Kaelen Deyarion's eyes snapped open to a sky bleeding twilight hues — shades of violet melting into the cold blue of a forgotten night. The air was thick with dust and the scent of crumbled stone, sharp and ancient. Every breath tasted of loss, as if the world itself mourned alongside him.
He lay motionless on the cracked marble floor of a vast hall, shards of sunlight filtering through the collapsed ceiling above. His armor, once radiant and imbued with the blessings of the Old Gods, was now tarnished and heavy, weighed down by the centuries he had been imprisoned.
A thousand years.
Memories surged — fragments of a war that shattered kingdoms, betrayals carved in blood, and a promise made beneath a blood moon. His lips pressed together, tasting the faintest trace of iron. The weight of that promise settled over him like a shroud: he had failed to protect her.
"Elira…" His voice was a whisper, broken yet fierce.
But she was gone. Lost to the ravages of time, or so he believed.
Suddenly, a faint pulse flickered beneath his gauntlet — a light, subtle and rhythmic, like a heartbeat woven from magic itself. His fingers trembled as he lifted his hand and stared at the glowing sigil etched into his palm — the Mark of the Seeker.
The ancient order had branded him for one reason: to find her. To fulfill the thousand-year promise that bound their souls beyond death and time.
With effort, Kaelen pushed himself to his feet. Every movement was agony; muscles long dormant screamed in protest. He surveyed the ruins: shattered pillars, broken mosaics, and symbols of a world lost.
A whisper echoed through the hall — a voice not his own, distant but insistent.
"She remembers."
The words chilled him. Time was running out.
As he stepped toward the crumbled archway, the last rays of sunlight vanished behind a gathering storm. Somewhere in the modern world, Elira's fate awaited — and with it, the hope of salvation... or destruction.
Kaelen's eyes burned with newfound purpose.
The thousand-year promise will be kept