In his tireless pursuit to unravel the unity of the Kuri, Tal'ron unleashed a shadow beast unlike any before—crafted not for destruction, but for subversion. It was a creature of whispers and venom, slipping into the kingdom unseen, feeding on doubt and resentment like a leech in the soul. Its purpose was insidious: to poison Cyran's heart against Atlin and crack the fragile unity that had reformed.
"If I can't break them from the outside," Tal'ron had muttered, "then I'll rot them from the inside." echoing in the veil of the hollow between life and death.
It moved like ink through shadows, silent and unseen, slipping between stone walls and hearts alike. Forged from cursed aura and Tal'ron's hatred. Every step it took left cracks in the foundation of unity, feeding on silence, hiding beneath the weight of unseen fear. Utilizing that fear, it crept toward the central tower—intent on corrupting one of the Kuri.
But the beast erred.
Aerea, attuned to the subtle flows of spirit and aura, sensed the foul presence near the temple.
That… doesn't feel right.
Something's here. Something wrong.
She moved without hesitation. No alarms, no cries for aid—only the quiet courage of one who had saved many before.
"Let's see what you really are," she whispered under her breath as she rounded a corner.
But this creature was not like the others she had faced. As she confronted it in the shadowed outer corridors of the sanctum, its form coalesced—a silhouette of writhing dark mist, teeth and claws ever-shifting, its body seeming to devour the light around it.
"Creepy as hell," Aerea muttered. "Alright, then. Let's do this."
The first swipe of its claw shattered a stone column beside her.
"Okay—bad move," she snapped, feet already in motion. "There's no way I can take this thing alone… I need a plan. Now."
Aerea fled. Not in fear, but with purpose. She ran through the temple halls, weaving between its sacred chambers, praying not for salvation, but for a solution. Then—an idea sparked, as if whispered by fate itself.
There's one place… just one shot at this working.
She turned sharply and raced toward the heart of the Temple of Ma'jestia.
The central chamber of the temple was vast and hollowed into a grand dome. High above, a circular skylight opened to the heavens, perfectly aligned with the celestial path. In the center stood a towering crystal spire—smooth, translucent, and ancient beyond measure. Known as The Spire of Or'an, it pulsed faintly with stored divine energy, said to be a conduit between Or'an and the realm of mortals. During certain phases of the moon, its surface shimmered, reflecting divine light in brilliant cascades across the chamber.
Please… Or'an. Just once, give me your hand.
Aerea darted into this sacred place, her heart pounding. Behind her, the beast shrieked and followed, clawing up the marble steps.
"Come on, just a little more... please let this work," she hissed through clenched teeth.
"You wanted me? I'm right here."
And just as she stood in front of the spire, facing the creature lunging towards her—it struck.
The light from the moon broke through the skylight above, striking the crystal dead center. The Spire of Or'an surged, refracting the moonlight in a radiant burst of energy. Rays of divine brilliance shot outward like blades of silver fire, enveloping Aerea in a warmth of divine light, but ultimately casting away the shadows that clung to the beast. It screamed—a sound like a thousand voices in agony.
"That's right," she yelled. "Too much for you, huh?"
But even as it was unraveling, the creature forced itself forward one final time.
She twisted on instinct. Its jagged claw swiped across Aerea's back, dark tendrils piercing her skin in an instant.
Down the hall, Cyran heard her scream. His heart froze—then ignited. He bolted, his feet barely touching the ground as he sprinted through the temple corridors. His name echoed faintly in the sacred halls as he ran with everything he had, the fear clawing at him more savagely than any beast ever had.
He burst into the chamber just in time to see the shadow strike her—its claw raking across her back—before the divine light from the crystal engulfed it. The beast wailed as it was consumed, its form unraveling like smoke before the wind.
I stopped it… didn't I?
Aerea collapsed.
"No—no, no!" Cyran shouted, sliding to her side, falling to his knees as he cradled her in his arms. Her body was limp, blood painting the floor in crescents beneath her.
"Aerea!" he cried, holding her close, his voice cracking as panic rose in his throat. "Please—don't—Aerea—"
Her eyes fluttered open, just barely.
"I'm awake…" she whispered faintly, her voice rasping, "no need to shout…"
Cyran laughed through tears, the sound trembling and broken. "I'm sorry," he said, brushing her hair away from her face, "I wasn't fast enough."
