The Dying Arcane

The wind howled through the shattered ruins as Ronan moved through the desolate cityscape, his footsteps echoing off the empty streets. The remnants of towering spires loomed above, their once-grand structures now reduced to crumbling husks. The deeper he ventured, the more the air seemed to pulse with something unseen—an ancient force lingering in the bones of this lost kingdom.

He had heard the stories. A city that had once been the heart of magic itself, where sorcerers and warlords alike sought power beyond mortal comprehension. Now, it was nothing but dust and whispers. But Ronan knew better than to believe a place like this was truly dead.

His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. The further he went, the heavier the air became, pressing down on him like unseen hands. He had felt this before—something watching.

Then, the shadows moved.

A low, guttural growl echoed through the ruins. Ronan stilled, his eyes scanning the darkness between the broken columns. Shapes flickered—too fast to be human.

And then, they emerged.

Pale, emaciated figures crawled from the depths of the ruins, their eyes glowing with an eerie blue light. Their bodies were wrapped in tattered remnants of armor, their fingers elongated into razor-sharp claws.

Wraithborn.

Creatures cursed to wander between life and death, sustained only by their hunger for magic. Once, they had been warriors, mages—now they were nothing but hollow echoes, trapped in an eternal cycle of suffering.

Ronan raised his sword, its edge gleaming under the faint light of the shattered sky.

The wraiths lunged.

He moved in an instant, dodging the first swipe and driving his blade into the nearest creature's chest. A burst of arcane energy erupted from the wound, but the wraith barely staggered. Its clawed hand lashed out, tearing through his cloak as Ronan twisted away.

Another came from behind. He pivoted, bringing his blade upward in a brutal arc. The sword cleaved through the wraith's neck, but instead of falling, its body dissolved into smoke—reforming seconds later.

Their bodies weren't solid.

They couldn't be killed like normal beings.

Ronan gritted his teeth. This wasn't a fight he could win by brute force. He needed to think.

Then he saw it—the faint glow in the ruins ahead. A symbol carved into the stone, pulsing with the same blue light as the wraiths' eyes.

A seal.

This city had been locked away for a reason. And now, something—or someone—had broken that seal.

Ronan dashed forward, weaving through the attacking wraiths as their claws tore at the air around him. He reached the sigil, his palm pressing against the cold stone.

A surge of energy raced through his veins.

The wraiths shrieked in agony. Their bodies fractured, the cursed energy holding them together unraveling. One by one, they collapsed into nothing, their cries fading into the silence of the ruins.

Ronan exhaled heavily, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The sigil had been a ward—one that had kept these creatures contained for centuries. Someone had tampered with it. And that meant someone else was here.

A shiver ran down his spine.

He wasn't alone.