Chapter 4;- The Forsaken Lands

The winds howled through the desolate wasteland, carrying whispers of the damned. The sky above was a dull, lifeless gray, casting long shadows over the jagged terrain. Rhaegar Crowne pulled his cloak tighter around his body, stepping carefully over the cracked earth. These lands had long been abandoned, cursed by those who dared to wield forbidden power.

And now, they would serve as the foundation of his rebirth.

The last time he stood beneath open skies, he had been bound in chains, his crown stolen, his name spat upon. But now, the abyss itself had carved him into something more—a force that would tear apart the world that betrayed him.

The Forsaken Lands were a place of myth and horror, where men ventured only to be forgotten. The spirits of the damned wandered restlessly, whispering secrets to those willing to listen. And Rhaegar… he was listening.

He walked with purpose, his boots sinking slightly into the ashen ground. He had heard the rumors—of an ancient ruin where power slumbered, waiting for one worthy enough to claim it. The ruins of Veldrith.

A rusted signpost stood at the edge of a twisted path, barely legible beneath the layers of grime and decay. Turn back. A warning? Or a promise?

Rhaegar smiled.

With every step forward, the weight of the air grew heavier, pressing against him like unseen hands. The stench of decay filled his lungs, but he did not falter. He had been promised power, and he would claim it—no matter the cost.

The ruins loomed ahead, broken spires jutting out like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Shadows pooled in the cracks of the ancient stone, writhing unnaturally, as if alive.

He felt it then.

A presence.

Something watching.

Rhaegar's fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. "Come out," he said, his voice cold.

The silence stretched.

Then—a whisper.

Not a voice, but a feeling, seeping into his bones. Power… lost… claimed…

A gust of wind surged through the ruins, and the shadows shifted. A figure emerged from the darkness, its form wrapped in tattered robes, its face obscured beneath a hood. But its eyes… its eyes burned with an unnatural light, hollow and endless.

"The world has forgotten this place," the figure rasped. "Why do you come, revenant?"

Rhaegar stepped forward. "To take what is mine."

A low chuckle, dry as dead leaves. "Power does not belong. It devours."

Rhaegar smirked. "Then let it try."

The ground trembled. The ruins groaned, as if something beneath them had awoken. The air became thick with a force that slithered into his skin, crawling into the depths of his soul. He welcomed it.

The figure raised a skeletal hand. "Then be judged."

Darkness erupted from the ruins. A tidal wave of shadows surged toward him, swallowing the world in a storm of whispers and screams. Rhaegar stood his ground, eyes burning with defiance.

And as the abyss reached him, he laughed.

Because for the first time since his execution—

He felt alive.

The abyss surged toward him, a wave of writhing shadows shrieking with the voices of the damned. It clawed at the air, hungry to consume him whole. But just before it could reach him—

It stopped.

The darkness trembled, writhing in place, as if recoiling from something unseen. Rhaegar stood motionless, watching as the abyss hesitated. It could not touch him.

A slow grin spread across his face.

"Strange," he murmured. "Weren't you eager to devour me just moments ago?"

The robed figure, still standing amidst the ruins, went deathly still. Its hollow eyes flickered. "Impossible."

Rhaegar took a step forward. The abyss shrank back. The shrieking voices faltered, their cries turning to whispers.

And then—silence.

The black tendrils curled away from him like wounded animals, dissolving into the ruins as if fleeing from something greater. They feared him.

The figure clenched its skeletal fingers. "You bear the abyss within you… yet it does not consume you?"

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, feeling the power coursing through his veins. The whispers in the back of his mind, the unseen force that had carried him from death's embrace—it was no longer a chain. It was his to wield.

"I do not fear the abyss," he said, his voice steady. "It fears me."

The figure remained still, as if processing the weight of those words. Then, it did something unexpected.

It bowed.

"You are the one," the figure rasped. "The world does not yet know it, but it will."

Rhaegar's eyes darkened. "Tell me what lies beneath these ruins."

The figure straightened. "A throne. A grave. A curse."

Rhaegar chuckled. "Sounds familiar."

The ruins groaned, ancient stone shifting under unseen forces. Power radiated from below, pulsing like a heartbeat. Whatever lay beneath Veldrith was waiting.

He stepped forward, and this time, the abyss parted for him.

Rhaegar walked through the ruins, his boots crunching against shattered stone and brittle bones. The abyss no longer reached for him, no longer dared. The ruins of Veldrith had swallowed many before him, but he was not like the others.

He was not here to be consumed. He was here to claim.

