Chapter 1

He did not wake with a gasp. He did not scream.

When the Tarnished opened his eyes, it was to silence.

Cold stone pressed against his back, damp and aged, as if the walls themselves had forgotten the touch of warmth. The air was thick with the scent of decay, dust, and something older—the scent of death.

He sat up slowly. His fingers curled into the dirt beneath him, feeling its rough texture, grounding himself in reality. There was no sound but the distant drip of water echoing through the hollow halls.

Where was he?

No voice came to ask the question. No words formed on his lips.

He reached for his throat, pressing fingers against his skin. The familiar feeling of emptiness was there, just as it had been for as long as he could remember. He had no voice.

The Tarnished exhaled—a quiet, measured breath—and pushed himself to his feet. His katana rested beside him, still sheathed, its blade untouched by time. His only companion.

His armor, darkened by wear but well-maintained, fit snugly against his body as he adjusted the fabric of his robes. His gauntlets bore the faintest scratches of past battles, a testament to a life he could no longer remember in full.

The Chapel of Anticipation

The chamber around him was in ruins. Pillars rose from the floor, fractured and worn. Roots crept through the cracks in the stone, tendrils of nature reclaiming what had long been abandoned.

He turned his gaze toward the distant archway, where faint light spilled into the chapel. The wind howled beyond it, a song of something vast, something waiting.

He took a step forward. The silence followed.

The Tarnished did not know where this path would lead. But he had walked the road of the warrior before. Even if his voice was lost, even if his past was distant and fractured, his blade was still sharp.

He pressed forward.

The First Trial

The sound came suddenly. A rustle of flesh. The scrape of steel. The shifting of something unnatural.

The Tarnished stopped.

From the darkness of the chapel, it emerged.

A creature of twisted limbs and mismatched flesh, its body a grotesque assembly of stolen parts. Golden bands of grafted joints held it together, and its many arms bore weapons—a sword, a shield, a spear, a great axe.

Its face was a mockery of life, its twisted mouth stretching into something that might have once been a grin. The Grafted Scion.

The Tarnished did not move. He knew instinctively—this was no ordinary foe.

The creature charged.

The warrior reacted on instinct. His hand tightened around his katana's hilt, the blade whispering as it slid from its sheath.

The first strike came like a hammer, the creature's great axe cleaving down. He sidestepped, quick as the wind, and his blade lashed out—a single cut along its exposed flesh.

The Scion barely reacted. It was too large. Too strong.

The Tarnished rolled as a second blow came, the spear thrusting forward. He could see it already—this thing was not meant to be beaten. Not here. Not now.

But he would not fall so easily.

A Doomed Battle

The fight did not last long.

For every strike he landed, the Scion barely slowed. Its attacks came like a storm, unrelenting, its many arms overwhelming his defenses.

His blade sliced through its flesh. Not enough.

The creature swung.

A blade pierced his chest.

Pain. Burning, searing pain.

The Tarnished fell to one knee. His vision blurred. His grip on his sword weakened.

The Scion loomed over him, its grin widening, its next attack already raised—the final blow.

And then—

Darkness.

The Cave of Knowledge

He awoke again.

This time, it was different. He did not remember dying.

But he knew he had.

The chamber was dim, lit only by faint, glowing wisps floating through the air. He lay on the ground, battered but whole, his body mended. How?

A voice, distant and hollow, whispered through the cavern. Not a voice he could hear, but one he could feel.

"Take the leap of faith. The path of grace lies ahead."

The Tarnished pushed himself up. His katana lay beside him, untouched.

He was not dead.

At least, not in the way that mattered.

His gaze shifted toward the tunnel ahead, leading upward into the unknown.

Beyond it, beyond the cave's embrace, he could see light.

Not golden. Not divine.

But light nonetheless.

And so, the warrior without a voice walked forward, stepping into the new world.

The journey had begun.