The ruins of Godgrave Shard stretched endlessly beneath the night sky, cracked stone towers leaning precariously, silhouetted against the pale moonlight. Faint embers drifted through the air, weightless, hovering like sparks in a timeless void. The shattered remains of a civilization long dead littered the ground—twisted metal beams, crumbled walls etched with faded sigils, and scattered shards of crystalline glass that caught the moonlight in brief, sharp flashes.

  Binyamin knelt before a jagged altar of white bone, breathing hard. Sweat and dust streaked his face, catching in the grooves of his angular features. His scavenger gear was tattered but functional: a patched cloak clung to his shoulders, goggles perched atop his head, and a satchel of scavenged parts swung against his side. Yet even with all this, he felt insignificant before the half-buried skeleton dominating the altar. The ribs of the being arched skyward like cathedral pillars, colossal and alien.

  “…They said the Sigil was a myth,” he whispered, barely moving his lips. The words felt heavy in the unnaturally still air.

  A whisper answered, ancient and brittle as bone:

  "Break the veil… awaken the flame."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Binyamin jerked his head up. Shadows shifted across the ruins, but nothing moved. “…Hello?” he asked, voice uncertain. Silence stretched, broken only by the soft crackle of his torch.

  He turned back to the altar, wiping layers of dust from the pale bone. Beneath it pulsed a red sigil, throbbing slowly like a heartbeat. His hand hovered over it, trembling.

  Then, a sharp crack echoed from the altar. A piece of bone splintered under his touch. The sigil flared violently, stretching outward in the air, etching fiery lines across the space between him and the altar.

  In that instant, a flash of memory struck him: a woman’s gentle hand pressed over a child’s chest. Her voice, distant and ethereal:

  "You have something dangerous in you, Yamin. Promise me you'll never go looking for it."

  The sigil shot into his chest. Light exploded behind his eyelids. Screaming voices, reversed roars, and an unnatural crackling of the air assaulted his senses. The ground seemed to tilt beneath him. He collapsed, gasping, crimson fire flaring in his eyes before fading into darkness.

  Above him, a figure descended from the sky. Floating, defying gravity entirely, cloaked in shadows. A smooth porcelain mask obscured the face, its surface impossibly still, eyeless. The Inquisitor moved with calm precision, each step silent, deliberate.

  “You shouldn’t have touched that, boy,” the voice said, low and cold.

  Binyamin froze. Panic clawed at his chest, but before he could respond, the darkness swallowed everything