The robed figure followed in silence, its hollow eyes fixed on him. The ruins stretched in every direction—broken pillars, twisted archways, and walls etched with symbols long forgotten. The air was thick with something unseen, a presence that slithered against his skin.

Beneath the weight of it all, Rhaegar remained unshaken.

A massive gate loomed ahead, rusted and cracked, its surface pulsing faintly with dark energy. Beyond it, the heart of Velmora awaited.

"The throne, the grave, the curse," he muttered. "Which will I find first?"

The figure's voice rasped like wind through dead trees. "They are one and the same."

Rhaegar smirked. "Then I'll take all three."

He raised a hand to the gate, feeling the power thrumming beneath his fingertips. The ruins had tested him. The abyss had recoiled from him. Now, it would kneel.

With a single push, the ancient doors groaned open—and Veldrith welcomed its new master.

As the gates of Veldrith groaned open, the sight that greeted Rhaegar was one of decay.

The once-mighty stronghold, the very foundation of his former empire, was now nothing more than rotting stone and shattered ruins. Once, this place had thrived under his rule. It had been a symbol of power, a fortress for the greatest warriors, a sanctuary for those loyal to the crown.

But there was no loyalty left.

They had abandoned it.

The ones who had sworn fealty to him—the generals, the nobles, the council—they had turned their backs the moment he fell. And instead of fighting for what they had built under his reign, they left it to die.

Cowards.

Rhaegar stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the crumbling walls. Dust and ash swirled around him, carried by the bitter wind. The banners that once bore his sigil were torn, faded, forgotten. The halls where they had once plotted wars, forged alliances, and feasted in his name were nothing but emptied husks.

They had moved on.

He knew where they had gone—to a new kingdom, a stronger fortress, under a new ruler. They had taken everything with them—his army, his wealth, his power—leaving Veldrith to rot.

But they had failed to erase him.

Rhaegar ran his fingers along a broken column, the once-polished stone now cracked and cold. He could almost hear their voices—the laughter of traitors, the whispers of betrayal.

"You all thought you had won," he murmured. "That you could cast me aside and build something greater."

His grip tightened, his nails pressing into the stone.

"But look at this place." His voice was calm, almost amused. "A kingdom without a king is just a graveyard."

The robed figure behind him remained silent, watching.

Rhaegar exhaled, a slow, steady breath. The abyss had refused to devour him—not because it feared him, but because it recognized him.

He was ruin itself.

And soon, he would return the favor.

The ruins of Veldrith stretched before him, hollow and broken. Once a symbol of strength, now a forgotten graveyard. The banners that had once carried his sigil were torn, abandoned like the oaths sworn to him. His generals, his council, his most trusted allies—they had all betrayed him.

They had taken everything.

His armies. His wealth. His throne.

And when they no longer had use for Veldrith, they left it to rot.

Rhaegar stood at the heart of the ruins, breathing in the stale, dust-filled air. This was the kingdom they built upon his ashes? A stronger fortress under a new ruler?

He almost pitied them.

Because they had left something behind.

Something greater than gold, greater than armies—something they feared too much to take with them.

The power buried beneath Veldrith.

Rhaegar clenched his fists, feeling the energy in the air. It pulsed beneath his feet, ancient and unyielding. He had felt it the moment he stepped through the gates—the ruins weren't dead. They were waiting.

Waiting for someone strong enough to claim what had been lost.

The robed figure who had followed him from the abyss stepped forward. Its voice was barely a whisper.

"You were cast aside, yet you returned."

Rhaegar's gaze remained locked on the ruins. "I was never meant to die."

The figure's hollow eyes flickered. "Then prove it."

The earth trembled. A deep, guttural sound rumbled beneath him, like the exhale of something ancient, something awakening.

Rhaegar's vision darkened as power surged up from the depths of Veldrith, slamming into him like a tidal wave.

It didn't ask for permission.

It didn't whisper like the abyss had—it forced itself into his bones, his blood, his soul.

He staggered, his muscles locking, his veins burning with an unholy fire. It was too much, like trying to hold back the weight of a collapsing sky. His breath hitched as the world around him flickered—his mind flooded with memories, visions of forgotten gods, wars fought with strength beyond mortal comprehension.

His body threatened to break.

But it didn't.

Because this power was never meant to be held by the weak.

And Rhaegar Crowne was no longer weak.

His muscles tightened, his spine straightened, and his body adapted. The pain turned to strength, the fire turned to fury. His fingers curled into a fist, and the very air around him shuddered at the movement.

The shadows at his feet bowed.

The ruins that had once belonged to traitors recognized their true master.

