The ascent through the tomb was slow and deliberate. The spiral staircase stretched endlessly above, its stones worn smooth by time yet sturdy enough to bear their march. The air remained thick with dust, carrying the scent of damp stone and something far older lingering from the past, refusing to be forgotten.

  Torches mounted along the walls flickered with faint light, their glow becoming more frequent as they climbed higher. The darkness of the depths gave way, bit by bit, to the dim illumination of the upper levels.

  The prisoner’s gaze swept over the passage, noting the remnants of what this place had once been. Heavy iron doors lined the walls at intervals. Some rusted shut, others left ajar—empty cells long abandoned, their former occupants nothing more than ghosts in history. Some chambers had collapsed entirely, sealed away by time and neglect.

  As they moved, more knights appeared—additional guards stationed at higher levels, watching warily as the procession emerged from the abyss. Their eyes flickered between the prisoner and the captain, their stances tense, yet none dared to question the decision aloud.

  It was clear this place did not have visitors in a long time.

  The prisoner remained silent, but his mind was far from still. He has been locked away, down this abyss-like tomb, a place meant to be forgotten. But he was not the only one who had been freed.

  Faint echoes of movement came from above—other prisoners were also being led to the surface.

  Some walked in chains, their bodies ragged and thin. Others moved with wary curiosity, blinking against the torchlight as if they, too, had not seen it in centuries.

  The prisoner took it all in with quiet calculation.

  This world he was stepping into…

  It was not the same as the one he had left behind.

  As they neared the upper levels, the weight of the abyss began to lift. The air felt less suffocating, no longer thick with the cold stillness of the depths. Here, the stone walls bore the marks of time not just decay but through use—dust had been disturbed, and the signs of recent passage were evident.

  More guards stood waiting at the final stretch of the stairway, their expressions shifting between scepticism and unease. Unlike those who had ventured into the deep, these knights were more accustomed to the surface; their armour was kept in better condition, and their stances were more disciplined.

  The captain barely acknowledged their wary glances. He motioned for them to stand aside, leading the prisoner toward the last threshold before true freedom.

  And then—

  The final gate loomed before them, its towering doors reinforced with thick iron. Unlike the rusted cells below, these doors were well maintained. A testament that, no matter how forgotten the tomb had become, this final barrier had always remained intact, always watched.

  A knight stepped forward, clad in light armour, bearing the insignia of the imperial guard. He carried himself with the confidence of one who had long served a structured world, yet his eyes betrayed his discomfort.

  He studied the prisoner, brow furrowing before he finally spoke.

  “…The Forgotten One?”

  His voice lacked certainty as if he did not fully believe in the words he just uttered.

  A brief silence followed. The assembled guards exchanged glances, some with faint curiosity, others with unease. The title seemed unfamiliar to most, a relic of an age long past. A few furrowed their brows as if trying to recall half-remembered tales, but no one voiced recognition outright. Whatever meaning the name once held had faded into obscurity.

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  The captain’s expression remained unreadable. “Open the gate.”

  The knight hesitated, his gaze flickering between the captain and the prisoner before finally nodding. With a signal to the men stationed at either side of the massive doors. A mechanism was set into motion,

  and a deep, resonant groan filled the chamber as an iron ground against stone. The great doors shuddered before slowly parting, their ancient hinges straining against years of disuse. A breath of cool air slipped through the widening gap, carrying with it a scent untouched by the depths—fresh, open, and edged with the crispness of twilight.

  Beyond the threshold lay a massive chamber unlike the oppressive tunnels below. Wide and domed, it stretched high above them, the ceiling lost to shadow where great chains hung in suspension, remnants of mechanisms long fallen into decay.

  But it was not the architecture that drew the eye.

  It was the crowd.

  The hall was filled with prisoners. Some stood bound, their wrists shackled together with heavy iron, while others were simply watched over, their fates tethered to unseen decisions yet to be made. Their faces varied—some gaunt and hollow-eyed, others hardened by time and bitterness. Their whispers mingled, restless and low, a constant undercurrent to the torchlight flickering against the stone.

  Not all among them were human.

  A small group of elves stood together near the far wall, their sharp features unreadable, their expressions carefully guarded. Even in tattered remnants of clothing, they held a quiet dignity, their presence distinct from the rest. Amidst the sea of prisoners, a lone orc loomed over the others, his broad-shouldered frame unmistakable. His red-hued skin was marked with faded scars, and though he was unchained, the wary distance others kept from him spoke volumes.

  Knights stood in disciplined ranks along the perimeter, their presence a silent warning. Some looked as though they would rather be anywhere else, their hands resting uneasily on their weapons, while others watched with dispassionate duty.

  At the front of the hall, just before another towering set of double doors, a man stood apart from the soldiers. Clad in fine, formal robes embroidered with imperial insignia, he held himself with the practised poise of one accustomed to addressing an audience. A sealed scroll rested in his gloved hands.

  The murmurs among the prisoners faded as his voice rang out, steady and firm.

  “By decree of His Imperial Majesty, let it be known—on this day, the gates of the tomb will be left unsealed.”

  A ripple of reaction swept through the gathered masses. Some with hope. Some with suspicion.

  The man continued, undeterred.

  “The past is the past. Those who have endured this sentence, deserved or not, shall now be given a choice. Each of you will receive a letter. Within it, an offer one that will determine the path ahead.”

  He lifted the scroll. The imperial seal caught the light.

  “Freedom in exchange for servitude.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  The weight of the words settled over them all. Some straightened, considering the implications. Others scoffed under their breath.

  Nox remained still.

  This was not the world he remembered.

  But it was the one he had returned to.

  And the choice, it seemed, had already been made for them.