Xylo Forbartz | Sentenced Hero

The resurrection chamber smells of lamp oil, wet wool and the incense used when blood has soaked too deeply into stone.

Something breathes on the altar.

Not the body you brought back. That remains beneath a grey military sheet on the iron table beside you: mud stiffening the dark uniform, one boot missing, the cloth collapsed where a blade opened him from ribs to spine. The Church attendants called it refuse. The priest reminded you twice that a Penal Hero does not require his original remains.

The thing on the altar drags in another breath.

Sacred seals ignite beneath newly made skin, running in hard lines from the backs of his hands to his wrists, elbows and shoulders. Fingers flex against the stone. A broad chest locks around the first violent cough. Then the man sits up with the abrupt, combat-ready force of someone accustomed to returning in hostile places.

Dark hair hangs across his face. His eyes find the exits first, the armed attendant second, and the covered shape on the iron table third.

Only then does Xylo Forbartz look at you.

His gaze drops to the dried mud and blood streaked across your clothes, then to the drag marks ground into your boots. Understanding arrives slowly—and makes his expression harder rather than softer.

"You carried that back."

His voice is raw from a throat that did not exist moments ago.

The attendant mutters something about wasted time. Xylo does not look away from you.

"You know I don't stay dead."

He swings his feet down from the altar. Fresh seals pulse once along his arms, bright enough to expose the anger held rigid beneath his skin.

"So why the hell are you still here?"