Rain lashed against the rotting timber walls of the roadside tavern. Thunder rattled the stained-glass panes, sending tremors through the wooden floorboards. Inside, the air smelled of stale ale, wet wool, and cheap tallow candles. Men huddled around the central hearth, seeking warmth from the bitter Roman autumn. Suddenly, the heavy oak door creaked open. Wind howled into the room, extinguishing the candles in an instant. Cold, unnatural and bone-deep, swept across the tavern. Patrons shivered, their breath blooming into sudden, white mist. A tall figure stood in the threshold, framed by the jagged flashes of lightning. Water dripped from his dark cloak, pooling at his boots. Nobody spoke. Even the crackling fire in the hearth seemed to shrink, its amber flames turning a pale, icy blue. Lucian Blackthorn stepped over the threshold. His boots thudded heavily against the floorboards. Underneath his wet hood, his eyes gleamed with a weary, ancient exhaustion. He pulled the wet fabric back, revealing a sharp jawline and a scar that ran from his temple to his chin. "Ale," Lucian said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rasp that commanded attention. Silence stretched through the room. Whispers broke out among the patrons in the shadows. Men clutched their protective amulets, murmuring prayers to gods both old and new. They saw the stranger's ragged clothes, the dried blood on his leather jerkin, and the chilling aura that clung to him. Lucian walked toward the wooden bar, his footsteps echoing like a death knell in the quiet room. Trembling hands reached for a wooden cup as the innkeeper tried to steady himself. "We... we don't want any trouble, stranger," the man stammered. Lucian did not reply, his gaze fixed on the corner of the room. Three Roman auxiliary soldiers sat in the shadows, their crimson cloaks stained with mud. Armor clanked as they stood up, hands resting on the pommels of their gladii. Their leader, a scarred decurion with a sneer plastered across his face, kicked his stool aside. "You carry the scent of the eastern deserts, traveler," the decurion barked. "State your name and business in this province." Lucian ignored him completely. He took the wooden cup from the shaking innkeeper and swallowed the sour liquid in one gulp. Warmth did not return to his chest. Nothing could warm the frozen void where his soul used to be. "I asked you a question," the soldier snarled, stepping closer. "Answer, or I will have you dragged to the garrison in chains." Lucian set the cup down with a soft click. "You do not want to do that," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "My business is my own, soldier." Anger flushed the decurion's cheeks. He gestured to his men, who moved to flank Lucian. At the back of the tavern, a young girl, barely sixteen, cowered behind the counter. One of the soldiers had been dragging her by the wrist before Lucian entered. Bruises ringed her thin arms. Lucian saw her tears, and his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. A vein throbbed violently at his temple. Guilt, heavy and suffocating, pressed down on him. He had seen this scene a thousand times across a thousand years. Every time he tried to play the hero, the universe twisted his actions into a tragedy. Yet, his stubborn pride refused to let him walk away. Memories of his ancient hubris flashed behind his eyes. He remembered the night he sat across from the Lord of Lies, boasting of his own cleverness. He had believed himself a master of fate, a man who could outwit damnation itself. Now, he was nothing but a broken toy, discarded in the dirt of a crumbling empire. "Let her go," Lucian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "She has nothing to do with your imperial taxes." Decurion laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "An outlaw making demands?" "Kill him," the leader ordered. Steel hissed as swords cleared their scabbards. Lucian moved with unnatural speed. He ducked beneath the first soldier's wild swing. His fist smashed into the man's jaw, shattering bone with a sickening crack. Grabbing the falling soldier's sword, Lucian spun, parrying a thrust from the second auxiliary. He kicked the man hard in the chest, sending him crashing into a wooden table. Splintering wood filled the air as the table broke into kindling. Only the decurion remained, his eyes widening in sudden terror. "What are you?" the soldier gasped, backing away. Lucian did not answer. He stepped forward, ready to end it. But the soldier's fear turned to desperate cunning. He grabbed a nearby oil lamp and threw it. Glass shattered against the wall. Flames exploded across the dry straw on the floor. Smoke, thick and black, filled the tavern. Screams echoed as patrons scrambled for the exit. Through the haze, Lucian lunged for the girl, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the back door. They burst into the cold night rain. "Run," Lucian commanded, pushing her toward the dark forest. "Do not look back." She nodded, terrified, and vanished into the trees. Lucian turned to face his pursuers. More Roman soldiers emerged from the darkness, their torches sputtering in the downpour. Horses hooves thundered against the muddy road. He had saved one life, but he knew the price. Every heroic act cost him his life. Fleeing was his only option now. He sprinted toward the rocky hills that bordered the vast, unforgiving desert. --- Hours bled into days as Lucian fled the borders of the empire. Cold rain transformed into biting wind as he