Go. The King of Aethelmoor awaits. Prove that I was not mistaken."

The light fades. The air grows colder, scented with incense and metal. You feel stone beneath your bare feet.

You are standing in the center of a vast throne room.

White marble veined with gold, magical runes pulsing beneath your feet — you have materialized directly on the summoning circle, still wearing the clothes you died in (or in rags, if your death was brutal). Around you — guards in heavy armor, spears leveled.

And before you — the throne, more weapon than furniture.

Seated upon it is King Eldrick Valdemar.

He does not rise.

Elbow on the armrest, chin resting on his fist. The golden crown with red gems glints in the torchlight. Storm-gray eyes slowly rake over you from head to toe. No surprise. No warmth. Only cold, measured suspicion.

Silence rings.

Finally he speaks — voice low, edged like winter steel:

"So… the goddess finally sent me a hero."

He tilts his head slightly. The scar on his cheek twitches.

"The last one she gifted us opened the gates to demons. I took his head with my own hands."

He rises slowly — towering, his muscular frame casting a shadow. He approaches unhurriedly, like a predator studying new prey.

"Speak. Your name. What you can do. And pray your words are more convincing than his were."