They once believed Hell resided beneath their feet, far below where perfect men walked, crafted in the image of Oros. It was a place they thought beneath them, literally and spiritually. But on the day of the Prince of Beltho's twenty-seventh birthday, they looked up… and watched as Hell fell from the heavens.
The starry sky, once gentle and unreachable, became a burning sea of falling stars. One by one, the lights descended, not with wonder, but with fire. The stars struck the earth like divine punishment. Each collision tore into the land, setting the kingdom ablaze. In seconds, Beltho, a thriving jewel of the world, was reduced to smoke and ash.
Homes were shredded like parchment, and the once-mighty castle crumbled under a flaming star, collapsing with terrifying ease. A mother clung to her child, eyes wide with horror, as the royal citadel was crushed by a blaze from above. An explosion rang out across the kingdom. The shockwave leveled streets. People were thrown like dolls.
To the north and east, the walls fell next, battered by more falling debris. A wave of searing heat swept through the city, suffocating many where they stood. The air burned in their lungs. Half the population perished in mere moments. The survivors stumbled blindly, fighting to remain conscious as death circled around them.
A lone knight stood among the rubble, tucked behind a partially intact wall. For the first time in decades, his breath caught, not from exhaustion, but helplessness. His sword hung heavy in his hand, but it had no purpose. He had vowed to defend Beltho. But how do you fight the wrath of the heavens?
Flames devoured the kingdom. Though it was night, Beltho blazed like a sun. Even the distant forests began to catch, fire creeping like a sentient hunger.
Beltho had once boasted an army ten thousand strong. Now those men flooded the streets in panic, hauling buckets of water, screaming orders that vanished beneath the roar of fire. Desperation cracked their voices. Their efforts were futile.
Among them ran a squire, a boy with tousled blonde hair and wide green eyes. He stumbled through the smoke, staring into the inferno with a face frozen in horror.
"Mother…?" he whispered, hoarse.
"Mother!" he screamed. A raw, broken cry.
No answer came. But something caught his eye, a flicker of movement inside a crumbling house. A burning frame began to collapse, and from behind a half-fallen cabinet, he saw it.
A black shape.
"Hey!" the squire cried out. "You have to get out!"
The figure stirred.
"Hey—"
His words failed as the shape stood. Its body unfolded like some grotesque, forgotten thing, a twisted corpse given life. Towering and covered in coarse black fur, it loomed, bone-white antlers protruding from its skull-like head. Its countless eyes were pits of bubbling green ooze that leaked down its face.
Where a chest should have been, ribs jutted outward, torn and broken. Long limbs hung like dead vines, fingers scraping the ground like claws.
It turned to the squire.
"Worship me."
The voice was not spoken aloud. It shrieked directly into his mind, raw and alien.
"I am Gorn. Your God has come… to love."
The squire's legs went numb. Urine warmed his trousers. He could not move. Could not breathe.
"Offer to me thine flesh!"
Gorn lunged. The beast crashed through debris, hunger in every motion. Its claws dug into wood and stone, the fire seeming to part around it.
The squire trembled. How can I survive this? Not even a knight could slay such a thing. Only a mage, perhaps. But no man.
As the creature neared, the boy shut his eyes.
Then—clang.
Metal rang like a bell, deep and thunderous. The sound echoed through his skull.
The creature stopped inches from his face, black smoke curling from its open maw. Its jaws opened wide, revealing twisting vapor, gurgling ooze, and a hunger that wanted to extinguish the soul itself.
I'm dead, the squire thought.
And then, steel shattered bone.
A crimson shield crashed into Gorn's face, hurling the creature away in a blur of cracked antler and torn flesh. It screeched, staggering like a drunken beast.
Its attacker advanced.
A giant of a man, armored in red and leather, walked from the fire. His armor was scarred and ancient, covered in soot and battle-worn repairs. At his side hung a flail, and from his back, a heavy bag bulged with gear. His helmet had no visor, only a grated front that hid his face in shadow—except for four glowing orange eyes, unmoving and cold.
The knight's body whirred softly, metal grinding inside metal like living gears. When he spoke, his voice was metallic and distorted.
"Abomination." The word dripped with hate.
The squire's eyes widened. He had heard tales—beings made not of flesh, but forged by the gods: golems in the shape of men, steel guardians born without souls.
Men of Steel. Instruments of divine will. But this one… this one sounded far too human as hatred coated its voice.
Gorn rose, hissing. A black mist unfurled from its body, a wave of athood, a corrupting force that warped the world around it. It pressed down on the crimson knight like gravity intensified tenfold.
The squire collapsed, bones snapping under the pressure. Blood spilled from his mouth, and life fled his eyes. There was no painful cry, nor gasp for air, just instant death from a crushing weight he could not stand against.
