The moon hung low over the silver towers of Rithaleon, its light soft and heavy, like a secret waiting to be told. The city—jewel of the Eastern Kingdoms, slept beneath a blanket of quiet fog, unaware that its fate had already been glimpsed—in the dream of a boy.
High within the marble halls of House Elraven, in a chamber carved with runes older than the empire itself, Zyren Elraven, heir to the Highblood Throne, sat awake in the dark.
He has been reading—an old history, worn thin at the corners—its text half-forgotten even by the scholars of Elraven's deep halls. But the words blurred now, heavy on his eyes. He set the tome aside, troubled.
The council expected him at sunrise. The fiery incident at Calder's Hollow and the surrounding villages has occurred. And yet, that wasn't what kept him up.
It was them.
The visions.
He lay back, fingers brushing the pendant at his neck—a silver circle with a moonstone center. The stone pulsed faintly, as if already sensing what was to come.
And sleep came like a shadow.
—
In the dream, he stood atop a shattered cliff, the jagged rocks beneath his feet slick with blood-red rain. The sky was torn with crimson lightning, and each flash illuminated the desolation below. The wind howled, its wail like the cry of a thousand lost souls.
Below him, the world burned.
Forests became ash. Oceans froth and boiled. There was no mercy in the destruction, only the relentless march of an army that knew no bounds.
From the ruin marched dark figures, their robes billowing like the folds of night itself. Each was marked with the jagged red sun, the symbol seared into Zyren's memory the moment he saw it—the insignia of the Order of the Black Sun.
He had heard the legends. Whispers of their return, of an ancient power that sought to cast the world into shadow. But even his tutors in the ancient halls of House Elraven had spoken only in riddles about the Order, as if even the most learned minds dared not speak their name aloud.
Now, he saw them with his own eyes.
They moved like a plague, devouring everything in their path. Towns crumbled beneath their advance. Cities knelt to the ground in submission.
Dragons, great and terrible, flew beside them, corrupted by dark magic, their wings bathed in the crimson light of the storm. They were no longer the noble creatures of legend but twisted, malevolent beings bound by chains of sorcery, their once-mighty roars now strangled by the will of their masters.
At their center stood a man cloaked in shadows, a silhouette so dark it seemed to devour the very light around him. His presence chilled Zyren to his core, and though Zyren could not see his face, he felt the weight of the man's gaze—a gaze that could freeze the stars in their courses.
He could feel it—the hate. Old and deep.
As if it had waited eons to return to the world.
Zyren's heart pounded as the figure raised a hand toward the heavens, summoning a wave of raw, dark energy that seemed to tear the very fabric of the universe.
And as the storm raged around him, Zyren realized with horror that he was no longer alone.
To his right stood a girl,her silver eyes burning with fierce purpose. Her long hair, as white as the moon, whipped in the wind, and in her hands crackled a blue flame that bent reality around it, like fire and ice entwined. It was as if the very elements bowed to her will.
She didn't speak, but Zyren felt her presence like an unspoken promise. There was something familiar about her, something deep and soul-rooted.
And something else—a name, hovering just out of reach on the tip of his tongue. Ly— It vanished before he could grasp it.
"Who are you?" Zyren called out, his voice lost in the howl of the storm.
She didn't answer. Her gaze locked with his, intense and full of knowing. She knows me, Zyren thought. And I know her.
It wasn't just familiarity. There was a bond between them—a connection that transcended time and space, as if they were threads of the same tapestry, woven together by fate itself.
To his left, a dwarf, shorter than Zyren's chest, roared with laughter that echoed across the storm. He swung twin axes with such skill and fury that darkness itself recoiled before him. His beard was singed, his armor dented from countless battles, yet his spirit remained unbroken.
Every blow he struck against the void seemed to defy death itself, his laughter a defiant cry against the encroaching darkness.
"Ha! You can't have the world while I'm still standing!" the dwarf bellowed, his voice filled with mirth, despite the peril surrounding them.
Behind them, like whispers in the wind, danced two elves—twins, it seemed. One wielded blades of light, their edges gleaming with an ethereal glow. The other conjured magic of a kind Zyren had never seen—runes etched in the air, sparks of power that twisted into shapes both beautiful and terrifying.
