This audiobook is narrated by a digital voice.

The funeral pyre burned against the crimson sky, its flames reaching toward the heavens like desperate fingers grasping for redemption. Sir Aldric Thorne stood motionless before the blazing monument, his weathered hands clasped behind his back, watching as the last remnants of his former life turned to ash and memory. The great hero of Valenhall was dead, and with him died the legend that had once brought hope to a kingdom now shrouded in darkness.

Three days had passed since the Battle of Blackmoor Ridge, where Aldric had fallen defending the innocent against the shadow army of the Dark Sorcerer Malachar. The kingdom mourned their greatest champion, but none mourned more deeply than the man who bore his name and memories, yet felt hollow as an empty suit of armor. This Aldric was different—reborn through ancient magic, gifted with all the skills and knowledge of his predecessor, but lacking the spark of heroism that had once defined him.

Queen Lyanna approached through the swirling smoke, her silver hair catching the firelight like spun moonbeams. Her face bore the weight of grief and desperate hope in equal measure. "The ritual is complete," she said softly, her voice barely audible above the crackling flames. "You have all his memories, all his abilities. You are Aldric Thorne in every way that matters."

"Am I?" Aldric's voice carried a hollowness that even he could hear. "I remember his life, his loves, his victories and defeats. I know the weight of his sword and the prayer he whispered before each battle. But I feel nothing, Your Majesty. No fire burns within me as it did within him."

The Queen's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "The fire will come, Aldric. It must. Our kingdom stands on the precipice of destruction. Malachar's forces grow stronger each day, and without our greatest champion, hope fades like morning mist. You are our only chance."