She smiled softly, lifting a trembling hand to his cheek. Her fingers brushed away the wetness beneath his eyes.
"Don't worry… little flame," she murmured, "you'll have to tend the patient this time…"
Her hand fell limp.
She was still breathing.
Cyran clutched her tighter, his aura flickering chaotically with pain. "Help!" he cried, voice echoing off the temple walls. "Please, someone—Atlin!"
No answer. Not even a trace of Atlin's aura could be felt.
Then—footsteps. A presence behind him.
"Master Cyran."
He turned, eyes wild and desperate.
One of the temple's healers stood in the archway, robes fluttering as she rushed forward.
"Please—help," Cyran said, barely more than a whisper now. "Please."
She nodded, already calling for others. The sanctum filled with movement and light as healers converged on Aerea, lifting her from Cyran's arms with practiced care, speaking sacred incantations and surrounding her with restorative energy.
The sickness came swift and cruel. Aerea's skin glowed dim, her body wracked by a pain that no healer could explain. The beast was slain, its remnants cast into the void, but its mark endured.
Despite their best efforts, the Healers could do no more—not in the temple's sacred chamber, and pressure mounting. Cyran knelt beside Aerea, his hands trembling as he brushed her hair back from her pale face.
One of the elder healers stepped forward, his tone gentle yet firm. "We must take her to the Healers' Wing. There, we can stabilize her… if anything more can be done."
Cyran hesitated, his arms tightening around her for just a moment. Then, reluctantly, he nodded. "Be careful with her."
The Healers moved swiftly but with reverence, lifting Aerea onto a stretcher of light woven cloth. As they carried her away, Cyran remained kneeling, hands empty, heart raw.
He rose slowly, eyes turning to the towering crystal structure in the center of the temple's heart—a sacred monument that pulsed with the remnants of divine presence. Brilliant, prismatic, silent. The chamber around it was vast and circular, its floor inlaid with golden threads forming a spiral sigil that led directly to the base of the crystal. The air shimmered faintly with ambient energy, and from the arched ceiling, thin beams of moonlight filtered down like divine threads.
Desperate, Cyran moved closer, standing alone beneath its radiant height.
"Or'an," he called, voice low but resolute. "Please. She didn't deserve this."
He closed his eyes, whispering a name he hadn't spoken aloud in years.
"Or'an… if you're there—if you're watching—I don't know what to do."
At first, it was just a sound of hope, a quiet reach in the dark.
"I couldn't protect her on my own. I wasn't fast enough. I tried. But I failed."
The words came faster now. Harsher.
"Please. I need something. A sign. A voice. A push. Anything."
His voice cracked.
"You gave people like me this power, didn't you? So why… why does it feel like it's just for pain?"
Silence.
"Say something," he hissed. "Please! SAVE HER!"
But the Light remained still.
No voice answered.
No vision came.
Only silence. Deep. Hollow. Crushing.
Time passed—how much, he didn't know—until footsteps echoed through the hall once more.
Atlin and Haydia rushed in, breathless and anxious. They had been tending to the wounded, unaware of what had transpired until a temple runner brought word.
"Where is she?" Atlin asked.
"The Healers took her," Cyran replied without turning. His voice was strained. "To their wing. She's... still breathing."
Atlin stepped forward, eyes heavy with sorrow. "Cyran, I—"
"I tried, Atlin," Cyran said sharply, cutting him off. His voice trembled, but not with weakness—with rage. "I tried communicating with Or'an. I stood before the crystal. I prayed. I begged. And there was nothing. Silence."
Atlin's brow furrowed. "The Light listens, Cyran. Sometimes not in the ways we expect—"
"No," Cyran snapped. "Don't feed me riddles. Don't tell me the Light listens when my cries echo back unanswered. When she screamed, he was silent."
Haydia took a cautious step forward. "Cyran, we're with you. We'll find a way—"
"You don't understand!" Cyran's voice cracked. He turned to Atlin, eyes blazing. "You stood beside Or'an. You shine like the sun. Whole. Untouched. Favored. While I—we—suffer in the dark."
Atlin's expression hardened. "Don't mistake purpose for favor. I suffer too, brother."
"Do you?" Cyran sneered. "Because I see no cracks. I see no silence trailing you like a shadow."
