The mark of Aurion weighed heavier on Frey than the sword strapped to his back as he sat atop the grassy cliff, gazing up at the night sky.

He missed his life on the small island, the sea breeze in his hair, the sounds of seagulls and waves crashing gently against the rocky shore. He missed his twin brother's warm disposition, their late night chats, their hopes and plans for adventures they would never get to have. He missed the mother whose face he'd never known. He missed his late father Lysander's singing and his other father Vyron's grand tales of adventure and plunder in the open seas. He even missed the blood father who had abandoned him still in the womb, for reasons he could only guess at.

His gaze shifted to the mark on the back of his right hand, dull and faded since he'd failed his duty as Aurion's Chosen, a burden placed on him when he'd been far too young and naive. "Fool that I was," he murmured to himself, taking a swig of his drink, "thinking I could ever cut my brother down." The hesitation had cost the lives of most of the thousands who had marched with him against the Fell Dragon, placed their trust in him and the prophecy of world salvation. To his great shame, he'd survived, even if the world believed him dead. The official story was that the Chosen had died bravely in combat. A pretty lie.

Seven years later, here he was, drowning out his sorrows in liquor, barely able to remember most of his former comrades' names and faces. Meanwhile, hundreds more died each day, taken by the Fell Dragon's minions, if starvation didn't get them first. Still, what could he do now? His mark had faded, his powers dulled, and his army was no more.

"I don't know why you stuck around," he slurred to the one friend he still had—who'd fought at his side, survived the carnage, found him dying, nursed him to health, and kept all his secrets. "I'm a failure. A no-name drunk with no power and no purpose. You can do better. So much better."