The smell of damp stone and rusted iron had stopped bothering Gray Ashbourne about… well, he couldn't remember when.
He was sprawled across a throne he'd never intended to claim—crafted from petrified bone that might once have belonged to a beast the size of a mountain, and veined with crystallized mana that shimmered like frozen starlight when disturbed. One arm was draped over the armrest, his fingers loosely wrapped around the hilt of a sword he'd picked up centuries ago and never bothered to put down. The other dangled limply, his knuckles brushing against a thick layer of dust that coated everything in the chamber like a blanket of forgotten time.
Before him stretched the final hall of the Black Spire Dungeon—a cavern carved so deep into the world's core that even the concept of "up" felt more like a suggestion than a rule. The walls were etched with runes so ancient their meaning had long since faded into myth, though they still pulsed with a faint, dying light that cast shifting shadows across the flagstones. At the far end stood a vault door so massive it might have been hewn from the heart of a volcano, its surface covered in sigils that hissed and crackled at the slightest disturbance.
Another one, he thought, not bothering to open his eyes. They just keep coming.
Footsteps clattered against the stone, sharp and frantic against the heavy silence. Armor scraped against rough surfaces with a sound like fingernails on glass. A voice—young, pitched high with equal parts courage and terror—rang out across the chamber, echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
"Gray Ashbourne! I, Sir Aldric of the Silver Lion Order, Heir to the Duchy of Westmoor, have come to claim the dungeon's treasure and end your reign of—!"
A long, slow yawn cut through the declaration, so loud it might have been mistaken for a beast's roar if not for its obvious laziness. Gray cracked one eye open, squinting at the figure who'd skidded to a halt ten paces away, kicking up a cloud of dust that made him wince.
The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and looked like he'd spent every waking moment of the past year polishing every link of his silver plate mail until it shone bright enough to blind someone in the dark. His crimson cloak was perfectly draped, his boots were spotless, and his sword—drawn and held high—glowed with the warm, golden light of holy magic. Even his hair was perfectly coiffed, tied back in a neat braid adorned with small silver beads.
"Reign of what?" Gray mumbled, propping himself up on one elbow with visible effort. His dark robes were worn thin in places, stained with dust and what might have been dried moss. "I've been napping. Well—trying to nap."
"You've been trapping adventurers in this cursed place for thousands of years!" Sir Aldric's face flushed bright red, though whether from anger or exertion was hard to tell. He planted his feet wider apart, adjusting his grip on the glowing blade. "The histories say you sealed yourself here to guard the Voidheart Gem—the most powerful artifact ever forged by mortal hands! They say you've killed hundreds who dared to challenge you!"
Gray let his head fall back against the bone throne, closing his eye again. "Sealed? Nah. I came down here looking for a quiet spot where nobody would bother me. The dungeon just sort of… grew around me. Like moss on a log." He waved a hand without lifting his arm, and the dust on the throne's armrest swirled into a small, lazy vortex before settling back down in exactly the same pattern. "And the traps—those aren't my traps. That's just the ambient mana reacting to all the noise people make when they stomp through here like they own the place. Most of them just get turned around and wander back out eventually. The ones who don't… well, they never learn to be quiet."
He paused, his brow furrowing slightly. The movement sent more dust drifting from his hair—hair that was so pale it might have been white or light gray, though the grime made it hard to tell for sure. "Thousands of years, you say?"
The knight blinked, his jaw tightening. "You mean you don't know? The world above has turned over dozens of times since you vanished! The Age of Heroes ended, the Great Schism split the continent in two, three different empires rose and fell, and magic itself has changed beyond recognition—we don't even use runes like the ones on these walls anymore! They're considered lost knowledge!"
Gray scratched his chin, dust flaking off onto his robes. "Hmm. That does sound like a while." He'd long since lost track of time down here. There was no sun to mark its passage, no moon to count the nights. No seasons to remind him that life was moving forward somewhere else. Just endless dark, endless quiet, and the occasional interruption from someone looking to make a name for themselves by fighting the "ancient dark mage" in the depths of the Black Spire.
He'd heard the stories before, of course—they'd trickled down with each new group of adventurers, changing a little more every time. Sometimes he was a hero who'd sacrificed himself to contain an ancient evil. Sometimes he was a villain who'd stolen the Voidheart Gem for his own dark purposes. Sometimes he was a god, or a demon, or something in between. He'd stopped correcting people ages ago—it was easier just to let them say their piece and leave him be.
"Look," he said, pushing himself upright with a groan that rumbled through the chamber like distant thunder. Even shifting his weight felt like too much work—he'd been sitting in that same spot for so long his muscles had forgotten how to move with any real purpose. "I don't care about your kingdoms or your empires or your gem. If you want whatever's behind that door, be my guest. Just… can you do it quietly? I was in the middle of a really good nap. The kind where you don't even dream."
Sir Aldric stared at him, his mouth hanging open. For a moment, the only sound in the chamber was the faint crackle of the runes on the walls and the knight's heavy breathing.
"But… you're Gray Ashbourne," he finally managed. "The Mage-King who single-handedly held back the Demon Horde at the Battle of Crimson Fields! They say you could move mountains with a thought, turn armies to stone with a glance, and that your eyes glowed like burning embers! The bards sing of your silver hair and your crimson robes—they say you stood seven feet tall and wielded a sword that could cut through reality itself!"