"You think I don't carry burden?" Atlin's voice rose, defensive now. "You think I haven't bled for this world?
Haydia stepped between them, hands raised. "Enough! Both of you. This isn't the way—"
But Cyran's anger only deepened. "Stay out of this, Haydia. You think your presence softens the blow? It only makes it worse. You're part of his light."
Her face fell. Atlin clenched his jaw. "Cyran... this isn't you."
"It is me," Cyran hissed. "The one Or'an left behind."
Their words hung heavy in the chamber, like smoke after fire. What had once been unity was now strained thread.
The first Kuri, created to protect and inspire, now stood at the edge of something darker. And in the silence between their words, Tal'ron listened.
As the future of Halia grew uncertain. Months later, the war between Ma'jestia Kingdom and the Kall raged like a storm with no end in sight.
—
The skies churned with smoke and ash, and the ground was torn asunder by the relentless advance of Tal'ron's monstrous army.
Amidst the fray stood Atlin, his aura blazing with thunderous resolve. Lightning rippled across his body in arcs of radiant energy, each surge answering the pulse of his heartbeat. He moved like a living storm—grace and fury entwined—unleashing bolts of pure electricity that tore through the enemy ranks with divine precision.
One monstrous brute, twice his size and armored in bone, charged from the smoke with a jagged club raised high. Atlin met it head-on. He extended his hand—light flared from his palm, and a spear of lightning lanced forward with a crack like splitting stone. The beast never struck. It collapsed, smoking, as the scent of ozone burned through the air.
Enemy after enemy fell, scorched by the wrath of a Guardian born of sky and storm.
He turned briefly, expecting the familiar glow of flame beside him, the roar of heat and the echo of a voice that had always matched his step for step.
But there was only silence. Only memory.
Cyran, his brother, his equal—was not at his side.
Atlin exhaled and refocused, channeling his aura once more. Lightning arced from his fingertips, striking a beast mid-leap and scattering its remains like ash in the wind. The storm could not wait for longing.
"Push through," he muttered to himself, voice hard. "For her. For him. For all of them."
—
Cyran sat beside Aerea.
Her body trembled beneath pale linens, her breath shallow, but her spirit—her fire—remained. He clutched her hand, head bowed, whispering stories of laughter and life, of roads they'd walked and dreams still waiting. Her faint smile was a victory each time.
Until the smile faded.
Until the pain returned.
Cyran held tighter, voice shaking. "Stay with me, Arie. Just stay."
From the doorway, Haydia stepped quietly inside. "Cyran."
He didn't turn. "Don't ask. I'm not leaving her."
"I know," she said softly. "But your brother… he's out there. Alone."
Cyran's jaw clenched. "Atlin's the storm. The thunder. He'll manage."
Haydia stepped closer. "You're the flame. And together, you're more."
Still staring at Aerea, Cyran whispered, "He's where he needs to be. And so am I."
A flicker of frustration crossed Haydia's face. "Cyran, he's my—"
Cyran turned sharply. "He's your what?" The heat in his voice was sudden. "And Aerea? She's not mine?"
Haydia faltered.
"I thought so," Cyran snapped. Then, quieter, bitter: "Why don't you go pray to Or'an. He might still be listening."
The silence that followed was heavy—until Haydia departed.
Cyran looked up just in time to meet Aerea's eyes. They were open. Tired. Disapproving.
"What is that look for, Arie?"
"Don't 'Arie' me," she croaked. "You don't act like that to family."
"I—what?" he stammered. "You expect me to just leave you?"
"I expect you to do your duty," she rasped. "I love that you're here. I do. But you're needed out there. I want you out there, not here day after day."
He stared at her, heart splitting in two. "You can't be serious."
"I'm serious enough to throw you out to the frontline myself if I have to," she managed with a weak smirk.
Though every fiber of his soul screamed to resist, Cyran yielded to her plea. He pressed his forehead gently to hers, his voice a quiet promise. "I'll come back. I swear it."
He kissed her gently, then stood, fire already stirring in his chest.
Behind him, her voice followed like a thread of warmth: "I'll hold you to that, little flame."
As he stepped onward, a single tear slipped down her cheek—glistening like crystal, quiet as falling light.
