Astra stood across from a middle-aged knight — Sir Faris, Rank Three. The man wielded a short sword, his posture relaxed, movements patient and smooth like flowing water. There was finesse in how he breathed. No wasted movement. His feet kept narrow lines, weight shifting from heel to ball with practiced ease.
Sir Faris was tall and well-built, wearing simple training attire, such as a all black gambeson.
The spar began.
Faris opened with a probing thrust — tight, controlled, wrist turning in a classic inquartata, aiming toward Astra's upper left. Astra angled his bastard sword to parry in fourth, rotating his wrist and guiding the blade offline before flowing into a counter-cut. But Faris pivoted inward, stepped with a sudden advance-lunge, and snapped a beat attack at Astra's blade — a disruption meant to unsettle rhythm.
Astra began to flow.
This was where he was most comfortable: not charging, not overwhelming — but probing, dissecting, observing. Letting the opponent reveal their nature before striking where it hurt. He slipped into Sword of Shadows — the base form. Low guard, blade hovering in the inside line, always shifting, ghostlike. Eyes not just reading movement, but listening to the silence between.
Faris advanced again — a disengage cut, then a feint toward the inside thigh. Astra twisted to his left, slipped a parry with minimal blade contact, and delivered a shallow strike to the ribs — he didn't commit fully. Just tested.
Even here, amid motion and steel and breath, Astra's mind wandered.
Sir Faris used a more common used sword style of the realm, Shifting Sands.
He was quite proficient yet Astra couldn't help but compare.
Sir Faris was good — refined even a rank three Knight — but... far less sharp, less radiant, less absolute than…
A certain radiant, blinding figure-person
Lucien Solaris.
A mere Rank One. A prince. His opposite.
Lucien's every step had shimmered like choreography, his attacks felt inevitable. His flow had been that of light unbending, bending fate itself. That duel haunted Astra. And more than that — he felt… as of if he was destined to clash with him over and over again.
Destiny how ironic he scoffed as he dodged a sword strike.
"the Gods were dead yet their concepts stand, mana wants to see me clash with him and clash with him I must, our concepts collide."Astra thought grimly.
His grip faltered.
He saw a faint thread flicker in his vision — a glimmer of an opening Faris was about to create. His curse showed him tiny probabilities, strings pulling and unraveling. He reached for the Sword of Stars — tried to shift into it — but again, nothing.
Still locked out.
Still—
"Focus, Prince. Every opponent requires absolute attention, even ones that may be seemingly weaker in certain aspects."
The voice of the bishop rang out — Indigo, watching nearby.
Astra blinked. Too late.
Sir Faris spun, executing a smooth bind disengage, stepped deep, and Astra, still mentally clouded, fell into the trap. The knight turned the momentum into a quick half-sword thrust into Astra's side — a killing blow had it been real.
Astra stumbled. The match was over.
He grumbled, frustrated, and bowed respectfully.
Sir Faris just smiled. "Even this old man has fangs, young prince," he said warmly, and walked off without another word.
Astra stood there, catching his breath. His cheeks burned with shame.
Then came Indigo's voice again.
"You, Astra — your style, it's nice sure. But you're young. And from what I've seen, you're somehow… new to the sword, which makes no sense to me."
Indigo approached, hands folded behind his back. His azure hair gleamed under the hall's cold lanterns, and his eyes shimmered like fractured sky.
"You lack simple basics at times," he continued, "yet show extreme complex techniques and philosophies of the sword. It's strange. And fascinating indeed. its almost as if you just picked up the sword recently and made strides some would consider impossible"
"Right on" Astra thought as he stared at Indigo or Indigos.
As Indigo spoke about, Astra noticed something strange — there were forty Indigos watching the class, each mirroring the task of the real one exactly...which Astra didn't even know who the real one was but here they were. Azure-cloaked, some were silent, focused somewhere sparring, demonstrating and speaking to the many rank threes in the hall. It was eerie. Spectral.
Some type of clones, Astra realized. Unique magic of House Monte.
He felt himself staring too long — trying to peer into the workings of the magic — when suddenly—
THWACK!
