Author's note: 26k views. Thank you to every single one of you — the journey keeps growing, and so do I. Another chapter drops later today. Get ready. And don't forget to add this story to your favorites — you don't want to miss what comes next.
Absolute silence.
The world seemed suspended.
The wind, once heavy with gunpowder and tension, stopped — as if even it had remembered to whom it belonged.
Éreon breathed.
Harsh air. Ancient.
Too new for a chest that remembered other centuries.
His eyes swept over the village.
Men and women on their knees.
Weapons fallen to the ground.
Some trembled. Others wept without knowing why.
And then — the strike of memory came.
Not a dream.
Not a vision.
Echo.
Not memory — reverberation of a time that still called to him.
A single instant:
Golden sand.
White columns.
Thousands of mortals kneeling in ancient Greece, heads bowed, lips murmuring his name as prayer.
A voice overlapped the present — soft, sharp, eternal:
"See, Éreon… the gods fear you. But mortals… they were always the only ones to look at us with tenderness."
Medeia.
The memory touched — and vanished, like a petal falling into water and sinking.
Reality returned, cutting.
A boy, right ahead, wept in silence.
A woman bit her fist to keep from sobbing aloud.
A soldier trembled, trying to stand firm, but his soul faltered before something no wall could withstand.
Éon stepped forward — not kneeling, but with his head lowered, as one salutes an equal… or an ancient king.
"Welcome back." His voice came out steady, yet hoarse.
The stone beneath Éreon's feet seemed to pulse.
He drew in breath slowly, as if remembering the act.
Skin still cold from return.
Soul still burdened by the place between lives.
He looked around — and the world looked back.
There was no confusion in his eyes.
No fear.
Only certainty.
Destiny recognizing its piece.
His first movement was not to raise a hand, nor to speak.
It was to observe.
Measure.
Feel every heart around him.
He watched them all kneeling.
Heavy silence.
One corner of his mouth curved — more threat than smile.
The silence around seemed to press upon the moment. He breathed deeply, gaze fixed, heavy with ages and disdain.
His voice came low, calm — like a sheathed blade, ready to cut:
"Looks like I missed a few chapters while I slept."
A pause, as if daring the world to answer.
"Who's going to tell me what changed… before I have to change the world again?"
No laughter.
No lightness.
Only that quiet irony of one who has destroyed gods — and could do so again.
Suddenly, a deep roar — too ancient to be beast, too young to be remembered by the gods — tore through the sky.
It was no thunder.
No earthly creature.
It was something claiming the world.
Eyes lifted instinctively.
Light vanished for an instant, swallowed by a vast shadow crossing the village. Then another.
Huge silhouettes, edges distorted by light, as if something refused to be seen whole.
Children cried without knowing why.
Soldiers swallowed hard, hands trembling on weapons that now meant nothing.
It was as though the sky itself had bowed its neck.
The roar ceased, but the weight of the moment remained.
Éreon turned to Éon, voice steady, heavy with command and contained urgency:
"I've kept them waiting long enough. Éon, follow me. Marcus, ready the troops. We depart at dawn."
Without waiting for reply, he turned slowly and entered the tavern — now a sanctuary of stone and memory.
Éon remained for a moment, feeling the weight of that phrase like a blade laid across his chest.
Then, with steady steps, he followed the prince back into the place that had once been his silence.
Hours later, in the hidden chamber beneath the tavern, silence and shadows embraced the air like an old secret.
Éreon pushed the heavy stone door open and entered with Éon, whose eyes carried a mix of apprehension and relief.
At the center, two children slept peacefully, unaware of the world — or perhaps, of the war and darkness that had just surrounded them.
Éreon stopped before them, eyes fixed, voice firm yet full of questions:
"So… explain this to me, Éon."
Éon drew a long breath, gaze weighed down:
"When you fell, reality around the tavern began to distort, as if the very energy of chaos was devouring everything it touched — houses, trees, even the air seemed to vanish. Around eighty people were swallowed by that invisible storm. The tavern keeper was among them."
Éreon frowned, absorbing the gravity of it.
"And the barrier? The protection around the tavern?"
Éon looked toward the invisible wall surrounding the building, eyes straining to see beyond the visible:
"It rose naturally, an instinctive reaction of the world to contain the chaos. As if the energy that consumed everything turned against itself, creating a living, pulsing shield — trapping all within, yet preventing the corruption from spreading further."
"The barrier grew slowly, enclosing the tavern, and though it contained the worst, it kept advancing with relentless force, pressing against everything beyond."