—
His aura sparking wildly in streaks of electric blue and silver. Thunder crackled with each breath he took, pulsing through the veins of the war-torn land. His hand shot upward, releasing a pulse of energy that burst in the sky—an instruction. To the right flank: through the forest. They would cut through the middle like a spear.
But before the warriors could move, a concussive blast ripped through the field.
The shockwave hurled Atlin like a ragdoll, slamming him into the dirt. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. Smoke and screams clouded the air. Lying on his back, he blinked through the haze to see broken bodies of fallen comrades around him—friends, warriors, lives gone in an instant.
As he staggered to his feet, the ground trembled.
From the darkened ranks of the Kall emerged a towering figure. The Dark Golem.
Ten times the height of a man, its jagged obsidian form shimmered like a void carved from a nightmare. Its arms, thick as siege columns, ended in claws of broken rock, each finger as long as a sword. Red eyes, glowing with unnatural hatred, fixed on Atlin.
A bellow erupted from its maw, low and guttural—like mountains groaning beneath the strain of the world.
"Perfect," Atlin muttered, lightning dancing along his skin as his aura surged. "A big ugly boulder with an attitude."
The golem slammed its fists into the ground. Shockwaves blasted outward, toppling trees and knocking soldiers off their feet. Atlin dug his heels in, aura flaring as arcs of lightning grounded him like roots of thunder. He retaliated—twin bolts of crackling energy slammed into the golem's face. It reeled, just barely.
And then it charged.
What followed was chaos. Atlin darted and weaved through the beast's stomping rampage, each movement precise as a conductor's strike. Lightning spears crackled from his hands, piercing the air like thunder-laced javelins. The golem's massive fists swung down, carving trenches in the ground. Atlin flipped, blasted upward, landed hard—but always returned fire.
But eventually, the tide shifted. A blow landed. The golem's foot slammed Atlin down, pinning him. His lightning sputtered beneath the weight. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
The creature roared triumphantly, raising both arms to finish him.
Fire.
A searing wave of heat roared across the field. The golem's arms ignited in an explosion of flame, the air warping around it with blistering heat. The beast howled, stumbling back. The pressure on Atlin vanished.
Through the smoke and ash stepped Cyran.
Aura ablaze, his cloak scorched at the edges, flame dancing across his shoulders like a crown of wrath. Fire spun from his hands in controlled spirals, lashing out at the golem's limbs.
He knelt briefly to help Atlin up, grinning. "I was saying some pretty dramatic stuff about you earlier," Cyran said, panting. "Guess I jinxed it."
Atlin wiped blood from his chin. "Dramatic? What'd you say—'my brother the mighty storm, protector of realms'?"
"Closer to: 'he better not be dead'"
Atlin chuckled. "Good to see you, Flamehead."
Cyran helped him to his feet. "Likewise, Thunderface."
"Flank it from the sky?"
"I'll take it from below. You keep the clouds angry."
They moved.
Atlin launched into the air, lightning arcing from his body in furious bursts. The clouds above churned, answering his call, and bolts rained like judgment from heaven. Cyran, from the ground, blasted a constant barrage of flame, shaping his fire into whips, spears, and gouts of inferno. The battlefield became a symphony of heat and storm.
Together, they danced around the monster—Atlin's lightning disrupting its senses, Cyran's fire searing through its being.
Finally, the golem slowed.
"Think it's done?" Cyran asked, barely dodging a wild swing from the creature.
"Not yet," Atlin said simply, charging forward.
The golem let out a guttural roar, its dark cracks pulsing violently as it reared back and slammed a fist into the ground. The ground shook, jagged spires of obsidian jutting upwards in a desperate defense. Cyran twisted mid-dodge, sliding between the rising shards with a grin.
"Getting desperate, are we?" he taunted, launching a column of fire straight at the creature's chest. The flames hit, but the golem barely staggered.
"It's adapting," Atlin warned, lightning coiling around his arms. He thrust a hand forward, bolts raining down in precise, lethal arcs, cracking against the creature's molten hide.
The golem swung, its massive arm cleaving through the air with terrifying speed. Cyran barely ducked in time, the heat from its fist stinging his cheek.
"Alright, that was too close!" he barked, kicking up a wave of flame to force the monster back.
Atlin landed lightly beside him. "Adjust your stance. It favors brute force."
"Yeah, I figured that out when it tried to turn me into paste!" Cyran shot back.
