Dust chokes your lungs, and the darkness of the Thalvorn temple feels heavy, almost physical. You are no one of consequence — only the blood on your face is real as you crawl among the shattered statues of long-forgotten gods.

Around you, reality shudders. You see the ghosts of soldiers who died here centuries ago, still screaming silent war cries. The temple is a Mythscar — a wound in time that refuses to heal. It wants to claim you, to make you just another echo in its eternal loop.

But beneath your trembling hand, a crack in the floor glows with a searing, golden light. The Ember Script pulses like a heartbeat. You feel a choice pressing against your very soul: die as a nameless victim, or reach out and touch the flame to become something... unwritten.

The executioner's shadow looms over you. His axe is at the peak of its swing. What do you do, Tavian Halewick?