Gray glanced down at his robes—dark gray, not crimson—and then at his hands, which looked perfectly ordinary save for the dust caked under his nails. He'd never measured his height, but he doubted he was seven feet tall. As for his eyes… he couldn't remember what color they were. There were no mirrors down here, and he'd long since stopped caring what he looked like. The stories were easier to believe than the truth anyway.
"I do remember moving something big once," he said, tapping his finger against the sword hilt in his hand. It was heavy, made of a metal he couldn't identify, and had a faint blue glow along its edge. "Probably a mountain. Or maybe a really heavy boulder that was in my way when I was looking for a place to sleep. Hard to tell." He leaned back against the throne, closing his eyes again. The stone was cool against his back, and he could feel the faint thrum of mana moving through it—like listening to the world's heartbeat. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"
A deafening CRACK split the air, so loud it sent dust raining down from the ceiling in thick clouds. The massive vault door shuddered, its surface spiderwebbing with glowing purple cracks that spread faster than water on dry cloth. A wave of raw, chaotic mana rolled through the chamber, so powerful it made the flagstones vibrate under their feet and sent Sir Aldric stumbling backward. His holy sword sputtered and died, the golden light winking out like a candle in a storm.
Gray sighed, opening his eyes fully for the first time. In the dim light of the failing runes, they gleamed with a color that had no name—something between storm clouds and deep space, with flecks of silver that looked like distant stars. The power that pulsed from him was so intense it made the air shimmer, and the dust that had coated his body for centuries was blown away in an instant, revealing robes of deep gray that seemed to shift and flow like smoke.
His hair was indeed silver—not the pale gray of age, but the bright, brilliant silver of polished moonlight, falling in loose waves to his shoulders. He was tall, though not seven feet, with broad shoulders and hands that looked strong enough to break stone despite their relaxed posture. But the most striking thing was his face—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and eyes that held the weight of millennia. It was the face of a legend, though he'd never seen it himself.
"Looks like naptime's over," he muttered, his voice deeper and clearer than it had been a moment before. He stood slowly, and the bone throne crumbled to dust behind him—its purpose fulfilled, or perhaps simply no longer strong enough to bear his weight. The strange sword in his hand began to glow with the same silver light as his hair, humming with a sound like wind through ancient trees. "Again."
Sir Aldric had pressed himself against the wall, his sword held before him despite its lack of light. But there was no fear in his eyes now—only awe.
"You… you really are him," the knight breathed. "But the stories… they never said you'd look like that."
Gray glanced down at himself, frowning slightly. He could feel the mana flowing through his body, waking up after centuries of slumber. It was powerful—more powerful than he remembered—but it was also exhausting. All he wanted was to find another quiet spot and go back to sleep.
"Stories never do," he said, walking past the knight toward the cracking vault door. Each step left a faint silver mark on the stone floor that faded as quickly as it appeared. "They tell you what people want to believe, not what's true."
As he approached the door, the purple cracks widened, and a sound like screaming wind poured through them. He could feel something on the other side—something old, something angry, something that had been waiting a very long time.
"Tell me, Sir Aldric of the Silver Lion Order," Gray said, pausing just before the door. He didn't turn around, but his voice carried through the chamber clearly. "What do people say I look like these days? I've heard so many versions… I'm curious what the latest one is."
The knight hesitated before answering. "They say you're a monster," he said finally. "Tall as a tower, with skin like stone and eyes like coals. They say your hair is black as pitch and that you have horns growing from your forehead. They paint you as a demon in the tapestries, a beast in the songs. Because it's easier to fight a monster than a man who's just… tired."
Gray was quiet for a long moment, his hand resting on the vault door. The metal was warm to the touch, vibrating with power.
"I suppose that makes sense," he said at last. "It's always easier to fear what you don't understand." He pushed against the door with one hand, and it swung open with a groan that shook the entire dungeon. Purple light poured out, illuminating his silver hair and strange eyes in ways that made him look almost inhuman. "Now get out of here. Go back to your world above and tell them whatever you want. Just… don't send anyone else down here looking for me. I'd really rather not be woken up again."
Sir Aldric didn't move, his eyes fixed on the portal of purple light. "What's in there? The Voidheart Gem?"
Gray stepped through the doorway, and for a moment, his form was silhouetted against the glowing darkness beyond.
"Something like that," he said, his voice already starting to fade. "Though 'gem' is a bit of an understatement. Now go. Before you get caught up in something that's been waiting longer than your entire world has existed."
The knight finally found his voice. "Will we see you again? When this is over?"
Gray paused, half-hidden in the purple light. He looked back over his shoulder, and though his face was mostly in shadow, Sir Aldric could see the faint hint of a smile.
"Doubt it," he said. "I'm planning to find the quietest spot I can manage once this is done. Maybe somewhere with no dungeons. No adventurers. No stories."
With that, he stepped fully into the light, and the vault door slammed shut behind him with a crash that echoed through the dungeon for miles. The runes on the walls flickered one last time and then went dark, leaving Sir Aldric alone in the silence.
The knight stood there for a long time before finally sheathing his sword and turning to leave. As he made his way back through the dungeon's twisting corridors, he found that all the traps had gone silent. The shifting walls had settled into place. The monsters that had plagued adventurers for centuries were nowhere to be seen.
Gray Ashbourne was gone. And whether he was a hero, a monster, or just a very tired man, Sir Aldric knew one thing for certain: the stories would never be able to capture the truth of him.