The slave market pulses with a sickening rhythm: chains clink, haggling voices rasp, desperate sobs echo.
The stench of sweat, unwashed bodies, and fear clings to the air, thick and suffocating. Ránia's stomach churns, a bitter echo of the smoke-filled ruins of her home.
They shove her forward, a rough hand biting into her arm. Ránia Aegir a lady with shappire colored eyes, Dark Ash hair, and Red Lips
A guttural laugh erupts from a trader, a sound that scrapes against her ears like shards of glass.
Wealthy nobles, their faces masks of cruel indifference, appraise the captives with the same detached interest they'd show a prized horse.
Her thin, tattered Lemurian robes, once a symbol of pride, are now stained with the grime of the march, the blood of her kin.
Each step is a phantom echo of the frozen wasteland, the endless march after her village falls to the Aetherian army.
The screams of her family, their faces contorted in terror, still echo in the hollows of her mind. They are looking for heroes.
Not to recruit, but to extinguish. Erebus, the Death God, and Allain, the Hero of Aetheria, have decreed it.
Upon the death of the former Heroes and the god and godesses missing no one can intervened on their plan to hold the whole continent under their control.
A whip cracks nearby, the sharp sting a reminder of her powerlessness. Emaciated figures collapse under the weight of their chains, their cries swallowed by the jeers of the crowd. Children, their faces gaunt, wail for mothers who are long gone.
Escape. The thought pulses like a frantic heartbeat. Survive.
A sharp yank on her wrist sends a jolt of pain through her. "Move, girl!" a slaver snarls, dragging her toward a raised platform.
"A rare prize!" the slaver booms, his grip tightening on Ránia's chin, forcing her face upward.
"A Lemurian woman, untouched, strong of build! A fine addition to any lord's collection—or perhaps a warrior for the blood pits?"
The crowd's murmur turns into a hungry buzz. Ránia's breath hitches. The blood pits. A slow, agonizing death for the amusement of her captors.
Freyr… she thinks, her vision blurring. Have you truly abandoned us? Why do you let them burn Lemuria? Why do you stay silent?
Only the jeers, the clinking of coins, and the crushing weight of despair answer.
A brilliant light eminate in the sky a radiant streak cutting through the haze of the market.
A collective gasp ripples through the crowd. The traders, the nobles, even the slavers freeze, their eyes fixed on the descending light.
Ránia feels a pull, a resonance deep within her soul. Her breath catches in her throat. The light is coming straight for her.
Time seems to warp. The object crashes into the earth before her, sending a wave of dust and debris flying. The slaver stumbles back, cursing.
Half-buried in the dirt is a trident. Its polished silver surface gleams, reflecting the harsh sunlight. Intricate Lemurian runes, etched along its shaft, pulse with an ethereal blue fire. Blue gemstones embedded in its base shimmer with an otherworldly light.
Water droplets spiral around it, forming a shimmering, protective barrier.
The Hero's Trident. Lost for many years after the Lemurian Hero has Fallen.
The trident pulses again, a silent call.
Ránia's hands tremble.when she reaches out, the trident moves toward her, as if drawn by an unseen force.
Her fingers wrap around the hilt, and warmth floods through her veins, a surge of power that shatters the chains binding her. The metal disintegrates into dust.
The slavers recoil, their shock morphing into fear.
"She's one of them!" a noble shrieks. "A hero!"
Then comes the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps. Allain, the Hero of Aetheria.
Allain stands before her, clad in deep blue mantle lined with white fur. His silver-plated armor gleams, and in his grasp is Frostmourne, the cursed blade.
A visible wave of frost emanates from the blade, creeping across the cobblestones and leaving a shimmering trail of ice.
"Surrender, Lemurian," Allain says, his voice cold and sharp. "You cannot win."
Ránia held the weapon in it hand tightly and readied to defend if anyone dare to attack or capture her.
Ránia lunges, the trident a blur of silver. Allain is fast, his movements precise, his counterattacks lethal.
A searing pain rips through her side as Frostmourne's edge grazes her. She crashes to the ground, her vision blurring.
Allain raises Frostmourne, ready to strike.
Then, a blinding arc of wind splits the space between them, sending both warriors stumbling back.
A figure steps forward, wielding a blade that shimmers like the silver moon.
A figure steps forward, wielding a blade that shimmers like the silver moon. Euclid Belmont.
He stands poised, the Moonblade gleaming, its light a stark contrast to the shadows clinging to Allain.
He is the new hero of Lunaria, tasked with finding and uniting the scattered heroes. Ránia's breath catches; hope flickers in her chest, a fragile flame against the biting wind.
Allain's eyes narrow, his gaze fixed on Euclid. "Another hero," he hisses, Frostmourne's chill radiating outwards. "Your kind is persistent."
Euclid's voice is steady, a calm counterpoint to Allain's icy tone. "I am here to protect those you seek to destroy."
Without another word, Euclid lunges. The Moonblade sings as it cuts through the air, a whirlwind of silver. Allain meets the attack, Frostmourne a dark, deadly shadow.
The clash of their blades rings through the market, a discordant symphony of steel.
Ránia watches, her heart pounding. The fight is a whirlwind of motion, a blur of silver and dark blue.
Euclid moves with a fluid grace, his strikes precise and powerful. Allain, however, is a wall of brutal efficiency, his counterattacks relentless.
