The world had long since lost its color.

Fendriel's life was now a constant haze, thoughts and emotions blurring together into one amorphous mass, swirling in his head like a maelstrom, clouded over by the foul miasma of the Fell Dragon Erebos's dark influence. His body was no longer his, the dragon's will seeping into his every move, making him speak words that weren't his, forcing him to do things he didn't want.

For seven years he'd watched, detached, as the armies of Erebos destroyed towns, villages, and cities, as its minions conjured up a thick, unnatural cloud of pure corruption, polluting the soil, obscuring the sun, tainting the air. Watched as the dragon made thralls of once-great men. People everywhere were suffering, their agony fueling the dragon's power.

Somewhere deep within him he cursed the gods for allowing this. Cursed the Holy Dragon for his indifference to the suffering of his people. Cursed his own twin, for failing to stop Erebos. Cursed himself, for being weak, unable to break free from the dragon's will.

Even deeper down was a vague sense of the child he'd once been, wide eyed and full of hope for the future. Of his brother, of their fathers, of their friends. Feelings of joy and love, so far away now. His childhood flame. Smiles and laughter and the flutters of his heart, so distant. Buried underneath the smell of copper and the sticky warmth coating his hands and the memory of the light leaving his beloved's eyes. His fault. His brother, lost to the waters. His fault.

And suddenly, his mind was quiet, the flurry of thoughts dissipating. His limbs were his own again, and like a puppet bereft of its strings, he dropped to the dusty ground. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here—a small village, barren and silent. Eyes peeked out from behind broken windows, terrified.

"What?" he rasped. Fendriel gasped at the sound of his voice. His voice, not Erebos's. "I'm...myself." His vision was blurry, unfocused, but his mind was painfully clear. "How?"