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In a dark room beneath the hills, in a distant and untamed land, the one who was once an artificer broods. The feelings of confidence and power have given way to doubt... though he has transcended his mortal body, he has merely traded a prison of flesh for a prison of crystal. His Heart remains vulnerable, his forces are weak. He is by no means a god, yet... indeed, even his immortality is by no means assured, in this perilous position.

If they have not yet already, others will discover that he has the Heart. Others will come to this land, seeking it. Seeking him. He is not yet ready to face them.

Even his prize seems tarnished, as the whispers of long-dead spirits haunt him. Others have come this far before, and failed; he is no better than they. Indeed, he is less prepared than many were. Who is he, really, to think that he can truly master this power?

...indeed, who is he, at all? In the rush of power that accompanied his ascendance, the artificer finds he cannot quite remember his name. That is certainly a thought to trouble the mind of a god!