The Lost Vanguard

The red glow was back.

I wasn't sure when I had fallen asleep, but the moment I opened my eyes, I knew I was no longer in the world I recognized. The suffocating heat pressed against my skin, the air thick and heavy, carrying the acrid stench of sulfur. Around me, the ground cracked and splintered, glowing with an internal fire that seemed alive. Rivers of molten rock carved jagged paths across the landscape, and the sky, if it could be called that, was a swirling chaos of red and black.

This wasn't just a dream. It felt too vivid, too real. I wasn't merely an observer; I was there, standing amidst a world that seemed to be alive with rage.

I turned, my gaze drawn upward to the familiar figure in the distance. The one I had seen before. The massive sword rested across their back, its edge catching the fiery glow of the surroundings. The figure stood tall, their silhouette framed by the flickering inferno behind them.

And then it began.

The air shifted, a violent tremor shaking the ground beneath my feet. From the horizon, shapes began to emerge, grotesque and distorted. They moved as one, a tide of bodies that churned and writhed, their weapons gleaming wickedly in the fiery light. Their forms were barely human, hulking masses of muscle and twisted armor, their faces obscured by helmets that bore snarling, demonic visages.

I wanted to run, to scream, to do anything but stand frozen in place. Yet I couldn't move. My legs refused to obey, as if the very air had trapped me in place.

The figure with the sword didn't move either. They stood still, waiting, their head bowed slightly as though in contemplation. The tide of attackers surged closer, their war cries echoing through the blistering heat.

And then the world fractured.

It wasn't like watching a battle unfold in real time. It was disjointed, fragmented. One moment the attackers were charging, their weapons raised high. The next, the figure was among them, the massive sword carving through the air. But I didn't see the movements, only the aftermath. A body falling, its armor split cleanly in two. Another figure slamming into the ground, their weapon clattering away as blood pooled beneath them. The scene shifted like a series of disconnected images, each more brutal than the last.

The figure with the sword moved with impossible speed. In one fragment, they were surrounded, the attackers closing in from all sides. In the next, the ground was littered with corpses, their bodies twisted and torn as though they'd been struck by a force too powerful to comprehend.

Each image burned itself into my mind, an attacker's head severed mid-cry, the glowing edge of the sword cutting through armor like paper, the figure standing amidst the carnage, untouched and unyielding. The scenes were vivid, but they didn't flow together. It was as if I were watching pieces of a story told out of order, each one more horrifying than the last.

I didn't understand how it was possible. No human could move like that. No human could fight like that.

And yet, something about it felt familiar. The way the figure held the sword, the way they moved, it stirred something deep within me, something I couldn't quite grasp. It wasn't fear, though the scene was terrifying. It was something else. Recognition? Longing? I didn't know.

The attackers were relentless, their numbers overwhelming. But it didn't matter. The figure didn't falter. They were a storm, an unstoppable force of destruction. And as the last of the attackers fell, their bodies scattered like broken dolls, the figure finally turned.

Their gaze pierced through the chaos, through the flames and smoke, and locked onto me.

I froze. The fire in my chest roared to life, its heat spreading through my body like a living thing. The figure didn't speak, but I could feel their presence, their intent. They knew I was there. Watching. Their eyes, if they had eyes seemed to bore into my very soul, and for a moment, I felt as though they could see everything. Every thought, every fear, every doubt.

The ground trembled again, and the air grew thick with an oppressive weight. The figure raised their sword, pointing it toward me. The motion was slow, deliberate, as though they were issuing a challenge.

And then, the world exploded.

A blinding light consumed everything, erasing the flames, the corpses, the figure. I tried to shield my eyes, but the light was everywhere, searing into me. The fire in my chest burned hotter than ever, and I gasped, the heat stealing the breath from my lungs.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the room at Harrow's Hollow. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Myrial's voice reached my ears, soft and melodic as she spoke to Kaldar in the corner. The ache in my side was gone, replaced by a lingering warmth where her magic had worked.

But the fire in my chest remained, a constant presence that refused to be ignored. I clenched my fists, my knuckles white as I tried to steady my breathing.

What was that place? Who was that figure? And why did it feel like they were waiting for me?

Kaldar turned, his gaze landing on me. "You're awake," he said simply, his voice gruff but steady. "Good. We've got work to do."

I nodded, the flicker of fire in my chest stirring once more. Whatever was happening, I couldn't ignore it. Not anymore.