A wound split the sky above the Forest of Thornspire, blackened clouds twisting like tattered silk. From that rift fell Melville, body striking the earth with the weight of prophecy. Dust rose in a perfect spiral, trees shivered, and the wind bent as though afraid to touch him.
Clothed in ash-gray robes threaded with flickers of silver flame, Melville rose, exhaling smoke from lungs that had not breathed in millennia. Moon-pale hair whipped around his face; eyes glimmered with veil-light, not mortal, but something older. From the shadows of the thorned trees, a voice hissed. "Finally… found it, "A figure emerged Tharyx, the Nameless god's chosen, apprentice of the unmaker, draped in bone-silk armor that rattled like dry wind. His eyes burned with rust and hunger; elongated fingers tipped in blackened talons. "You are late," Tharyx said, voice scraping like knives over stone. "The Tear should have been mine hours ago. The world is ready to forget."
Melville's gaze swept the forest, reading danger in every gnarled root, every blackened leaf. It is not the world that forgets it is they who will fall if I fail. "The Veil says otherwise," he whispered. A sharp, clicking grin spread across Tharyx's face. "Then die with it."
The forest screamed. Shadows erupted into forms twisted watchers, eyes glinting red, limbs bending impossibly. Tharyx leapt first, blades unfolding from his arms like wings of bone.
Melville bent the air around him, palms raised. Silver lightning cracked in arcs, each strike cutting through shadow like frozen knives. The clash rang out like prophecy itself:
"The Tear cannot leave this place!" Tharyx growled, spinning, slicing at a storm of animated roots.
"It will go where it is needed," Melville countered, voice calm as the first dawn, deflecting blows with rhythm older than memory.
Every movement of Melville was deliberate. Every strike carried weight. Every dodge was calculated.
Tharyx's minions surged creatures of Veilspace: serpentine limbs, jagged teeth, wings torn from shadows. Each swiped, lunged, hissed. Melville's hands moved in arcs of silver lightning; his magic struck like memory itself, leaving echoes burned into the air.
And then the Tear called.
A crystal, pale as a heartbeat, hovered in the thorns. Its pulse was sorrow, the residue of Aurelith's last fire. Every pulse sent tremors through Tharyx's minions; some faltered, others shrieked, twisted by the sorrow it radiated.
"It is mine," Tharyx roared, claws striking the ground, fracturing stone. "The Nameless god demands it!"
"It belongs to no god but her memory," Melville countered, stepping forward. Lightning danced across his fingertips, and the world seemed to pause, watching, waiting.
The first blow landed Tharyx lunged with a whirlwind of bone wings, striking like the breaking of a star. Melville sidestepped, arms a blur, the strike deflected in a shower of sparks. Then Melville moved: Lightning arced, severing a shadow beast midair, Roots slammed into Tharyx, but he twisted, wings folding, slicing them to splinters. A scream echoed not mortal, not divine, but from the Veil itself
Finally, Melville reached the Tear. The air thickened, vibrating with sorrow and light. He touched it, and a wave pulsed outwards the forest stilled, Tharyx staggered back, and the shadow minions howled in pain.
"You may have reached it… but you cannot leave," Tharyx spat, rage dark as night.
Melville whispered an old word, and the Tear ignited not with fire, but the last echo of mercy, sorrow, and hope burned into light itself. Tharyx's body convulsed as he screamed, unraveling like shadow in sunlight.
When the light dimmed, Melville stood alone. Robes torn. Hair wild. Eyes fixed on the Tear, cradled in his hands. "She must be born in silence," he murmured, voice carrying over the still, trembling forest. "And hidden… until the world remembers."
From the darkened treetops, unseen, other watchers stirred. Not all had retreated. Somewhere, the Nameless god's presence lingered, a shadow in the fabric of reality itself. But for now, the Tear was safe, and the first move of fate had been made.
Melville stood atop the cliffs, the wind tugging at his ash-gray robes. His eyes, pale as moonlight, scanned the restless sea below. The Tear of the Forgotten Star pulsed faintly in his hands, a fragile heartbeat of a goddess's sorrow.
"To keep her safe, it must vanish… where no mortal or god would dare look," he murmured.
Below, the waves crashed against jagged rocks, black foam spitting into the air. Melville's presence stirred the ocean currents; even the tides seemed to pause, awaiting his choice.
He descended, moving with the weightless precision of one who had walked the worlds for millennia. As he reached the waterline, the Tear glowed brighter, as though protesting the depth it was about to meet.
From the shadows of the cliffs, unseen eyes watched. Not all threats had retreated. Creatures of the Veil-space lingered, sensing the divine energy of the Tear. Yet Melville was unflinching, a god of war tempered by purpose.
He whispered an ancient word, and the sea parted just enough to cradle the Tear in a shell of starlit coral. Waves surged to conceal it. Currents twisted, bending time and memory, so that none would find the Tear again until fate decreed.
"Let it sleep," he said, voice low, eyes scanning the horizon. "And let no one remember… until the world is ready."
With a final glance at the hidden relic, Melville vanished into the mist, leaving the ocean calm, untouched, yet forever marked by divine intervention
From the shattered skies above the Forest of Thornspire, the Nameless god roared a sound that cracked mountains and bent rivers. His fury burned like black lightning across the void.
"Five hundred years… five hundred long years waiting for this moment," he bellowed. His voice shredded the air, rolling over the treetops, echoing in the hearts of all who remained.
A figure emerged from the shadows, a servant born of nightmare and ash Morrvahn, the Warden of Ruin. His armor was blackened bone, eyes like molten silver, and his presence alone bent the air around him.
"Master… the Tear has been taken," Morrvahn said, voice a chilling whisper that carried across the battlefield.
The Nameless god's eyes flared, impossible and infinite. In a heartbeat, the forest floor split, and smoke and fire devoured the fallen. Morrvahn's head barely trembled as he watched Tharyx's remnants vanish into nothingness.
"No oneNO ONEescapes my will!" The voice cracked like continents breaking. All around, the world trembled, and shadows of the battle whispered in fear.
Yet far below, hidden in the deepest currents of the endless sea, the Tear pulsed quietly, untouched.