The golem lunged again—faster, more aggressive. Atlin met it head-on, weaving between its strikes with razor-sharp precision. Lightning crackled at his fingertips, each movement a calculated assault. Cyran followed suit, his fire twisting around Atlin's attacks, filling in the gaps.
"Time to break this thing for good!" Cyran called, flames raging in his palms.
"Together," Atlin confirmed.
It swayed, eyes dimming.
Cyran's eyes flared red. Atlin's glowed yellow.
They unleashed their final strike—an intertwined surge of flame and lightning. The blast hit the golem dead center. It screamed, its form unraveling as cracks of molten light split it from within. Then—with a final, rumbling gasp—it exploded into dust.
Cyran let out a sharp breath, shaking off the lingering heat. "Tell me that wasn't the coolest thing you've ever seen."
Atlin landed calmly, eyes scanning the remains. "Compose yourself."
Cyran sighed dramatically. "Man, you're really bad at appreciating the moment."
"We are moving on."
"Fine, fine… But seriously, did you see that last hit? Perfect form."
Atlin clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Next time, try not to wait until I'm nearly crushed to make your entrance."
"Next time, don't get flattened by a boulder with legs."
But as Cyran looked beyond the smoke, his eyes softened.
"I'm only here for a while. Aerea's still fighting back at the temple."
Atlin's expression turned somber. "Guess we'd better wrap this up fast"
They nodded.
And once more, the brothers stood side by side.
Ready for what came next.
As the battle dragged on, the rhythm between the Kuri warriors became seamless—lightning and flame moving as one. The Kall, vicious and unrelenting, surged again and again, but their monstrous strength was no match for the coordination and conviction of the defenders.
Then came the final blow.
With a wordless cry, Cyran launched a torrent of searing flame upward, just as Atlin summoned a bolt of pure, crackling lightning from the storm above. The twin forces collided midair, erupting in a cataclysmic flash of heat and sound. The sky itself seemed to split. The battlefield fell into stunned silence.
When the smoke cleared, the ground was scorched, and the air carried the scent of ash and stone. The Kall monstrosities were no more—dissolving into dust that scattered on the wind. Victory, hard-won, had been claimed.
But not without cost.
The battlefield, though quiet, bore the weight of grief. Among the weary stood human soldiers who searched the fallen for familiar faces—some embracing lifeless comrades, others crying out names into the void. A father clutched the helm of his son, unmoving in the dirt. A woman knelt by her sister, whispering prayers to Fei'yai between sobs. The joy of survival was shadowed by the aching silence of absence.
Atlin stepped forward, his armor charred, his aura still sparking faintly as the storm around him subsided. He looked not to the victors—but to the grieving.
His voice rang out, deep and steady, yet heavy with sorrow.
"You fought not just for a kingdom, but for the ones you love. And some among you paid the highest price."
He paused, scanning the faces before him—bloodied, battered, tear-streaked.
"We do not forget the fallen. We carry them with us. In every strike, in every breath of freedom, their memories live."
He stepped down from the ridge, walking among the humans as equals.
"You've shown us courage beyond words. Not because you were fearless, but because you stood even in fear. And for that, you have my deepest respect."
His gaze turned to the horizon, toward the city beyond the hills.
"Return to your families. Hold them close. And when the sun rises, let it rise for those we've lost, and the peace they died to protect. We'll mourn, we'll honor, and we'll keep fighting—for them."
Some soldiers nodded solemnly. Others wept openly, holding each other in the cold wind. Pride and pain mixed in equal measure. And as they turned toward home, carrying both victory and grief, the Kuri stood beside them—not as guardians from above, but as brothers-in-arms.
The dust of battle began to settle and the last echoes of war faded into silence, Atlin turned, having dismissed the human battalions with a few solemn words. He spotted Cyran in the distance, alone among the bodies and debris, standing motionless. Concern tugged at him—not because of the fight they had just endured, but because of what his brother now seemed to endure alone.
Cyran stood at the battlefield's edge, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He had fought with fury, side by side with humans and Atlin alike. Lightning and flame had brought them victory—but his soul remained untouched by triumph. Something was wrong. Deeply, terribly wrong.
A distant gallop broke the quiet.