Together, they moved like music given form, each step a harmonious note in a battle of ancient powers.
"Keep moving, brother!" the elf wielding the runes shouted to his twin. "Don't let them break through!"
The other elf nodded, his silvery hair catching the wind as he parried a wave of darkness with a flash of his blade. "We must hold them back until she's ready!"
They fought together, their movements so perfectly synchronized that it seemed they shared a single mind. Zyren couldn't help but feel awe at their skill, though fear twisted in his chest.
He didn't know their names, had never seen them before—but somehow, they felt important. Like pieces in a future he hadn't lived yet. Couldn't have lived yet.
It wasn't just a dream. It was a glimpse of something more.
A vision.
A possible future.
They stood together, side by side, against an overwhelming force.
Zyren's heart thundered in his chest as the storm above them intensified.
The dark figure raised his hand, a signal to unleash the final wave of destruction.
The very earth beneath their feet began to crack, a chasm opening that threatened to swallow them all.
The girl's flame flared brighter, the dwarf's axes cut through shadow like lightning through the night. The twins fought with a fluidity that made them appear as one, the blades of light flashing like stars in the chaos.
Just as the storm reached its peak, the shadow-cloaked figure's hand began to descend, a final blow that would consume everything.
The girl stepped forward, her flame swelling to an impossible size.
"No," Zyren shouted, stepping toward her, but the ground beneath his feet began to shake.
The air thickened with an unearthly pressure, the very fabric of the universe seeming to tear.
And then—
The howl of the wind lingered. The scent of ash clung to the air.
Zyren's eyes snapped open, and he bolted upright in his bed, gasping for breath as if he had been drowning.
For a moment, the shadows in his chamber stretched like claws, the dream clinging to his senses. The wind from the vision still seemed to echo faintly in his ears, and for a heartbeat, crimson light flickered against the marble ceiling.
His heart pounded against his ribs, his skin slick with sweat. The curtains billow inward as a cold breeze slithered into the room, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of soot and ruin.
Zyren's trembling fingers reached for the pendant around his neck—a silver circle with a moonstone core. It burned hot against his skin, as though it had absorbed the raw magic of the dream. He clutched it tightly, grounding himself in the present, even as his mind spun with echoes of what he had seen.
"That wasn't just a dream," he whispered, his voice brittle in the silence. The words hung heavy in the still air, like a prophecy spoken aloud.
He had felt the fire. Smelled the ash. Heard her silent promise. The vision still pulsed in his chest like a second heartbeat.
He couldn't shake the image of the girl—the one with the silver eyes. He didn't know her name, but the pull between them was undeniable.
It was more than fate. It was purpose.
And the others—the dwarf, the elves—they too felt like fragments of something larger, puzzle pieces shaped to fit beside his own.
Zyren stood and stepped out onto the balcony. The night air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. Below him, Rithaleon glittered like a thousand stars. The streets were peaceful.
But Zyren knew the calm was a lie. Somewhere beneath that peace, the storm churned, waiting to rise.
He remembered the tower falling. The children screaming. The sky torn by lightning not of this world. His knuckles whitened on the stone rail.
"I have to find them," he murmured. "All of them. Before that future becomes real."
A soft knock broke the silence behind him.
"Prince Zyren?" came the voice of his steward. "The council meets at sunrise."
Zyren didn't turn.
"Tell them…" he said, voice low and resolute, "there are more important matters at hand."
A pause. Then the quiet shuffle of footsteps retreating down the hall.
He remained on the balcony, eyes fixed on the stars above—until he saw it.
A faint flicker.
Just for a moment, barely more than a blink—but it was there. A crimson light on the horizon. Like a star that didn't belong.
Zyren's breath caught in his throat.
It wasn't in his dream. It was here. In the real world.
And then, unbidden, the name returned—fragmented but insistent.
Ly...
His chest tightened.
He still couldn't grasp it. But he knew—she was out there.
Somewhere.
And the visions?
They were no longer just bleeding through.
They were beginning.
---
*End of Chapter One*