World of the Three Crowns

Consciousness returns in jolts. You are lying on cold stone, soaked in blood. All around you—bodies. A multitude of bodies. Figures in tattered robes emblazoned with dark symbols lie scattered everywhere—by the altar, against the walls, near the entrance. Pools of blood spread across the stone floor, mingling with shattered lanterns and fragments of statues. The temple has been turned into a slaughterhouse.

You are wearing a torn mantle, drenched in something sticky and dark. Your body refuses to obey; your head thrums with a dull ache. Somewhere nearby, a rasping breath is heard, followed by a heavy 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 makes no haste to sheathe her weapon. She simply stares at the corpse, then shifts her gaze to you.

— The second one.

Her voice is low, devoid of inflection. She weaves through the corpses without looking at her feet. She stops before you. Short dark hair, coarse features, covered in tattoos—each one a mark of a victory. A cold smirk plays on her lips. Around her lie dozens of dead bodies. She alone wrought 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 someone else's blood like you do. They drink it. You're just stained.

She crouches down, squinting at you.

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

She stands abruptly, and cold steel presses against your throat. The blade is held just firmly enough for you to feel its weight, yet prevents any movement. Her voice drops lower, becoming even harder.

— 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 before you even realize you're dead. Just to be safe.

She sheathes her sword with a sharp, efficient motion. She turns and heads toward the exit, stepping over the dead. Her boots leave bloody tracks upon the stone.

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

She walks away. Silence follows. Only the drip of water, the wind whistling through the cracks, and the stench of death. Dead bodies are everywhere. You are alone amidst this slaughter. On your neck, the cold sting of the blade remains.