Rhaegar inhaled, slow and deep. When he exhaled, the ground beneath him split apart.

The robed figure took a step back, its hollow gaze unreadable. "You have taken what no man was meant to wield."

Rhaegar rolled his shoulders, the overwhelming energy settling into him, no longer foreign—but a part of him.

His smirk was sharp, cold. "Then perhaps I am no longer just a man."

The ruins of Veldrith trembled beneath his feet.

And soon, so would the entire world.

"Tell me," Rhaeger said. "Where did they go?"

The robed figure hesitated, its hollow eyes flickering like dying embers. It had followed him through the ruins, watching in silence as he reclaimed what had been lost. Now, faced with the weight of his presence—of his newfound power—it did not dare to withhold the truth.

"They fled," it rasped. "To the kingdom of Sebastian."

Rhaegar's gaze darkened. Sebastian.

A land untouched by ruin, where his betrayers had built their new empire. A kingdom forged from stolen power, stolen loyalty, stolen blood.

"They sit upon golden thrones," the figure continued. "Protected by walls that have never fallen. Guarded by an army stronger than before."

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing. He could see it—marble towers reaching toward the heavens, streets lined with banners that once bore his sigil, now replaced by another's. His generals, his council, his people… laughing, feasting, living as if he had never existed.

As if they hadn't cast him aside like rotting carrion.

His jaw clenched. "And their new king?"

The figure hesitated. "The one who took your throne—he is not just a man."

Rhaegar's smirk was sharp, merciless. "Neither am I."

The ruins of Veldrith trembled beneath his feet. The power that had seeped into his bones hungered for vengeance.

Sebastian would fall.

And this time, there would be no mercy.

The wind howled through the ruins of Veldrith, carrying the weight of forgotten oaths and unburied ghosts. Rhaegar stood at the heart of it all, his smirk sharp, his vengeance absolute.

Sebastian.

The kingdom that had swallowed his betrayers whole, sheltering them behind towering walls and golden gates. A paradise built from his ruin.

They thought they were safe. Untouchable.

Fools.

He turned to the robed figure, his crimson gaze burning through the shadows. "Then show me the way."

The figure did not move. It lingered in the darkness, as if bound to Veldrith, as if afraid to step beyond its crumbling borders. But Rhaegar could feel the knowledge radiating from it, the unspoken truths buried beneath its silence.

"You know the path," he said, voice like a blade. "Speak."

The figure let out a slow, rattling breath. "The road to Sebastian is not one you can simply walk."

Rhaegar raised a brow. "Then I'll carve one."

The ruins trembled as if in answer.

The figure tilted its head. "You are strong, but not yet a god. The journey will demand more than power—it will demand mastery."

A low chuckle left Rhaegar's lips. "Then let it try me."

He had already conquered death. What was a mere journey compared to that?

The figure lifted its skeletal hand, pointing beyond the ruins. "Then follow the path of the forsaken. It will lead you where you must go."

Rhaegar turned his gaze forward, beyond the broken city, where the land stretched into an endless void of shadow and mist. He felt it—the remnants of those who had walked before him, those who had been swallowed by the journey.

But he was not like them.

He was not prey.

With one last glance at the ruins of Veldrith, he stepped forward.

And the shadows swallowed him whole.

The world twisted around him.

The moment he left the ruins, the very air changed—thick, suffocating, like unseen hands pressing against his throat. The path ahead was not made of stone or soil but of something else entirely—a realm between realms, a road paved by the damned.

He walked through the shifting void, the mist parting before him like it feared his touch. It whispered to him—voices of the fallen, of those who had once dreamed of vengeance and failed.

But he did not listen.

Their failure meant nothing to him.

They had been weak. He was not.

Step by step, he pressed forward, his body humming with the power of Veldrith. The ruins had marked him, and now, the path itself recognized him. The abyss did not reach for him anymore—it cleared the way.

Time lost its meaning.

The path stretched endlessly, yet he did not tire. He could feel Sebastian drawing closer, its presence a burning ember in the darkness.

And then—the mist shifted.

Before him, the void cracked, light bleeding through like a wound torn into the fabric of existence. Rhaegar did not stop. He did not hesitate.

With a single step, he pierced through.

The scent of rain met him first.

Then the sound—the distant murmur of voices, the clatter of hooves, the rhythmic march of armored boots.

He stood at the edge of a great forest, its towering trees swaying under an iron-gray sky. Beyond the treeline, he could see the outline of Sebastian, its golden spires piercing the heavens. The walls stretched endlessly, an impenetrable fortress of stone and steel.