A wooden sword smacked the top of his head.
"Gods, focus, Astra."
Astra rubbed his scalp and bowed quickly, thoroughly embarrassed.
"Forgive me, my bishop… it's not you, or the class. It's simply me. I can't focus at times. I find myself… easily distracted."
Indigo raised a brow. "And why is that?"
"I guess I must've been dropped on my head when I was younger," Astra retorted — half-joking, half-serious.
Indigo laughed, a clear and melodic sound. "Alright, young prince. Keep your secrets."
He returned to a composed tone.
"Anyway. As I was saying — you seem to be in between styles at times. Your footwork needs work. But your stances — those are excellent. And your intuition for battle? Marvelous."
He paused.
"You're the best worst swordsman I've seen."
Astra blinked.
That was a new one
"I can't believe you survived clashing swords with the Sword of Dawn. You truly made Shadow proud. The Sword of Shadows fits you very well. But don't rely on it too much. Even that sword style can be fooled."
He looked pointedly at Astra.
"Lucien did that a couple times, as I recall. And I have a feeling… you didn't even notice it."
"I did not, my bishop," Astra admitted.
Indigo gave a firm nod. "It'll take some time correcting your basics. But you have a real bearing for the sword. The longsword, especially."
He turned, speaking aloud to no one and everyone.
"I'll work on some exercises. A routine. Training to refine your core."
"I saw you used another sword style as well, one that is long dead and unique to your certain mana type, what is it called" Indigo inquired curious
"The Sword of the Stars, Ensis Stellarum, It is a style I have yet to even enter its basics, I used it or tried to use it against the Prince of Dawn, and even though I lacked mastery It still shone ever so brightly." Astra spoke with fervor
"Indeed it did young prince," Indigo spoke with a gentle tone, it carried a melancholic hint " That is the long dead style of your very own house Astra, I truly am glad to see its return, not many use it or even can use it. The basics sure, but intricate mana play at later stages of the style requires well, Star Magic and as it stands, you are the last wielder of the stars. How truly poetic." Indigo marveled, he really did enjoy anything related to swords Astra guessed
The sound of clangor and training continued to echo throughout the hall
Astra looked around as he watched the bishop move among the students, each of his forty clones at work, either adjusting someone's posture, redirecting their grip, or calling out insights — all of them moving with a shared consciousness. All of them in harmony.
"Damn," Astra thought, "This bishop is really talking to over a hundred people at once right now, dissecting all their sword styles and working to make them better — and with one consciousness…"
He couldn't help but marvel at the scale of those stronger..."A true demigod."
...
In a deep, dark cave somewhere below the world— Walked a young man.
Battered. Disheveled. Exhausted.
His breath came out ragged, fogging in the cold. Mana radiated off his body in unstable waves, erratic and burning, curling around him in shades of shadow and flame. The very air rippled around him like heat over steel.
His silhouette was a thing of contrast — long and jagged like a blade dragged through the abyss. Shadow swirled behind his back like a living cloak, while small, flickering embers escaped from his skin, vanishing into the dark.
His eyes gleamed — not fully red, not fully black — but something between. Something broken. Something becoming.
Madness.
It was there, sitting in his gaze like a passenger he'd stopped trying to shake off.
This was none other than the Prince of Shadow — Vesperion.
He had reached the second level of the abyss.
The Caves of Mysteries
And here, even the echoes felt hostile.
His mana expenditure was finally taking a toll. Each step felt heavier. His core burned, his vision blurred, and thoughts — uninvited, poisonous thoughts — began to creep in. His usual confidence — that slow, prowling arrogance — cracked under something worse than fear.
Doubt.
It had made a home in his head.
The pressure was stacking. The weight of expectations — his House, duties, the cycle he has to endure time and time again.
It all felt like it was pressing down on his ribs, whispering from the walls, clawing into his lungs.
He laughed.
Not because it was funny.
But because if he didn't laugh, he might break.
And in that breathless laugh, in the haze of fading mana and self-loathing, his mind drifted — somewhere distant, somewhere old — to a familiar page, a tattered chapter of the [Tales of Atlas]…
One about pressure.
