"The son of Gorgo will be crowned in blood."

The words did not whisper. They thundered, pulsing in the marrow of his bones, a prophecy long spoken and now, at last, fulfilled. They chased his every step as he ascended the crumbling steps of Castrum Kremnos, a conqueror returning home—but not as a king.

The streets stretched before him, once a monument to civilization, now a battlefield long since abandoned. And yet, he was not alone. The echoes of those who had fought and fallen in his name still lingered, their voices rising in a chorus of welcome. Ghosts, memories, specters of the past—they saw him. They knew him.

And he had returned. Not as the man who left. Not even as a man at all.

He was reborn in the heart of fire and war, remade in the crucible of Strife itself. The coreflame burned in his chest, searing away all that once was, leaving only what needed to be. His pulse beat to the rhythm of battle, his breath carried the scent of embers and possibility.

So he sat upon his throne—a jagged crown of conflict, red crystals erupting like fresh wounds, as though the world itself had carved a seat befitting a god. His throne. His purpose.

And when the next storm came knocking? He would be waiting.