Prince Alric Valen staggered through the endless desert, each step a prayer and a curse. The sun hammered against his back, relentless in its judgment. His boots were worn to tatters, his skin blistered and cracked, and his once-proud armor had long since been traded for scraps of scavenged leather.

  Banished. Forgotten. Betrayed.

  The words echoed in his mind, as constant as the dry wind scraping across the wasteland.

  The banishment had been swift—an accusation of treason, fabricated by his uncle, Regent Mordain, the man who now wore Alric's crown. The court had turned against him, hungry for a scapegoat. His friends had faltered, and the people had cheered as he was dragged from the palace in chains.

  They had cast him out to die.

  But Alric refused.

  “Not yet,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and raw. “Not like this.”

  The horizon blurred in the heat, and his vision swam. He dropped to one knee, gasping for breath. The air was thick with the tang of iron, though there was no blood on his hands.

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  And then he saw it: a faint glimmer in the distance. A ruin, rising out of the sands like a forgotten monument. A broken archway marked its entrance, worn smooth by centuries of wind.

  Alric felt an inexplicable pull.

  Driven by desperation and instinct, he stumbled toward the ruins. The air grew heavier as he approached, the oppressive heat giving way to a strange, unnatural chill.

  Inside, the world changed. The light dimmed, shadows twisting and curling like living things. Symbols etched into the stone walls glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the erratic beat of his heart.

  In the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, cradling a dagger forged from obsidian. Its edge shimmered with a dark, liquid sheen, and the air around it hummed with power.

  Alric knew, deep in his marrow, that this blade was meant for him.

  His fingers brushed the hilt.

  The moment his skin touched the dagger, the world exploded in light and pain.

  Memories that were not his own flooded his mind—battlefields drenched in blood, kingdoms rising and falling, faces twisted in fury and sorrow. Voices surged in his ears, a cacophony of whispers and shouts, each demanding his attention.

  “Who are you to claim our legacy?”

  “The blood of kings flows in his veins. He is one of us.”

  “Foolish boy. Do you know what you’ve unleashed?”

  Alric fell to his knees, clutching his head as the voices grew louder, overlapping and drowning each other out. His body burned, his veins ablaze with power that felt ancient and alive.

  Through the chaos, a single voice cut through, clear and commanding.

  “You are Alric Valen, last son of the First Line,” it said. “You have awakened the Echoes. And with them, you will either reclaim your destiny… or be consumed by it.”

  The light faded, and Alric collapsed into darkness.