And expectations.
...
The Devourer dropped Atlas near the heart of the desert — not just any desert, but one carved by paradox.
The sand was darker than the void itself, a deep abyssal black, yet each grain glimmered faintly with sapphire sparks, flecks of gold dust, and shards of ancient diamonds. It was like the remains of fallen stars had mingled with the bones of dead gods.
The Sacred Desert
"This concludes our pact, mortal… Atlas," the Devourer spoke, its massive silhouette folding inward, body melting into the sand. Its voice lingered like thunder from beneath the earth. "Heed my warning — this is a land even I dare not tread. Find the Elves or you will perish.. May you find whatever you are looking for."
Atlas bowed deeply, his silhouette outlined by the clash of two opposing storms overhead — one churning with dark black death mana, the other flourishing with green and golden, life-giving light.
The air was feverish. Contradictions warred in every direction.
Forests of ashen trees throbbed with life one moment, and rotted the next. Hills of glass-like crystal shattered and reformed with every passing breath. Vast stretches of obliterated wasteland sat beside groves so lush they whispered with the voices of forgotten spirits. A single oasis nearby shimmered — one half a verdant paradise, the other a putrid swamp, both halves pulsing as if in eternal competition.
Atlas exhaled slowly, his breath flickering with faint light. His aura, unstable and burning, leaked soft coils of blue flame and shadow mist, one foot in creation, the other in annihilation.
Atlas was lost again
Haste without preparation leads to confusion and loss.
But
Direction of one's actions, leads to positive outcomes.
And so then they appeared.
The ancient Elves.
Graceful silhouettes dancing through the contradictions like they were born from them — and perhaps they were.
Among them stood a figure who halted the shifting mana around her by mere presence. She was Galadriel, Empress of the Elves. An angel.
Her body radiated divine life mana, the air around her blooming with color even in this broken land. Tall, lithe, crowned in hair the color of celestial gold, her eyes glowed with molten starlight, and the very sand recoiled from her feet. She seemed less a person and more a living hymn to order.
"Oh little mortal,Just how did you reach this realm?"
"I am Atlas," he said, his stance proud despite the exhaustion curling in his bones. "I rode the Great Devourer after besting it in a fair challenge. I seek my memories, for I have lost myself in the corridors of my soul and shelter as well as possibly a new home empress."
Her gaze sharpened with interest, then softened into something amused.
"To best the Devourer while still a squire…? My, my," she smiled, her voice light as falling petals. "Come, noble wanderer. Let me show you a corner of paradise few mortals have ever seen."
With a gesture, they vanished in a halo of pure life-light.
They stood now beneath a World Tree that pierced the sky — its trunk as wide as mountains, bark etched with celestial glyphs, roots like serpents of time coiling through the ground and into the void. Above, its canopy held entire constellations, flickering with mana-rich fruit that shone like miniature stars.
Below the tree was the city of Silvia Mundi — carved from luminous whitewood and starlit marble, its archways perfect circles, its roads flowing with liquid light, its theatres and forums alive with debate and song. The wind carried with it whispers of bardic philosophies, of angelic harmonies, and of manifold truths.
They arrived at the House of Wisdom, a vast structure with a domed rooftop inlaid with glowing veins of crystal, its halls held up by spiraled columns humming with ancient enchantments. Inside, the Senate Bullrings roared with discussion — the voices of elf scholars, angel tacticians, and beast-kin philosophers echoing beneath murals of creation itself.
Here, Atlas was treated as kin.
He sparred, he trained, he read and meditated beneath the World Tree's boughs. His aura began to stabilize — flames of pale blue flickered at his fingertips, sometimes taking shape as stars, sometimes shadows he wielded all mana it was strange indeed. The mana in his blood resonated with the land, even as his heart began to resist its comfort.
Because peace — true, perfect peace — was too quiet for someone like Atlas.
And one night, upon a rooftop carved from stardust-infused timber, overlooking the city and the vastness of the cosmos in the crown of the World Tree, he met a boy — young, regal, and drowning in responsibility.
The boy trembled.
