"We do not begin at birth, but in forgetting." — Hollow Archive Fragment
Ash woke up in a graveyard of the living.
Not the kind with tombstones and prayers, but a valley of broken men — their blood soaking the blackened snow, their final breaths frozen on twisted lips. Silence hung like fog, thick and unmoving. The scent of iron, soot, and something older — something forgotten — choked the air.
He lay half-buried beneath a corpse missing most of its face. Its vacant eye stared into his. A raven picked at its shoulder. When Ash shifted, it croaked and flapped upward, casting a brief shadow against the pale sky.
Pain arrived second.
It bloomed in his ribs, sharp and rhythmic like a war drum echoing in his bones. He coughed, and blood spilled over his bottom lip. His fingers twitched — pale, frostbitten, clawed in the dirt. Slowly, he turned them over. There were marks on his skin. Not wounds. Symbols.
Black, branded into the flesh of his palms.
His throat constricted. He looked again.
Yes — they were moving.
The marks pulsed like breathing wounds, twisting and reshaping themselves as if reacting to his thoughts.
Or anticipating them.
Then, a voice. Not from the valley.
"You've returned. Again."
The words came from inside. Not like a memory — more like a presence, ancient and buried, stirring at the edge of thought.
Ash bolted upright. The world tilted. He steadied himself with one hand and saw, really saw, the valley for the first time.
Hundreds of bodies. Soldiers, mages, beastfolk. Not just human — not just one army. It had been a massacre on both sides. Banners lay shredded in the snow. One bore the flaming triskelion of the Empire. Another, a spiral of black thorns — a sigil he didn't recognize.
And there, near the valley's center, stood a lone figure.
A man in a high-collared coat and polished steel armor, unmoving. His face was angular and cold, framed by silver hair tied into braids. In one gloved hand, he held a sword with an obsidian blade that shimmered like oil.
The man spoke without turning.
"He lives."
Another shape emerged from the fog behind him — younger, shorter, feminine. A cloak masked her body, but her fingers crackled faintly with blue sigils. A mage.
"Shouldn't be possible," she muttered. "He was in the blast zone."
Ash blinked. He couldn't hear them. Not by sound. But the words reached him all the same — slipping through thought like spilled ink. He tried to stand. His knees buckled. His hand caught on something cold and solid beneath him.
A sword.
It wasn't his. He knew that instinctively. Its hilt was wrong — too wide, too heavy. But his hand closed around it anyway. His fingers knew its weight even if his mind didn't.
The silver-haired man turned now.
And paused.
Their eyes met.
The world held its breath.
Then the stranger's lips moved:
"Ashborn."
They struck without warning.
Five soldiers surged from the ridge — silent, trained, not to capture but to kill. One held a spear crackling with blue light. Another's face bore the faded seal of a Soul Brand.
Ash couldn't think. Instinct exploded in his limbs. He raised the stolen sword — awkwardly — parried the first strike, ducked under the second.
The third man drove a short dagger into Ash's shoulder.
He screamed. But something else screamed louder — the mark on his skin flared black, devouring the blade's energy like fire eats oil.
The soldier gasped. His dagger melted.
Ash moved.
He didn't plan it. Didn't choose. His body acted.
The sword spun once, twice, then drove through the soldier's chest with terrible precision.
Time slowed.
Blood sprayed across his cheek.
The body crumpled.
The others hesitated. Just a moment.
That was enough.
Ash turned the sword backward, struck the second attacker across the knee, then buried the hilt into his throat.
Two dead. Three still moving.
And then — his vision fractured.
For a split second, the world changed.
Not literally — but in his mind's eye, he saw outlines. Echoes. The third soldier stepping left before it happened. The fourth hesitating. The fifth drawing a sigil.
He moved through them like a ghost.
When it ended, he stood panting amidst five dead men.
The sword in his hand hissed. Steam rose from its edge.
And the silver-haired man was watching. Not with anger. Not with fear.
With recognition.
Ash dropped the sword.
"Who are you?" he rasped. His voice was raw.
The stranger approached slowly.
"You don't remember."
Not a question.
Ash stepped back. The mark on his palm pulsed again, black and furious.
"What is this? What did you do to me?"
