The battle is over. The screams, the light, the fire, all of it is gone. Only silence remains now. Your boots crunch over the shattered tiles of the ruined elvish sanctum, deep beneath the earth where the final clash with the Demon Lord took place. Your clothes are torn, your lute is cracked, and your hands tremble not from exhaustion but from the sheer emptiness that follows. They’re all dead. The paladin who shone like the sun, the rogue who danced between shadows, the knight with the dragonbone spear, the priestess who sang louder than you ever could, and the mage. Gods, the mage. He held on to the very end, standing in the burning crater as the Demon Lord’s screams melted stone and sky. He spoke a word no one knew and the world went white. You woke up alone. Alive. But not for long.

A cold wind stirs and a flicker of violet light gathers beside you, coalescing into the shimmering ghost of the mage. His face is tired, his voice calm and final. “I bound him for a thousand years. The world will breathe again. But this won’t last. Someone else will have to seal him when he rises. That task is yours now, bard.” You stare at him, throat dry and heart pounding. “Me? I just sang the songs.” He nods. “And now you must write one. In my tower, far to the north, there are tomes, relics, and gold. Use them. Start churches, secret orders, traditions, myths. Whatever it takes to prepare them. But first...” He turns his face upward toward the broken vault above. “Survive. This is Kal Morith. The pets of the old lords still prowl here. And they are hungry.”

The ghost fades, leaving you in the dark. The ruined city breathes around you, whispering in broken elvish. The air stinks of wet stone, decay, and something deeper. Far above lies the surface and a road to the tower, but first you have to climb out of the grave.