Caelric Vaelthorn knelt in the center of the execution plaza, blood pooling beneath him, bound in divine chains that had once sealed demi-gods. The crowd roared from every corner—nobles, soldiers, commoners—faces twisted in hatred and fear.
"Kill him!"
"Burn the traitor!"
"End the Devil of Maz'kaleth!"
Thousands screamed. But Caelric… only laughed.
He lifted his head, crimson eyes locking onto a distant balcony—where cloaked figures sat in stillness, faces hidden, watching the slaughter unfold like a performance. Their silence was the loudest thing in the square.
'You're still watching from above', he thought. Even now.
He smiled—bloodied, beaten, but unbroken.
"Next time," he whispered, eyes never leaving the figures.
"I'll break you all… before you rise."
The executioner raised his axe, etched with holy runes meant to silence even a cursed soul.
Then—
A blinding pulse of magic surged outward as an ancient glyph ignited beneath the city—an enormous circle etched in sacrificial blood. The plaza screamed, but it was too late.
Caelric's necklace flared, its gem pulsing like a second heart.
"Take everything," Caelric whispered—to whatever listened.
"The blood. The souls. The cost. Just give me time. Let me rewrite fate. Let me burn them."
The air screamed.
Light consumed the city—red and blinding, soaked in flame and fury.
The next second he awoke, gasping.
He sat upright in a cold bed—his old room in the ancestral estate. Stone walls. Dusty tomes. A world untouched.
Outside, the sun had yet to bleed.
No dungeons carved the earth.
No monsters roamed the wilds.
No gods wore human faces.
Caelric exhaled. A shaky breath turned into a chuckle.
Then a laugh.
Deep. Bitter. Triumphant.
"It worked."