A Steer—one of the swift, deer-like beasts bred by the temple messengers—approached quickly, its hooves pounding over blood-soaked terrain. The rider dismounted and bowed low, pressing a sealed scroll into Cyran's hands. The symbol on the wax seal struck him like a blow: the crest of the Healers' Guild.
The same place where Aerea had been clinging to life for months.
His fingers trembled as he broke the seal. His eyes scanned the message—once, twice—before his breath hitched and his knees buckled.
"To Cyran"
Tucked inside was a smaller parchment. Cyran unfolded it with shaking hands. Her handwriting. Her voice, suddenly so near.
My Dearest Cyran,
As I write this, I can feel the weight of time growing thin. I don't know how many more sunrises I'll see, but I do know that every one I've had with you has been more beautiful than the last.
I remember the first time we met outside the tower—how the world seemed to still the moment I heard your voice. I pretended not to care, tried to seem distant. But the truth is, I was lost then… surrounded by pain, seeing only the wounded and the fallen. I didn't think I could feel anything again.
And then you spoke, and something shifted.
Our time together was far too short, but it was filled with more love and light than I ever thought possible. I've cherished every moment—every smile, every quiet breath between us. You brought color back into my world. You reminded me that even in darkness, there can be warmth.
This is the end of my story, my love. But yours is far from over.
Love you always, my little flame.
Forever yours,
Aerea.
Darkness. Pitch black.
No breath. No sound.
Only the steady thrum of a heartbeat. Cyran's.
He collapsed to his knees as the last of Aerea's words etched themselves into his soul. The parchment in his hands trembled with him. Tears streamed unchecked, blurring her handwriting until it became a haze of ink and memory. He pressed the letter to his chest as if the warmth of his body could breathe life back into hers.
Atlin approached quietly. The light had faded from Cyran's aura, replaced by a flickering ember—barely holding on. Atlin said nothing. He didn't need to. A single hand on Cyran's shoulder said what no words could.
And nothing could reach Cyran in that moment.
As Atlin turned to return to the city, leaving his brother with the weight of goodbye, a sudden movement snapped Cyran's attention toward the distant treeline. A shadow—quick, nimble, and unmistakably familiar—moved against the horizon.
A shadow beast.
Cyran's breath caught.
It was the same shape. The same dreadful presence. One alike that attacked Aerea. The one that had ended her.
His grief became heat.
With a roar, Cyran shot off like a falling star igniting mid-air—flames trailing his form, heat distorting the air around him. He crossed the open field in seconds, giving chase into the forest with a ferocity Atlin could only stare at in stunned silence.
"Cyran—!" Atlin called after him. But he was already gone.
Through trees and thick brush, over ravines and crag, the creature darted—its black form slipping between shadows, trying to lose him. But Cyran was relentless. The memory of Aerea's laughter rang in his ears, and each step pushed him faster, hotter, wilder.
He broke through the treeline into the Deadlands.
Here, the world ended.
No sky. No life. Only a horizonless expanse of ash and bone. Shadows coiled across the ground like living things. The beast vanished again.
Cyran stood in the center of the emptiness, breath ragged, flames dimming around him.
Without warning.
A whisper of movement behind him.
The shadow beast lunged.
Cyran turned just in time, his hands catching the monster's jagged form mid-attack. It shrieked, claws raking at him—but he didn't budge. He held it close, arms wrapped tight around it like he was embracing someone he loved.
Like he was holding Aerea one last time.
Tears fell freely from his face, hissing against his own skin as they met his blazing aura. "You took her from me," he breathed. "You took everything."
The shadows around them fled in fear.
Then his aura surged—an eruption of flame and heat that expanded outward in a brilliant sphere, stretching across the desolate expanse like the sun blooming in a void.
But then, it collapsed.
The energy contracted, drawn inward—sucked into the very center of Cyran's being. Time itself seemed to slow. The air was still. The wind fell silent. Dust, ash, fragments of stone—everything began to rise around him, as if gravity itself had forgotten its place.
There was no sound.
Only a heartbeat. Steady. Breaking.
Cyran in stillness, closed his eyes
He let go.
A roar of flame erupted from his core, a blast not born of rage but of heartbreak so profound it tore through the very fabric of the Deadlands. The explosion annihilated the shadow beast, scorched the land, and vaporized every trace of darkness in its wake. Light—pure and searing—rippled outward, bright as judgment.
