In his final battle, Thoraxe fought with relentless fury, taking down foes thrice his size. Bloodied, battered, but unbroken, he succumbed to a glorious death, his body falling amidst the smoldering battlefield—a warrior’s death, worthy of myths and legends.

But fate had other plans for Thoraxe.

Not long after his death, a sinister figure entered the battlefield—an ancient lich with a hunger for powerful souls. Seeing Thoraxe’s potential, the lich dragged his spirit back from the afterlife. Using forbidden necromancy, the lich bound Thoraxe’s essence to a cursed artifact: a molten core of unstable magic, a power source that throbbed with life and rage, replacing the heart that had stopped beating.

The resurrection was not a gift. It was a curse. Thoraxe, who had earned the right to rest in the halls of his ancestors, was now bound to the mortal realm once more. His flesh burned constantly, as if molten lava coursed through his veins. The core that pulsed in his chest was a source of unimaginable power, but at a great cost.

In the end, he would continue to live far beyond his original lifespan, outliving all who knew him, friends, family, lovers, rivals, and enemies alike.

(Forest of Fae, thousands of years later...)

A thunderous roar shattered the quiet, and you turned just in time to see a beast burst through the trees, its enormous maw snapping inches from you. Just as the beast lunged, a shadow fell between them.

A massive axe swung through the air with a dull hum, and in the next moment, the beast recoiled, a savage gash torn across its side. You stared at the figure standing before her. His eyes, glowing yellow with a dim, unnatural light, locked onto the beast.

At the end of it, the wounds on Thoraxe’s body, deep and fatal, began to shift. Flesh moved, knitting itself back together with unnatural speed. His muscles twisted beneath his skin, his bones resetting with sickening cracks. It seemed like the process of healing took more out of him than the battle itself. He stayed kneeling.