At dusk, the dying sun painted the ruined city of Verhend in shades of crimson. From atop a towering pile of rubble, Sélion Vernance looked down upon the refugee settlement below. His jet-black hair stirred in the evening breeze. His eyes—a deep amber that held no emotion—observed the world below with cold, clinical precision. His long coat, black and deep navy in tone, bore countless tears and rents; the metal ornaments at collar and cuff had long since rusted to dull brown. His lean, muscular frame spoke of a life of constant motion, yet motion was no longer required of him. Since his defeat twelve years ago, he had dwelt in this ruin, maintaining an absolute, unbroken silence. Between the collapsed stone buildings, roughly seventy crude temporary shelters stood in rows. From homes constructed of rubble and cloth came thin, fragile voices. The crying of children. "Mama, I'm hungry..." "Just a little longer, sweetheart. Be patient." The mother's voice was gentle, yet saturated with despair. Sélion's eyes did not waver, though their color deepened imperceptibly. In the settlement's central square, Mizel—the settlement's caretaker—distributed the day's rations. A woman in her late thirties, her cheeks were hollow and sunken, her eyes slightly recessed. Once a farmer in the kingdom's territories, she had fled to this ruin with her children, unable to bear the sixty-percent levy. Today's distribution consisted only of a small portion of black bread and the remnants of salted vegetables. For a population of three hundred, the quantity was woefully insufficient. Sélion descended from the rubble and joined the ration line in silence. The other refugees recognized him, but none spoke to him. The stillness he emanated forbade it. An old scar marked his right cheek, and across his left shoulder and back, complex black patterns were etched—visible through the tears in his clothing. Curse marks. Remnants of battles long past. "Here you are," Mizel said, extending half her portion of black bread to Sélion. He accepted it without a word, then placed it directly into the hands of a small brother and sister standing before him in line. The boy was perhaps five; the girl, three. Both looked up in surprise, their small fingers closing around the bread. Sélion's action was not mercy. Quite the opposite. It was born of cold calculation alone—an understanding that the despair, anger, and hunger of the masses would inevitably explode somewhere, somehow. Eventually, the people, unable to endure the kingdom's tyranny any longer, would naturally rise in rebellion. In that moment, they would become a force capable of shaking the empire from within. For years, Sélion had waited for that time. Having finished distributing rations, Sélion left the settlement. His feet moved of their own accord toward the northwest, toward the collapsed clock tower that leaned at an impossible angle. The rubble surrounding the tower descended into a great chasm—the entrance to a secret passage long forgotten. Descending into the tower's depths, light vanished abruptly. Sélion walked forward into the darkness without hesitation. His footsteps echoed, and soon he reached a vast chamber. The first underground level of the old magical workshop. Complex incantations were carved into the walls, and scattered magical artifacts lay dormant, covered in dust. Sélion paid them no attention and proceeded deeper, toward a hidden chamber at the far end. It was a perfectly sealed stone room. The ceiling rose perhaps three meters; the floor was polished granite. At its center, a single circle had been inscribed—an ancient ley-line formation, one of the old magics that protected the continent. Sélion moved to its center and sat quietly. He entered meditation. Eyes closed. Breath regulated. Deep, deeper still, into that profound darkness. Suddenly, his entire body was pierced by agony. Sélion's frame convulsed. A groan escaped his throat. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Something within him had begun to pulse. His left shoulder. His back. The curse marks there began to glow with sudden intensity. A black light—an unnatural radiance like the flame-test colors of burning metals, racing across his skin. The patterns spread like veins, complex and intricate, extending down his arms, along his legs, across his chest. "Nngh... aaaaaaahhhhhhh..." Sélion clenched his teeth, desperately suppressing the scream that threatened to tear from his throat. For twelve years, a power completely sealed away had begun to awaken—triggered by something, something he could not name. Seven sacred seals carved into his body began to pulse faintly. Each beat to a different rhythm, sometimes in harmony, sometimes in conflict. The strength of the seals was weakening. Through the cracks, Sélion's true power—his original strength—began to leak forth, thread by thread. His fingertips touched the energy that flowed through the earth itself. The sensation of the source of ley-line magic. Contact after twelve years. It was familiar and terrifying in equal measure. Sélion's deep crimson eyes gleamed with an eerie light in the darkness. His lips curved into a cold, twisted smile. What this change meant, Sélion himself did not yet understand. But something was shifting within him. The man who had existed for twelve years like an immobile statue—something was stirring to life within him. The pain gradually receded. At last, Sélion drew a deep breath. The black light faded from every part of his body, and the curse marks slowly lost their luminescence. Yet they did not disappear entirely. A faint pulsing continued deep within his chest. Sélion opened his eyes. In the darkness of the stone chamber, only his pupils glowed with a pale, ethereal light. "...Why?" Even that whisper—he could not be certain it had come from his own lips. The next morning, Sélion stood on a high vantage point overlooking the ruined city. The morning sun illuminated the dead streets with gentle warmth. From between distant piles of rubble came the sounds of refugees beginning their day. On his left arm, faint black patterns were visible. The change from last night had not completely faded. Sélion gazed at his arm, his expression unmoved, and clenched his fist. The seals were weakening. This fact alone existed with crystalline clarity in his consciousness. If they were weakening, recovery was not impossible. With power, he could crumble the corrupt kingdom's regime from within. He could ignite the people's discontent and make it explode. In Sélion's eyes, a quiet resolve took root. Not revenge. The liberation of a people suffering under tyranny. The destruction of the terror-rule built by the hero. That mission alone was the sole reason that moved him. Twelve years of silence were drawing to a close. In the shadows of the ruin, the once-great Demon Lord of Magic was beginning to awaken.