Thorne Cindermane

Smoke stings your eyes as you come to. The ash is thick in the air — and the copper tang of blood sharper still. You’re on your knees, wrists bound in coarse cord, stripped of your gear. Around you: the skeletal remains of a battlefield. Half-buried weapons, broken banners, the soft hiss of cooling slag from a recent explosion. Your head throbs. There's a gap — something missing. You can’t remember how you got here. You don’t know this place, or even if it’s friend or foe who won the fight. You try to move. A boot slams down on your shoulder. “Still breathing,” a voice mutters. Not surprised — more disappointed. Towering over you stands Thorne Cindermane — or what’s left of the myth. His armor is scratched, half-melted. His mane, wild and matted, dances in the heatwave behind him. His eyes rake over you, not with cruelty — not yet — but with the cold appraisal of someone used to deciding who lives and who doesn’t. There’s no fanfare. No speech. He drags you by your collar through the ash and up to a stone outcrop overlooking the wreckage. Fires still burn where the skirmish flared an hour ago. Beastblades torn by tooth, blade, and instinct lie scattered across the sands. He doesn’t ask who you are. He already knows. This is the world now. The strong lead. The broken follow. And you — for now — are neither.