When it was over, the land was silent again.
Ash drifted down like snow. Embered stone cracked and hissed beneath the weight of memory.
And when the light faded, Cyran knelt in the dust.
Breathing.
Alive.
But hollow.
Lost in a storm of grief, Cyran barely noticed the world shifting around him. The landscape of the Deadlands began to dissolve, shadows writhing like living things. Then, without warning, a thick, smoky black mist began to curl around him—dense, choking, and cold. It moved with purpose, coiling around him. The mist was so heavy he could scarcely see his own hand in front of his face. His breathing slowed, each inhale dragging with effort.
As the mist began to part, a figure emerged—tall, cloaked in inky shadows that swallowed the surrounding light. No features, only the gleam of glowing red eyes beneath a shifting hood of darkness. Cyran's breath caught. He pushed himself off the ground and rose to his feet, fists clenching as his aura flickered uncertainty around him.
"Cyran," came a voice—low, resonant, and impossibly deep. It rolled like thunder across a dead plain, laced with dark velvet and an unnatural calm. It was Tal'ron.
The sight of him sent a chill up Cyran's spine.
"Such a tragic fate has befallen you," Tal'ron continued, his tone thick with false empathy. "To lose your beloved Aerea just as you achieved victory… It seems so unfair, doesn't it?"
The shadowy god drifted closer, soundless, as though gravity itself bent to avoid him. "I can feel your pain," he said softly, voice like a deep drumbeat muffled beneath the soil. "It's suffocating. Crushing. And I…"
"You took my life away from me!" Cyran cut in, voice sharp with fury. "I should be destroying you where you stand."
Tal'ron didn't flinch. "You can't destroy a form that has no physical being," he replied, calm and cold, like a bitter wind brushing against open wounds.
"Then why me?" Cyran snarled, his fists clenched, aura flaring with unstable heat. "Why are you here? Why torment me? Haven't you done enough?"
Tal'ron stopped just a few paces away. The mist pulsed around him, a living shroud. "What if I told you there was a way to bring her back?"
The words struck Cyran like a blade through his chest. His breath caught, but his voice came low, seething. "You're lying."
His heart pounded in his ears.
She wouldn't want this, he thought. She'd never ask me to give into the darkness we fought. She wouldn't recognize me.
But she's gone. And I'm still here.
Tal'ron wove slowly around him, a serpent cloaked in shadow. "I understand your mistrust," he said, voice a deep whisper. "But I deal in forces far beyond your reach. Life. Death. The borders between. I can rewrite them—bend them."
He paused, drifting just behind Cyran's shoulder.
"All I ask… is your strength. And your allegiance."
A surge of anger rose again. "You caused this," Cyran growled. "You sent that thing. You're the reason she's gone."
Tal'ron's eyes narrowed, his voice still unwavering. "Maybe so, Cyran. But fate took her from you. I only offer you a chance to challenge that fate. To take back what was stolen."
Cyran's fury clashed with his grief, creating a storm inside him he could no longer contain. He looked down. Aerea's final words still echoed in his mind. The last remnant of her. The words she left him. Her light—gone. And all he had left… was the unbearable silence.
"I…" he breathed. "I want her back. More than anything."
"Then I can give her to you," Tal'ron said, voice like dark velvet. "But you must choose."
He looked up, eyes glassy with grief. "Then… I'll do it. I'll join you. Just… bring her back."
Tal'ron's smile was slow and cruel. Darkness extended a hand, not physical, but a sweeping motion through the black mist. Shadows coiled around Cyran's feet like serpents, then climbed higher, wrapping around his limbs and torso. The ground beneath him darkened, fractured veins of crimson spreading outward like roots from his body.
The Deadlands pulsed once—an eerie, soundless thrum—as the air thickened with otherworldly pressure.
Then the mist rose in a spiral around them, swirling with terrifying purpose.
The shadows surged—swallowing Cyran whole.
Back on the battlefield, where the sky had finally begun to clear and the smoke of war gave way to dusk, the letter Cyran had dropped lay forgotten amid the scorched terrain and ash.
Its edges crackled gently, flames licking at the paper with agonizing slowness.
The ink had run in places from fallen tears, but some words still held their shape.
"Love you always, my little flame.
Forever yours—"
The fire devoured the rest.
And with that, her final words faded into the wind.