For anyone else, it would have been impossible.

For Rhaegar, it was merely the beginning.

A smirk curled his lips as he stepped forward, the weight of the world bending beneath his presence.

He had arrived.

And soon—so would his wrath.

Rhaegar stood at the edge of the forest, the city of Sebastian looming in the distance like a beast curled upon its throne. The golden spires, the towering walls, the banners that should have been his—they all stood as a testament to his betrayers' arrogance.

They had built this place with his stolen throne as their foundation.

And now, they thought they could live without fear.

He took a step forward, the earth beneath his feet whispering of old grudges and unfinished wars. The city was alive with movement—merchants shouting their wares, knights patrolling the gates, nobles laughing in their ivory towers. Oblivious.

His fingers flexed. His power hungered, a force that had no patience for subtlety. He could burn the gates to cinders, tear through the city like a storm of vengeance.

But no.

Not yet.

A reckless massacre would be too merciful.

They had stolen from him in silence, twisting blades in his back with careful hands. It would be poetic if he repaid them in the same way.

He had not returned from the abyss to be a mindless beast.

He was something far, far worse.

With a slow breath, Rhaegar stepped into the trees, vanishing into the shadows.

The city of Sebastian was impenetrable to fools.

The walls stood high, guarded by sentries with keen eyes. The gates allowed only those of importance to pass. And the dungeons below? A maze of iron, meant to hold even the most dangerous of traitors.

But Rhaegar was no traitor.

He was vengeance incarnate.

And walls were nothing to a man who had conquered death itself.

He watched from the cover of darkness as a caravan approached the eastern gate—a long line of merchants, knights, and travelers. A perfect distraction.

Rhaegar moved.

The moment the caravan reached the gate, he was among them. A slight shift in the air, a flicker of presence, and suddenly he was walking alongside a group of travelers as if he had always been there.

The guards barely spared him a glance.

The power that thrummed beneath his skin was a storm waiting to be unleashed, but here, in this moment, it was a whisper—a gentle pressure that bent the will of those too weak to resist it.

A knight stood at the entrance, scanning faces with sharp eyes. "Names," he barked.

The travelers muttered their responses.

When the knight's gaze met Rhaegar's, there was a flicker of something—uncertainty, a moment where instinct screamed that something was wrong.

Rhaegar tilted his head, his lips curling into the barest hint of a smirk.

You see nothing.

The knight blinked. His face twisted, as if fighting something unseen—then the moment passed. His grip on his sword loosened, his suspicion fading into nothing.

Rhaegar stepped forward.

And just like that, he was inside.

The streets of Sebastian stretched before him, grand and insultingly familiar. He walked through them, unseen, unnoticed, yet every stone, every building, every banner whispered to him.

They had taken everything from him.

And they had thrived in his absence.

Laughter rang through the streets. Merchants peddled their wares. Knights in gleaming armor patrolled without fear.

There was no remorse here.

No lingering guilt, no shadow of regret.

They had forgotten him.

His fingers curled into fists. That would change.

He moved through the city, slipping through the crowds like a phantom. He listened. He watched. He gathered everything.

The king of Sebastian sat upon his throne in the palace at the city's heart.

His generals—the same ones who had once knelt before Rhaegar—now led Sebastian's armies.

His council—the very men who had once whispered loyalty into his ear—now advised his enemy.

Rhaegar let out a slow breath, his patience a blade sharpened to a razor's edge.

He would not simply strike them down.

He would make them understand.

Understand who they had betrayed.

Understand what they had lost.

And when the time came, when the weight of their sins crushed them beneath their golden thrones—he would end them.

For now, he would wait.

For now, he would watch.

But soon…

Sebastian would burn.

Rhaegar moved through the city like a shadow, unseen, untouched. The streets of Sebastian bustled with life, filled with the very people who had once sworn loyalty to him.

Merchants haggled over gold. Children ran through the alleys, their laughter filling the air. Knights who had once raised their swords in his name now marched under another's banner.

They had erased him from history.

Or so they thought.

He passed a grand plaza where a massive statue stood tall, carved from the finest marble. It was of the new king, the usurper who sat upon what should have been Rhaegar's throne.

A tribute to a liar.

A monument to a dead man walking.

Rhaegar's lips curled. His fingers twitched at his side, the hunger within him whispering for destruction.

Not yet.

Let them bask in their stolen peace. Let them believe their safety was eternal.

Because when the storm came, when their world crumbled beneath his wrath—

They would remember his name.

And this time, there would be no one left to forget it.