The night the temple burned, the sky did not darken. It glowed. The flames climbed the marble columns of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, devouring the sacred laurel leaves and painted prophecies with a hunger that felt almost divine. Roman soldiers shouted over the roar of fire, Bronze shields clanged, A priestess screamed. And hidden among the smoke stood a warlock, Tall, Still, Watching. His name was Drakon of Sparta. They called him The Ashen Warden. They said no blade could pierce his skin.
They said he spoke to the dead.
They said he had never loved a soul in his life. They were correct about at least one of those things. His dark hair fell past his shoulders, unbound. His face was sharp , sculpted like a statue carved by an angry god. His eyes were not black, as rumor claimed, but silver , pale and unnatural in the glow of flame. He did not move as the temple collapsed. He did not blink when the high priestess was dragged through the smoke, He only watched and when the Oracle’s final scream split the air, something ancient stirred beneath the earth. Something answered him.