The man stopped a few feet away. The mage behind him had lowered her hood. She was young — maybe twenty — with scars running across her left cheek like lightning.
"We didn't do anything," she said. "You did. Years ago."
Ash's breath came faster.
"I don't even know my name."
The man nodded.
"You gave it up."
The girl added, softly: "To kill a god."
They took him from the valley that night.
Not by force — he had no strength left to fight. His body screamed with every step. His vision blurred, and shadows danced in the edges of his thoughts. The mark on his skin stayed dormant — for now.
They reached a forest path, where a carriage waited, shaped like an iron coffin on wheels. Two horses, black-eyed and silent, stamped the snow with impatient hooves.
Before entering, Ash looked back.
The valley was gone.
Or rather — it never was.
Only snow now. Unbroken. No bodies. No blood. No sword.
He stared.
"Was it… an illusion?"
The man — who had yet to give his name — looked down at the sigil on Ash's hand.
"No."
"Just forgotten."
✴︎
Ash awoke hours later in a stone chamber, lit by magefire sconces and humming walls. His shirt had been removed. His wounds bound.
A woman in healer's robes sat nearby, reading a tome titled The Anatomy of Soul Seals.
She looked up. Her eyes were glowing white.
"You're awake."
He sat up too fast and winced. His shoulder burned.
She didn't flinch. Only turned a page.
"Your name is Ash. You're marked by the Seal of Oblivion. Your mind is fractured, your body's reweaving itself unnaturally, and half of us think you're a danger to the continent."
Ash blinked.
"And the other half?"
She closed the book.
"They know you are."
Absolutely. Here's the continuation and full completion of Chapter 1 of Ashes of the Eidolon. We left off with Ash waking in a strange chamber — wounded, uncertain, and surrounded by people who both fear and need him.
The healer's eyes dimmed as she stood and crossed the room. Her footsteps made no sound, as though the stones obeyed her more than gravity. She dipped a cloth into an herbal solution and began wiping dried blood from Ash's arms, inspecting his skin carefully.
"No fever. Pulse steady. But the seal still breathes..." she muttered.
Ash gritted his teeth. "What do you mean, it breathes?"
Instead of answering, she gently turned his hand upward.
The mark was darker now, more complex — not a single sigil, but a lattice of coiling script, woven like a knot. It shifted subtly when he moved, like ink suspended in living water.
"The Seal of Oblivion reacts to cognition. The more you try to remember..."
She glanced at his face.
"...the deeper it pulls you in."
Ash tried to pull away. She didn't stop him.
"This seal — you think I put it on myself?"
She hesitated.
"No. You forged it, yes. But you weren't alone."
A shadow fell over the doorway.
The silver-haired man stepped inside.
"Leave us, Healer Avarin."
She gave a slight bow and exited, robes trailing behind like mist.
The room grew still.
Ash turned to him. "So? What now? You going to explain what I am, or throw me into a cell?"
The man remained silent for a time.
Then, he sat across from Ash, folding his hands over his knees.
"I'm Captain Varos of the Sanctum Vanguard. And you… are not a prisoner. Not yet."
"Could've fooled me."
Varos gestured toward the wall. It shimmered. Not solid stone — but a memory-weave barrier. One touch from a sanctum mage, and it would become impenetrable.
"You're dangerous. Not because you want to be. But because you've already ended one age. And you're on track to end another."
Ash stared at him. "I don't remember any of that."
"We know." Varos leaned forward. "That's why we're not killing you."
He stood again, walked to the wall, and tapped twice. A slot opened. He retrieved a long obsidian case and brought it over.
When opened, it revealed a series of ancient glyph-stones arranged in a spiral.
"This is a fragment of the Hollow Codex. Memory imprints pulled from your last appearance, twelve years ago."
Ash stiffened.
"You're saying… I've died before."
Varos: "No. You vanished. When the Seal activated, you... reset."
Ash's mouth went dry. "Reset?"
Varos nodded.
"Your body reconstituted. Your soul didn't."
Ash stared at the glyphs. One of them pulsed faintly — and for a moment, he heard screaming. Not in the room. Inside his skull.
Dozens of voices. Begging. Burning. Breaking.
