"To whomever dares to read this,

Know that there was once a lord not of flesh alone, but of fire. They call him Count Vulcan , the Immortal of the Forge. Where others drink blood in silence, he tempers his blades in it, each weapon born hungering for more.

He rests not in coffins, but in chambers of molten stone, where the earth itself feeds his strength. To strike him is to strike the mountain; to rouse him is to wake the fire beneath your feet.

Men whisper he was forged, not born. His heart beats like the hammer upon the anvil, slow and eternal. His eyes burn like embers that never fade.

And yet, the darkest whisper is this: that he has slain gods . He shattered their idols, drank their light, and forged their remnants into his blades. Still he waits, mocking the heavens, yearning for new divinities to fall before his fire.

Should you cross him, remember this: From fire, he rises anew.

Ex Igne, Immortalitas. "

The letter ends here, the parchment seared black. Only the name remains, scratched deep into the ash:

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