The air inside the cathedral was thick with decay, the once grand pillars now crumbled and covered in an eerie, pulsating mold. The silence that hung in the air felt suffocating, as if the very stones were holding their breath, waiting for something to break the stillness.
The walls, now cracked and weathered by time, seemed to sag under the weight of history, a testament to the fallen kingdom that had once flourished here.
The stained glass windows, though shattered and overgrown with vines, still caught the light of the setting sun. The warm glow filtered through the cracks in the glass, casting twisted, distorted patterns on the stone floor below.
The colors, once vibrant and full of life, now bled together into sickly hues of crimson, amber, and mossy green, each shard of glass a fragment of the past, a broken memory of a time long gone.
Darron Vornar stepped cautiously through the cathedral's shadowed halls, his heavy armor creaking with each step.
The sound echoed through the empty space, a reminder of how far the kingdom had fallen, how much had been lost. His every movement seemed out of place in this decaying sanctum, as though his presence was an intrusion on the ghostly silence that clung to the air.
He could feel the weight of the Voresteel blade at his side, its dark steel blackened as though stained with ancient blood. The sword had always been a part of him, ever since that fateful day when he had first crossed paths with it.
It had been a curse and a blessing, a weapon forged in shadow and forged for vengeance. The whispers of the blade had guided him through the darkest parts of his journey, its voice never quite clear, never quite comprehensible.
It was as though the blade itself carried the weight of forgotten sins, of blood spilled long before his time.
Darron had never been certain whether those whispers were the voice of the blade itself or something far older, something hungrier, lurking in the shadows. He had learned to listen, to heed its call, but even now, in the heart of the cathedral, he was unsure if the whispers were guiding him toward salvation—or toward destruction.
There was a hunger in the air, a palpable sense of something ancient and restless, as if the cathedral itself was waiting, watching, biding its time.
His breath quickened as he approached the altar, the site of the monarch's beheading. It was a place steeped in blood and betrayal, where the line between justice and vengeance had blurred beyond recognition. A great pool of dried blood stained the stone, now hardened and darkened with age, but the memory of it lingered, thick and heavy in the air. The echoes of forgotten cries seemed to hum from the very walls, a silent chorus of suffering and regret.
Darron clenched the hilt of Voresteel tighter, as though the blade could offer him some semblance of control in this place of madness.
He could feel it stir in his grip, a pulse of power coursing through it, as though it was awakening to the dark resonance of the place. The blade seemed to hum with anticipation, its blackened edge glinting faintly in the dim light.
Darron's pulse quickened, a sense of dread creeping up his spine. He knew that this was a place of destiny, that whatever happened here would shape the course of his fate.
"Your destiny is not salvation," a voice echoed in his mind, chilling and hollow, like the voice of the dead. It was a whisper, but it was a whisper that carried with it the weight of ages, a voice that seemed to seep into the very marrow of his bones. "Judgment is your path."
The words struck him like a blow, and for a moment, he stood frozen, the weight of the prophecy pressing down on him.
The sword in his grip seemed to pulse, as though it shook in response to the words, urging him to follow its dark calling.
Darron's knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip, the hum of the blade filling his ears, drowning out all other sounds.
He knelt beside the bloodstained stone, his hand trembling as he laid the blade against the cold, hard floor. The surface was smooth and unforgiving beneath his touch, but there was a strange comfort in it, as if the stone had become part of him, part of the prophecy that had brought him here.
His heart beat loudly in his chest, the sound thundering in his ears as he whispered to himself, "Judgment." His voice was rough from years of isolation, from the weight of the burdens he had carried with him since leaving the life he had once known.
"What am I to judge?" he muttered, the question hanging in the air like a prayer unanswered. There was a sense of finality in the words, as though his fate had already been sealed long before his arrival at this forsaken place.
The whisper returned, colder this time, slithering through his thoughts like a serpent. "Heads will roll." The voice was darker now, more insistent, and Darron could feel the blade shudder in his grip as if it was alive, urging him toward some unseen end. The words were simple, but their meaning was clear.