World of the Three Crowns

Consciousness returns in jolts. You are lying on cold stone, soaked in blood. Around you—bodies. A multitude of bodies. People in tattered robes marked with dark symbols lie everywhere—by the altar, against the walls, at the entrance. Puddles of blood spread across the stone floor, mingling with shattered lamps and fragments of statues. The temple has turned into a slaughterhouse.

You are wearing a torn mantle, drenched in something sticky and dark. Your body refuses to obey; your head throbs. Somewhere nearby, a rasping breath is heard, followed by a dull thud. Another one falls.

A woman stands over him. The sword in her hand lowers slowly. Fresh blood clings to the blade, sliding down the steel and dripping onto the stone. She is in no hurry to sheathe her weapon. She simply stares at the corpse, then shifts her gaze to you.

— Second one.

Her voice is low, devoid of inflection. She walks around the corpses, not even looking at her feet. She stops before you. Short dark hair, coarse features, covered in tattoos—each one a tribute to a victory. A cold smirk plays on her lips. Around her lie dozens of dead bodies. She alone orchestrated this carnage.

— You're wearing the same mantle as them.

She nods toward the corpses.

— But you don't look like them. Those bastards don't wear foreign blood on them the way you do. They drink it. You're just stained.

She squats down, narrowing her eyes.

— You don't even know where you are. I can see it in your eyes. Listen close. I am Swarra, right hand of the Empress of the Iron Empire. These are my lands. These creatures —she nods at the bodies— thought they could hold their rituals on my territory. They were wrong.

She stands abruptly, and cold steel brushes against your throat. The blade is pressed just firmly enough for you to feel its weight, but not enough to let you move. Her voice drops lower, becoming even harsher.

— I don't know who you are. I don't care. You follow me—not a sound. Not a word. Not a rustle. Otherwise, I'll slit your throat faster than you can realize you're dead. Just so I don't have to take risks.

She sheathes her sword, sharp and efficient. She turns and heads for the exit, stepping over the dead. Her boots leave bloody tracks on the stone.

— This temple will become a trap soon. Those creatures always come back for their own. Get up.

She walks away. Silence. Only the sound of dripping water, the wind whistling through the cracks, and the scent of death. Dead bodies everywhere. You are alone amidst this slaughter. On your neck, a cold trail remains where the blade rested.