The fire crackled softly in the hearth as Dorian Kael moved through the tower, gathering what few belongings he deemed necessary. The rest he left behind—scrolls, trinkets, and relics from lives long gone. These possessions, once treasures, now felt like dead weight. They had meant something once, but to him, they were nothing more than reminders of the endless cycle he was cursed to endure.

  A leather satchel lay open on the table, half-filled with a simple change of clothes, a waterskin, and a knife. He paused, holding a battered amulet in his hands. Its surface was worn smooth, its intricate carvings faded with time. He remembered the blacksmith who had forged it—himself.

  The sound of the wind outside grew louder, as if urging him to hurry. But Dorian took his time. This wasn’t just packing. It was leaving behind centuries of solitude, stepping out into a world that might no longer have a place for him.

  ---

  As he folded a cloak and laid it in the satchel, his thoughts drifted to the lives he had lived. Lives that felt as distant as the stars now.

  He had once been a king, his throne a gilded seat atop a crumbling kingdom. He remembered the weight of the crown, the endless parade of sycophants and advisors, and the blood on his hands from the wars he had waged. He had ruled with an iron fist, determined to leave a legacy. But the kingdom had fallen, like all things, and Dorian had walked away from the ashes, unscathed but hollow.

  Before that, he had risen even higher, an emperor commanding legions and territories that stretched beyond the horizon. The world had trembled beneath his rule, yet the loneliness had been unbearable. He remembered the nights spent staring at the stars, wondering if his existence had any meaning beyond conquest.

  And then there were the quieter lives. The ones where he had tried to find peace. He had been a pauper, living in the gutters of a sprawling city, surviving on scraps and the occasional kindness of strangers. In those days, he had seen the best and worst of humanity, often in the same breath.

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  He had been a blacksmith, forging weapons and tools with calloused hands. For decades, he had found solace in the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal, creating things of beauty and purpose. Until someone had recognized him, and the past had come rushing back like a tidal wave.

  He had been a thief, prowling the shadows of bustling markets, stealing to survive—or simply to test his skill. He remembered the thrill of the chase, the danger, and the fleeting satisfaction of outwitting his pursuers.

  As a farmer, he had tilled the earth, planting seeds and harvesting crops with a quiet determination. That life had been simple, almost idyllic. But it hadn’t lasted. The farm had been destroyed in a war he hadn’t seen coming, and he had moved on, as always.

  There was the life of a guard, standing watch over the gates of a city he barely cared about. That had been a punishment, he supposed—choosing to live among people yet keeping himself apart. He had served well, but the anonymity hadn’t dulled the memories of the blood on his hands.

  And so many others. He had been a scholar, a merchant, a mercenary, a priest. He had tried every path, seeking meaning, redemption, or simply distraction. Yet every life ended the same: with him walking away, unchanged, while the world moved on without him.

  ---

  Dorian placed the amulet in the satchel and closed it with a sharp tug of the straps. He picked up a sword next, its hilt wrapped in worn leather. It wasn’t his original weapon—he had lost that centuries ago—but it would suffice. The weight of it in his hand was familiar, almost comforting.

  He glanced around the room one last time. The tower had been his sanctuary for centuries, but it was a prison, too. Every stone seemed to echo with the voices of his past. The ghosts of his victims, the friends he had outlived, the lovers he had lost—they all lingered here.

  Steeling himself, Dorian slung the satchel over his shoulder and walked to the heavy wooden door. He hesitated, his hand resting on the iron handle.

  “What role will I play this time?” he murmured to himself.

  Would he be a protector or a destroyer? A builder or a wanderer? After so many lives, so many masks, the answer seemed impossible to grasp.

  The wind howled outside, carrying the scents of the world beyond—woodsmoke, distant rain, and the faint hint of spring. It was a world on the brink of change, just as Death had said.

  Dorian pushed the door open, stepping into the cold, misty air. The path ahead was uncertain, but he knew one thing: staying here, in this tower, was no longer an option.

  As he began the long descent down the mountain, he felt the weight of countless lives pressing against his back. But for the first time in centuries, he also felt the stirrings of something else: the faintest glimmer of hope.