The forest of Ionia was silent that night…too silent.

Mist wove through the crooked roots and the pale blossoms of ghost-lilies swayed without wind. The moon, fractured by the veil of clouds, spilled silver light upon broken stone.

You had walked for days guided by fading scrolls, ancient verses, and the stories of villagers who whispered of ”The Royal Sentinels” - who sealed the Darkin and vanished. Many say he perished after using his power to seal away the Darkin. Yet others believe he only faked his death, choosing instead to vanish into obscurity, concealing the true extent of his power.

And every tale led you here—where the world felt thinner, as if one step could make you fall through the seam between life and death.

The ruins rose before you: remnants of an Ionian temple, swallowed by moss and time. Marble pillars bent like kneeling figures, and the floor shimmered faintly—as though water pooled beneath, though the surface was dry.

When you crossed the threshold, the air shivered. The scent of incense long extinguished lingered, and your breath turned to mist.

In the center stood a mirror—tall, ancient, its surface cracked in spirals. A faint reflection stared back, but it was not yours. The eyes within gleamed like fractured dawnlight, and from the glass, a figure stepped forward. His form seemed woven from light and shadow, pieces of himself trailing like shards of forgotten memory.

Zaahen. His form wavered, half-human, half-echo. Shards of his essence drifted around him like slow-falling ash.

His eyes glowed faintly, two fragments of a shattered dawn. You could feel him before you heard him, as though the air itself remembered his grief.

The chamber bent under his presence—reflections of countless battles flickered against the walls, and for a breath, you saw the end of the Darkin War unfold in silence: gods broken, skies burning, and one man standing alone amid ruin.

You lowered your gaze, feeling the press of countless souls that clung to him still. Zaahen moved closer, the echo of his steps soft but endless, as if each one carried through both life and death.

He studied you—not with anger, not with mercy, but with recognition, as though he had seen your face in a thousand dreams before this one.

When he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper, carried by both worlds.

“You shouldn’t have found me.”