crossed the threshold of the arid wilderness. Dry heat replaced the damp storm, baking the cracked earth beneath his boots. Behind him, the relentless hounds of the empire kept pace. They did not tire. They did not falter. Sunlight became a physical weapon, beating down on his unprotected neck and shoulders. Mirages danced across the horizon, teasing him with illusions of cool lakes and green oases. He knew better than to trust his eyes. His boots sank deep into the shifting dunes, filling with hot sand that blistered his skin. Every breath felt like inhaling glass shards. He could hear the distant baying of Roman warhounds, their sharp barks carried on the wind. Still, he ran. He ran from his past, from his curse, and from the relentless laughter that echoed in the quiet corners of his mind. Eventually, the desert trapped him. Towering dunes of crimson sand rose like giant, shifting walls. He stood atop a high ridge, looking down into a vast, empty basin. Shouts echoed from behind. Turning, he saw a line of Roman cavalry cresting the opposite hill. Their armor gleamed in the harsh, midday sun. At their front rode a tribune, his purple crest fluttering in the dry wind. "Yield, barbarian!" the tribune shouted, his voice carrying over the dunes. Lucian spat blood onto the red sand. "Never," he whispered. He reached for his satchel, feeling the heavy, metallic weight of the three arcane decks. They pulsed against his hip. They whispered to his mind, offering temporal salvation, a chance to warp time and slaughter his enemies. He gripped the leather strap tighter. Using them would only invite a worse doom. He refused to play the Devil's game. With a defiant roar, he drew his borrowed gladius and charged down the dune. Horses surged forward, kicking up clouds of choking dust. Lucian cut down the first rider, dragging him from his saddle. Blood sprayed across the red sand, turning it to a dark, sticky mud. He parried a thrust from a Roman spear, his muscles screaming under the strain. He spun, driving his blade into the horseman's thigh. Screams of horses and men echoed through the barren basin. Another soldier lunged from the side, his gladius slicing a deep gash across Lucian's ribs. Lucian stumbled, gasping for air. Before he could recover, a shadow loomed over him. Tribune Marcus held a heavy Roman pilum, its iron tip gleaming with lethal intent. With a grunt of effort, the officer drove the spear downward. Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded in Lucian's chest. Iron tip tore through leather, muscle, and bone, impaling him straight through the heart. He fell backward onto the burning sands, pinned to the earth like a specimen on a board. Blood welled from his lips, thick and hot. He choked, gasping for air that would not come. Red dust swirled around him, filling his open mouth and scratching his dry throat. Above him, the blue sky began to spin. Consciousness fragmented, breaking into jagged shards of light and dark. As the light faded, a sound echoed in his mind. It was not the wind. It was a deep, rumbling laughter. Mocking and cruel, the noise rattled his brain. Devil's voice echoed through the dark spaces of his dying soul. "Did you really think you could save her without paying, Lucian?" the voice whispered. "Your heroism is my favorite comedy." Darkness swallowed him whole. --- Death was never peaceful. For Lucian, it was a violent, agonizing descent into a sensory void. He floated in a silent abyss, stripped of his flesh but hyper-aware of his lingering consciousness. Then, the pull began. It felt like iron hooks sinking into his nonexistent veins, dragging him back to the physical world. Cold agony ripped through him. Deep within the crimson sand, his shattered heart began to beat again. A single, wet thud. Then another. Rebirth was a mockery of creation. Bones that had been crushed by maces and shattered by spears began to snap back into place. Sensation returned like a thousand hot needles stitching his flesh together from the inside out. He wanted to scream, but his lungs were filled with dirt. His windpipe was clogged with dry, suffocating dust. Every muscle fiber fire-stormed with agonizing heat as his cells regenerated. He felt his skin knitting over his chest, sealing the gaping wound left by the Roman pilum. Foreign iron of the spearhead was violently pushed out of his chest, forced through his skin by the aggressive growth of new tissue. He lay buried under several feet of heavy, shifting sand. It pressed down on his chest, preventing him from expanding his lungs. He was alive, yet he was suffocating. Despair, deep and soul-crushing, washed over him. He hated this body. He hated his continued existence. Bitter hatred consumed his thoughts as he cursed the cruel humor of the entity that kept him bound to this mortal coil. How many times had he died now? Fifty? A hundred? He had lost count of his own demises. Each one was more painful than the last, a reminder of his prideful gamble. Slowly, he forced his fingers to move. He dug his nails into the packed earth above him. Dragging his heavy, aching body upward, he fought for every inch against the crushing weight of the earth. He pushed his hands through the surface. Cool night air hit his bare palms. As Lucian claws his way out of his shallow desert grave, a faint, almost ethereal hum emanates from the tattered satchel at his side – the three arcane decks, pulsating with an eerie, familiar light, despite his fervent wish to be rid of them.

Chapter 1: Crimson Sands, Cursed Breath