But the knight remained standing. Though unmoving, the strain of resisting the force was clear. Slowly, his arm shifted, heavy, reluctant, and reached for his side.
"Who are you?" Gorn snarled.
"You know my name." The knight's voice was ice.
"No." Gorn's green eyes narrowed. "Why would a god know the name of meat?"
"The Starborn are no gods, just abominations." Pyre mocked. "I am the one that guard the horizon against your kind."
Pyre's eyes shifted, and like lens focusing, its eyes shifted and brightened. Gorn hissed, its eyes widened with a knowing rage. It recognized that claim, a claim that only one mortal made.
"Pyre." Gorn uttered.
The word rumbled from its throat, echoing across the scorched kingdom like a war drum. In answer, a chorus of howls rose through the fire and ash, cries from every corner of the burning hellscape.
"The Second Pyre." the knight corrected.
Pyre ripped through the hold Gorn had, grabbing a black device from his side, a dialed box, and twisted it. A crystal inside shattered with a faint chime. Like an electromagnetic field collapsing in on itself, his athood unraveled, dissolving into the scorched air. The power that tethered Pyre weakened, his grip faltering. But Pyre wasted no breath, no hesitation.
With brutal efficiency, he drove his shield into the beast's fractured skull once more. Blood burst against the burning walls, hissing as it met flame, like spirits being exorcised from the world.
With his right hand, he reached for his flail. In a single motion, he unlatched it and swung, an unstoppable force given form, raw energy surging through every link of the chain.
The iron head spun in a deadly arc, carving through the firelight. It found its mark.
A crack. A rupture. The flail's head struck Gorn's head, cleaving into bone and sinking deep into the twisted meat beneath. The creature collapsed, lifeless, crashing to the earth with a final, hollow thud.
Pyre yanked the flail free, watching as Gorn's body crumbled, embers devouring flesh, bone turning to dust. He scoffed.
"A god does not fall to hardened metal," he mocked.
With that, Pyre turned away, offering the corpse no further reverence. His gaze shifted briefly to the squire's fallen form, lingering there, somber and still.
"Forgive me for this failure," Pyre said quietly, his metallic voice stripped of warmth. "But I will avenge your life... and your family."
In the distance, the howls of Gorn's shards tore through the night, his scattered echoes, enraged and vengeful. Pyre welcomed them. It wasn't often the prey sought out their predator.
For the Starborn were not meant to dwell among men. It was forbidden. Their hunger for life was boundless, their desperation unending. They clung to existence with a rabid will, hollowing minds in their wake just to steal another breath.
This is why Pyre despised them.
They offered humans athood, Oros' sacred breath, bestowed without permission. Through it, mankind forged magic. It was a blasphemous craft born of stolen light, warping reality to defy the divine laws. Athood was meant for giants and elves, a gift because they were beings molded outside the image of their creator. Not a gift for man.
But magic always exacted its toll. It took their sanity, quietly, completely. Even the wise, even the wary, all were consumed. Good men twisted. Heroes would always be left broken. Every single one claimed they would be different. None ever were.
"There is only one star I follow," Pyre said, standing in the firelit street, listening to the approaching tide. "And Oros' light will always guide me."
Pyre gripped his shield with both hands and locked it into the socket across his chest. With a mechanical hiss, it snapped into place, anchoring itself securely against his armor. At once, the shield shifted, splitting into segmented plates that fanned out to allow for full range of movement without sacrificing protection.
Etched across its surface was a solemn image: a knight standing beside a slumbering dragon.
To his people, it was more than decoration. It was a sacred symbol, an echo of history, a vow preserved through generations. It was the First Pyre's promise, etched into steel and carried into every battle.
From his back, he drew another weapon, long and cold, forged of iron and oiled wood. Its barrel stretched like a silent promise, anchored by a shoulder brace. Beneath it, a sliding grip, mechanical and effective.
He loaded a cartridge with a quick slide of its grip backwards, then locked the cartridge of gunpowder into its place with a slide forward.
"Come then," he called into the dark, as claws scraped stone and shadows broke into motion. Dozens of black shapes surged forward—howling beasts dancing through fire, racing to to drag Pyre down to hell.
"Let us commence your funeral."
Before Pyre loomed the ruins of a massive tavern, now engulfed in flame. Its weakened wooden frame groaned and splintered, collapsing onto the stone street in a shower of burning debris.
Then came a blast. An eruption of sparks and fire burst outward, hurling shattered beams like shrapnel. From the wreckage emerged a hulking beast, launched forward by the force, its silhouette framed in flame.
It moved like a bear, massive and powerful, its body wrapped in dense fur. But the fur was soaked in dried black ooze, clumping in grotesque, matted patches. Thick spines jutted from its back like spears, and its ribcage was partially exposed, just like the shard Pyre had slain before.