But something else is happening. Allain's eyes, usually cold and unwavering, flicker with a strange intensity.
He recognizes the movements, the stance, the sheer ferocity of Euclid's attacks.
Clyde.
The name echoes in the hollows of his mind, a ghost of a friendship betrayed. These are the same moves, the same fighting style, the same undeniable skill as Clyde Braveheart, his former comrade, the one he struck down. The same as the others he has eliminated.
A cold dread grips Allain.
He sees not Euclid, but a phantom of the past, a reminder of the heroes he has extinguished. His grip tightens on Frostmourne, the cursed blade pulsating with dark energy.
"You cannot win," Allain snarls, his voice laced with a desperate edge. "You are just like him."
Euclid's blade flashes, deflecting a brutal strike. "I am not him," he replies, his voice firm, "but I will avenge him."
The fight intensifies, each clash of their blades a thunderclap in the tense silence of the market.
Allain fights with a renewed ferocity, his attacks fueled by a dark, burning fear. Euclid meets him blow for blow, his movements a testament to the lost hero's legacy.
"Is this all the Hero of Aetheria has?" Euclid taunts, his voice sharp and clear. "Now I know you were not able to win against Clyde. I think you just used underhanded tricks. That's why you managed to defeat him, and the others."
A flicker of rage, raw and uncontrolled, ignites in Allain's eyes.
The taunt strikes a nerve, a wound that festers in his soul. He remembers the desperate struggle, the choices he made, the blood he spilled. The truth of Euclid's words stings.
Allain's attacks become more reckless, more desperate, his movements betraying a hint of panic.
Allain's Ice Dragon's Breath roars, a frigid tempest that should freeze bone and shatter stone.
But Euclid deflects the onslaught with a casual flick of the Moonblade.
The icy breath dissipates, leaving only a faint chill in the air. Dancing Ice Crystals erupt, a glittering storm of razor-sharp shards, yet each one is met and turned aside, the Moonblade a shimmering, impenetrable barrier.
Euclid's movements are a dance, a fluid, effortless display of mastery. He anticipates Allain's every strike, every skill, parrying and deflecting with an almost mocking ease. Allain, the Hero of Aetheria, the slayer of heroes, finds himself outmatched, his vaunted skills rendered impotent.
A vein throbs in Allain's temple, a pulse of fury and fear. He lunges, Frostmourne a blur of dark energy, aiming a vicious strike at Euclid's heart. But Euclid sidesteps, the Moonblade flashing, and the cursed blade bites only air.
"You are a shadow of Clyde," Euclid says, his voice a low, cutting whisper. "A pale imitation of a true hero."
Allain, a raw, untamed fury. Frostmourne pulses with dark energy, and the air around him crackles with frost. He unleashes a barrage of attacks, a whirlwind of icy strikes, each one infused with the desperation of a cornered beast.
But Euclid remains unmoved, a bastion of calm amidst the storm. He parries, deflects, and counters, each movement precise, each strike a calculated blow. Allain's attacks, once a storm of deadly precision, now seem wild and uncontrolled, a testament to his unraveling composure.
"You fight with fear," Euclid observes, his voice laced with disdain. "Fear of the past, fear of your own weakness."
The truth of the words stings, a bitter poison that seeps into Allain's veins. He knows Euclid is right.
He is haunted by the ghosts of the heroes he has slain, by the memory of his betrayal. He is afraid, afraid of being exposed, afraid of being judged.
With a final, desperate cry, Allain unleashes a wave of dark energy, a desperate attempt to overwhelm Euclid.
Allain stumbles, his strength failing, his spirit broken. He stands before Euclid, his eyes filled with a hollow despair, a broken hero facing the consequences of his actions. He is on the verge of defeat.
But then, the air crackles with an unnatural energy. The sky darkens, a storm brewing out of thin air.
A voice, resonant and powerful, echoes through the marketplace. "Enough."
The God of Aetheria descends, a figure of pure, terrifying power. A wave of lightning, crackling with corrupt energy, erupts from his outstretched hand, aimed directly at Euclid. Euclid raises the Moonblade, attempting to deflect the divine attack, but the sheer force of the lightning overwhelms his defenses. A searing pain shoots through his shoulder, the mark of the god's power.
The Death God of Aetheria, Erebus, has arrived, his dark magic a suffocating shroud.
Allain, seeing the shift in the battle, lets out a harsh, triumphant laugh. "You thought you could defeat me?" he sneers, his voice regaining its edge. "You were wrong."
But his laughter is cut short. A shimmering, intricate magical barrier flares around Euclid, shielding him from a wave of dark, pulsing energy.
Before the chaos can escalate further, a robed woman appears beside Euclid. Her eyes, filled with ancient wisdom, scan the battlefield. She raises her hands, chanting in a language that resonates with power.
A dark pulse of magic, a wave of pure corruption, launches from Erebus toward Euclid and the robed woman. She steps directly in front of Euclid and Rania, absorbing the brunt of the attack.
"We must leave," she says, her voice strained but firm.
With a surge of energy, she weaves a teleportation spell. The marketplace dissolves, the sounds of battle fading into nothingness.
Euclid, Ránia, and the robed woman are whisked away, transported in an instant to the heart of the Kingdom of Lunaria, within the walls of its majestic castle. They appear in a flash of light, the echoes of the battle still ringing in their ears.