Archive of Our Own ^beta

Darkness.

Then—firelight. A bell tolls somewhere far off, its echo rolling through smoke, vibrating through Anders’ chest.

He dreams of green fire, spreading like veins across sky and earth. Every sound, every flicker, fractures him. When the roar hits, he feels himself shatter.

He wakes gasping.

Stone walls rise around him, pale and slick with moisture. No windows. No sound but his own breath, loud and ragged. A single torch flickers above, its yellow light trembling over the curling fog on the floor.

He lies on a narrow cot. His body aches as if recalling wounds he cannot see. Naked. Cold. Vulnerable. Familiar, though he cannot remember why.

At the foot of the bed waits a wooden chest. Inside: rough tunic, pants, boots, a cloak—simple, unassuming. His hands move with practiced precision, dressing him as if they remember someone he cannot. His mind is fog. Thick, shifting. Impossible to grasp. Only one thing feels real:

Anders.

And the ghost of weight in his right hand. Something once there. Gone now. He flexes his fingers. Nothing.

Across the room stands a door. No handle, only wood. He presses his palm against it. Nothing.

He waits. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time bends. The torch above the door flickers. Yellow then white.

A handle appears. Warm. Almost pulsing.

He hesitates. Then grips it, steps through.

The door vanishes. Behind him, only emptiness—flat stone stretching beneath a sea of fog. Shapes drift ahead: people—or what used to be people—pawns. Warriors in mismatched armor, mages cloaked in rags, archers with ghostly bows. Their skin faintly bluish-gray, faces distant, hollow.

He looks down. His hands glow the same.

“Well,” he mutters under his breath, “at least they’re polite.”

They ignore him. He wanders. Until one stands out—not brighter, exactly, but alive. Brown hair in a simple braid. A bow across her back. Eyes steady, searching. Human.

She sees him. Relief flickers. She walks straight toward him.

“Will you help me?” Her voice trembles, rounded by a soft, lilting accent—coastal, maybe, something warm and alive.

It steadies him. He doesn’t know why.

“Yes, Arisen,” he says before thinking. The word tastes strange, but right.

Through light, together, they step into a wooden encampment—half-built walls, soldiers shouting orders, pawns wandering like sleepwalkers. Smoke and salt stings his nose. Too vivid to be dream.

“You look like you could be a fighter.” She rummages through a chest, tossing him leather armor, a sword, a shield. “What’s your name?”

He stammers. “A… I am Annnnnd… deeers.”

She smiles, accent softening the syllables. “Very well, Annndersss. I’m Risa. You already know I’m the Arisen.”

He likes the way she says it. His name belongs somewhere again. Something flickers in his chest. Brief calm. And yet: not like I have a choice anyway.

A horn blares. Soldiers run.

Beyond the palisade, an ogre roars. Pale, towering, chaos incarnate. Soldiers scatter. Risa freezes. Her bow clatters.

“Anders—help me!”

Instinct stirs. Sword in hand, he charges, shouting a wordless battle cry. “Waaaargh!”

The ogre swats him aside. Air, sea, cliffs vanish. Ocean yawns. He hits hard, breath stolen. Cold. Silence. Light fades to green.

Dying feels strangely familiar.

Darkness again.

The bell tolls.

He dreams of a library. Dust motes drift in slanted light. His own hand traces spines until it stops on a book with a dog embossed in gold. Letters swim. Whispers: a man and woman, too close. “Leave, child.” He turns. Only the man remains.

He wakes on the cot. Naked. Chest holds tunic, boots, cloak—and Risa’s leathers. He dresses, slower now, lingering on the weight of the metal. The dream lingers, smoke in his lungs. Anger he cannot name rises.

He waits. Torch flickers white. Step into fog.

“You will do,” a voice rumbles.

A woman built like a siege tower beckons, tossing a massive axe. “You. You’ll serve me now.”

Of course he will, he thinks. Though he doesn’t know how to stop thinking, stop obeying, or stop saying the wrong words.

Through the riftstone, he glances at the jagged cliffs, dark waves below. Something inside whispers: I won’t last long. Ripped apart, shredded, drowned. But he shrugs. A twitch at the corner of his mouth.

At least I’ll see the ocean again.

When Anders wakes again, cot creaks. Torch burns yellow. Naked, cold, vaguely annoyed.

Nothing new in the chest. Sword and shield, familiar and wrong. Light flickers white.

“Well, here we go again,” he mutters.

Outside, a new Arisen waits. Not timid. Confident in a blunt, sea-weathered way. “Bring them here, pawn.”

“Bring who?” Anders asks.

“The goblins, obviously.”

Obviously.

He mutters under his breath. Survival so far has been luck more than skill. He dodges, parries, curses, barely clinging to life. Somehow he survives the path outside the village of Cassardis. Somehow.

The Arisen flirts with a girl, Quina, oblivious to her discomfort. Anders rolls his eyes. At least someone’s sane here.

But survival matters. Pawns get noticed. Better armor, better moves. The better he looks, the more likely someone competent will pick him. And if he dies? Fine. At least he’ll be noticed.

Moonlight glimmers on waves. Goblins rush. Anders scratches, parries, curses, blood mixing with sand. Until they don’t.

Cold. Stars above. Precise, strange, familiar.

The bell tolls.

Dreams of running. Circular hall, older boy calling his name, laughter. A templar, hunger. Karl. Ache he cannot place.

He wakes on the cot. Sword, shield, leathers. Torch flickers white. “Next one will at least give me something decent. Maybe.”

Better gear. Better moves. Survival matters. Dying might as well mean something.

He waits. Torch flickers white again. “All right,” he mutters. “Let’s see who’s stupid enough to pick me next.”