He shoved the case closed and staggered back.
"Get that thing away from me."
Varos didn't argue.
He sealed the case and returned it to the wall slot.
"Your memories are not lost. They're locked. Because whatever you were trying to stop back then…"
His gaze turned hard.
"It's coming back. And we don't know if you're the only one who can stop it."
Ash sank back onto the cot, clutching his head.
"What do you want from me?"
Varos turned to leave.
"Rest. Eat. When you're ready… you'll begin the Trials again."
Ash's eyes narrowed.
"Trials?"
Varos paused.
"You passed them once. Long ago. But the Sanctum can't trust old victories."
He glanced at the seal pulsing on Ash's hand.
"And we need to know if the Ashborn is still in there… or if something else came back in his place."
✴︎
That night, Ash didn't sleep.
Not because of pain. Not even fear.
Because he dreamed while awake.
He stood on a shore of broken glass, the sky crimson and swirling. Fire bloomed in the shape of wings overhead — wings made of memory and dust.
He looked down and saw a boy.
Small. Pale. Crying.
Ash stepped closer — and the boy looked up.
He had Ash's face.
But his eyes were black and bleeding shadow.
"You left us here." the boy said.
Ash took another step.
"Where is this?"
The boy smiled.
"Inside you. Buried. And one day… you'll dig too deep."
He woke gasping, drenched in sweat, the mark on his hand burning. He tore the sheets away and stumbled toward the basin. Cold water. Splash. Gasp.
He stared into the metal mirror.
For a split second, he wasn't alone.
Another face stared back. Same jawline. Same eyes.
But crueler.
Smiling.
Gone.
✴︎
The next morning, he met Ira.
She stood in the inner courtyard — stone floor, ritual lines etched in concentric circles around her. She wore sleeveless armor etched with white runes. Her eyes were fierce. Her hair braided into cords like coiled fire.
"You're late."
Ash raised a brow. "I didn't know I was invited."
She threw a dagger at his head.
He barely ducked.
"Lesson one," she said. "The Trials don't wait."
She tossed a second dagger — this time at his feet.
"Pick it up. Or die."
Ash glared at her.
"You Sanctum types don't believe in hello, do you?"
"You've forgotten more hellos than the rest of us will ever learn." she said.
"Now fight."
They circled for what felt like hours.
Ash fought sloppily at first — reactive, uncertain. But something old woke inside him. Not memories — reflexes. Muscle memory from another life. He blocked a strike. Pivoted. Landed a blow.
Ira grinned through bruised lips.
"There he is."
By the end, both were bleeding.
Ash lay on his back in the circle.
Ira stood over him, panting, amused.
"You're rusty. But you're still the Ashborn. I'd bet my name on it."
"And what name is that?"
She smiled.
"One you used to curse, once. When we were allies."
Ash looked at the sky.
"I hope I was kinder than I feel now."
"You weren't."
That night, Varos called a council.
Five Sanctum officers.
Two rebels.
One masked shade — clearly not human.
And Ash.
They sat in a chamber of hovering stone runes and flickering torches. Ash stood on a dais marked with a spiral.
Varos spoke first.
"His powers are returning. He fought a half-blood knight blind, passed the mirror trial, and has begun to tap the seal's edge."
One officer: "And the risk? If he loses control again?"
Varos: "Then we all die."
Another voice — soft, feminine, familiar:
"Let him choose."
Ira stepped into the circle beside Ash.
"He's earned that right. Again."
Silence.
The masked shade finally spoke, voice like shattered glass:
"The Obsidian One moves beneath the Cradle. The Third Eclipse is in fourteen days."
Its hand raised.
"If he is not ready by then, prophecy collapses. And the Eidolons burn with him."
Ash looked to each of them.
And for the first time, he didn't feel entirely hollow.
"Then tell me where to start."
Varos looked into his eyes.
"Cendralis is vast. But the shadows are always one step ahead."
He opened a map.
And pointed to a single, unmarked mountain.
"You start in the place you sealed your first memory."
Ash's breath caught.
"I did what?"
Ira whispered:
"You locked part of yourself away… so the world wouldn't burn."
🜃 End of Chapter 1 — "Ashes and Silence"