"We had to retreat and build a fortress kilometers away to protect those who remained. But the barrier stayed, like a restless and merciless guardian, keeping the evil confined."
Éreon raised his brows, voice edged with doubt:
"And the creature that entered?"
Éon pressed his lips, answering with regret:
"One of the creatures we stole from the temple managed to cross that living barrier. No one knows how or why. When it entered, the barrier recoiled, but remained solid, preventing any other passage into the tavern."
Éreon turned toward the children, eyes piercing:
"If one entered, why are there two?"
Éon smiled faintly — hope mingled with uncertainty:
"I'm not sure… I can only confirm that only one crossed the barrier."
Éreon fixed his gaze on the girl for a few moments, the weight of doubt mixed with curiosity. Then he looked away and spoke firmly:
"Tell me about the state of the empires."
Éon met his eyes, choosing his words carefully:
"Should we begin with the human revolts?"
Éreon nodded, his eyes set on a horizon that promised more battles and decisions.
"So be it. There's no time to waste."
The chamber darkened in silence, and the weight of the past lingered there, suspended between them.
Outside, the world kept turning — with wars, betrayals, and renewed hopes.
But Éreon knew: this was only the beginning.
And so, under the shadow of the silent prince's return, the world began to move again — like gears awakening after centuries of stillness.
Three days later — 5th day of the eighth month, 2035.
The sun barely touched the walls of the Marquisate of Tiresias when a desperate messenger, astride a sweating, exhausted horse, appeared on the dirt road leading to the castle.
His heart beat out of rhythm with the frantic gallop, dust rising behind him.
As he neared the stone gates, the guards narrowed their eyes, hands steady on their spears.
"Urgent message for the Marquis!" the man shouted, voice hoarse, torn by days of riding.
The horse gasped, foam clinging to its bit, and the messenger nearly collapsed as his feet met the ground. Dust and sweat streamed down his face, his legs trembling as if still galloping.
The gates of the Marquisate of Tiresias opened with a deep rumble that echoed along the walls, carrying the weight of the omen he bore.
He was rushed through the stone corridors. His boots struck the ground with desperate haste, and the torches along the walls flickered in the wind that followed his arrival.
Ancient tapestries watched in silence. Gilded crests gleamed beneath the trembling light, as if the eyes of ancestors judged every step.
No one dared to speak. Even the air felt thicker — as if the castle itself sensed what was coming.
In the great hall, the Marquis and the Marquise waited.
Both seated on their thrones, posture rigid, expressions tense — not with fear, but with calculation.
The Marquise gripped the armrest with fingers white from tension.
The Marquis remained motionless, except for a faint drumming of his fingers — a single gesture of restrained impatience.
The messenger knelt, chest heaving, fighting for breath.
"My lord…" he stammered, forcing the words out. "Grave news."
Silence.
The hall seemed to hold its breath.
"An army — heavily armed — marches toward the East."
He swallowed hard, his voice trembling not from exhaustion, but from terror.
The Marquis furrowed his brow, grasping the Marquise's hand.
"Were they able to identify the army's banner?"
"Yes, my lord," began the messenger, voice laden with reverence. "The banner is unlike anything we've ever seen."
"Its shape is triangular, divided into three layers of fabric tapering to a point. At the top, a metallic spear-shaped structure supports it all."
"The details are golden, ancient, with a mystical imperial style that commands awe."
"The background? Deep black — primordial void made cloth."
"In the center, a white Lunar Dragon — pure, almost radiant — encircled by a white astral ring."
"A crescent moon and stars orbit within that sacred space."
"Along the inner edges, fine golden ornaments bear an arcane-royal touch, as though divine power itself were embroidered there."
"At the lower point, cords of crimson thread hang — the thread of fate, the price of commanding the Void."
The Marquis clenched his fist, eyes darkening.
The Marquise spoke firmly:
"My visions tremble, yes, but our strength and resolve have never faltered. We are prepared for whatever comes."
She clasped her husband's hands, eyes fixed on the window overlooking the walls.
"May the gods guard us, for the shadow approaching knows no mercy."
A low murmur rippled among the guards. The Marquise raised her face, eyes wide. The Marquis, however, merely inclined his head slightly — as one who had long expected the storm, and in some way, invited it.
They watched the horizon to the east, worried about the enemy's advance, knowing the conflict would soon reach their lands.
War, it seemed, had chosen its moment to awaken.