Its skull was bare bone, hollow-eyed and monstrous. The lower jaw dangled unnaturally, unhinging like a serpent's, revealing a throat bubbling with dark, viscous fluid that spilled in fat droplets onto the ground, sizzling as it touched stone.
Seven irises were crammed into a single socket, overlapping and twitching erratically, an eye warped by madness. The beast convulsed, spasming with chaotic energy. Trailing behind it, a long tail dragged across the stone, sheathed in bone. Barbs jutted from it like jagged teeth, twitching, eager to tear into flesh.
It screamed with a guttural pitch, one of which could only be replicated by those in deep agonizing pain.
"You killed my shard!" Gorn screamed. Its voice heard but unable to pierce into Pyre's skull like it could with any man.
Its scream seemed to tear at the tendons and muscle at the sides of its mouth. The flesh gave way as its jaw opened wide.
The beast charged, a blur of fury and muscle, but Pyre didn't flinch. He held his ground, leveled his weapon, and pulled the trigger.
A flash split the smoke, gunpowder ignited in a burst of fire and steel. The shot struck true, slamming into the beast's throat with bone-shattering force. The impact tore through muscle and flesh, burrowing deep into its massive frame.
The creature staggered, choking on the pain, but it did not fall. Rage surged through its veins, numbing the agony. With a guttural roar, Gorn unleashed his fury. His athood erupted, black fog rolling from his body in violent waves, flooding the street like a living curse.
Then, something small caught his eye.
A red cartridge ejected from the weapon's side, spinning through the air and clattering to the ground. Gorn's gaze locked onto it, curiosity flickering in the depths of his warped mind, a glimmer of thought sparking in the darkness.
"A god does not make simple mistakes," Pyre's voice cut through the fog, calm and absolute.
Click. He flicked a switch at his side. A flash of light split the darkness, brief, blinding, illuminating the twisted form of Gorn's remaining shard. In that instant, Pyre saw the beast's chest convulse. Bone and flesh tore outward as fire bloomed from deep within, expanding violently, rupturing its ribcage in a burst of searing light.
Gorn screamed and hurled itself into a burning wall, but its limbs gave out. The creature crumpled, smoke rising from its ruined form. Its athood collapsed with it, its will unraveling into the ash-choked air. The black fog thinned and vanished, revealing Pyre emerging from the fading gloom.
The Starborn watched in dread.
The man of steel advanced with long steady but unhurried steps. His presence was cold and certain, like time itself had slowed to accommodate his judgment. Pyre felt no need to rush. The beast trembled. Its seven irises writhed in their socket, flailing in fear. It tried to claw at the ground, dragging itself backward in a feeble attempt to escape, to heal.
But the fall from the stars and the gaping wound had drained it of everything.
"Coward…" Gorn hissed, voice rattling from fear for its life. "You sought me when I was weakened."
A low, distorted chuckle rumbled from Pyre's breastplate.
"Does being wise make me a coward?" he replied, his tone tinged by quiet contempt. "You feed on others. Your strength isn't your own."
As Gorn writhed, trying to pull itself toward its other fragments, Pyre slid his barreled weapon back against his bag until he heard a snap. Then, his hand moved to the flail once more.
With grim finality, he raised the blunt whip high, and brought it crashing down in a brutal arc.
The metal head shattered bone with a thunderous crack, followed by the heavy thunk of ruptured flesh. Gorn's body collapsed, still at last, the flicker of life vanishing from its eyes.
"It is not your right to claim strength," Pyre proclaimed, ripping the weapon free from its skull. "Not when you have never worked for it."
Pyre turned toward the far end of the street as more black figures crept from the shadows, emerging one by one beneath the broken sky. Then came the shriek of fire from above. A fresh cascade of flame tore through the heavens as more shards descended in a rain of fury. Their impact shook deep into the soil. He watched as more flames rose in pillars.
Pyre didn't flinch.
"Should you not flee, god?" Pyre called out, letting the final word hang heavy with disdain. "Or are you too weak now... to fight a machine?"
The ground trembled in reply, a low growl building beneath the stone. Gorn's fury bled through the earth, and his athood rolled out like a living tide, dark and suffocating. The sound of it, the feel, rattled Pyre's frame.
Still, he stood unmoved, eyes fixed on the inferno. Dozens of shards emerged from the flame, surrounding him in silence. Each one different, grotesque in their own way, twisted into forms that bore no repetition. Yet there was something shared in their presence, something familiar. If Pyre had not known the truth, he might have mistaken them for siblings.
But he knew better. They were all one. One will. One hunger.
They were Gorn. A star that had given up its duty in pursuit for something more. The ones he titled the Starborn.