"They say I'll one day inherit this place… lead the Elves… bear the titles. But I don't want it. I'm not ready. I never asked for this."
Atlas sat beside him.
A flicker of fire danced in his hand — it breathed, not raged, like a living metaphor. His eyes, aged by distant trials he could not even remember, turned to the stars above.
"Ah, little lord... you don't understand," he said gently. "In these fractured realms of ours… Pressure is not a burden."
The boy blinked. The flame in Atlas's hand grew brighter.
"No. Pressure is a privilege. A mark that fate or what remains of it — or perhaps mana itself, believes that you can become more."
He looked out at the sky, and the stars seemed to lean closer.
"Pressure means you stand at a precipice. That you've been seen. It means others believe you might ascend. That the soul has more to forge. That there is still metal left to hammer."
He turned to the boy, whose eyes now flickered with silent understanding.
"You are not weak because you feel overwhelmed. You are alive because you haven't surrendered to it. Pressure can make diamonds, young one. It can temper souls. It can make swords from Iron."
Atlas's voice trailed off
"Yet at the same time, It can crush the strongest of stones to dust, pressure can wear down the mightiest of all fortresses, it can make a person fade, crumble even disappear,"
The little boy grew smaller
The flame continued grew more intense, brighter-hotter
"But oh little lord, thats the beauty of it, of life, to struggle, evolve, face new adversities and challenges to sometimes crumble and comeback in triumph over that pressure, When under pressure, you find out who you truly are, your ego cant protect you, your lies fall short, only truth of self remains," Atlas smiled "Ah it truly is indeed a privilege."
He let the flame fade.
The boy stared at the flame in his hand in confusion and admiration
Children of Perfection can never know the struggles of those born of Error.
"Ah, it seems I have overstayed my welcome." Atlas stood, his own mana pulsing again — not calm, but yearning. A hunger not for comfort, but for challenge for adventure, for struggle, adversity.
For Pressure
He looked back upon the perfect paradise a little sad at his sudden departure "This utopia… it's beautiful. But it is Stagnant and still. And unfortunately I am a creature of motion. I must return to the my forge. To the desert. To the contradictions that birthed me, Perhaps I shall find my self and memories there, ascend to divinty and power...or perhaps I shall crumble and fade away."
Atlas couldn't help but smile
The winds wrapped around him.
"How ironic," he said to no one "That the children of Life of struggle.... have forgotten her greatest of lessons."
And with that, he walked once more into the broken beauty of the Sacred Desert into Harmony — a lone silhouette beneath the weight of stars, seeking not safety,
but transcendence.
Pressure is a privilege not a burden he repeated as he walked towards the center of the sacred desert his journey far from over.
...
Vesper's breath came shallow.
"Pressure is not a burden… but a privilege…"
He muttered the words again and again like a mantra. Not for courage. No, he was far past courage now — this was survival. This was faith. Faith in himself in Atlas… or the lie he needed to believe.
Vespers eyes Shimmered with hope and Strength, as he stabilized himself, fortifying his very mind.
The air down here in the lower layers of the Caves of Mystery was dense with mana and mysteries . The deeper he went, the heavier his steps became, not due to exhaustion alone, but as if the very laws of gravity bent inward. As if the cave knew he had come to gamble with fate.
His goal was near. His body quaked. His soul trembled, not with fear — but expectation.
He would burn.
Burn so bright that no cowardice could survive within him.
Burn so hot that even the monsters of this abyss would come crawling, unable to look away.
He would call something terrible. Something true.
A Rank two maybe rank three Reflection of Soul — a creature drawn not by blood or bait, but by him. It would wear his face. Wield his mana. Know his thoughts. Use all of it against him. But Vesper's mana wasn't ordinary.
It was warped. Glorious. Fractured.
And corrupted.
No reflection could use it for long before unraveling, before choking on the very essence of what made Vesperion… Vesperion.
That was his edge. That was the gamble.
He descended further.
The cave groaned.
Colors danced across the crystalline walls — sapphire blues, deep violets, crimson flashes like the embers of forgotten battles. The stones seemed to breathe. And sometimes, if he stared too long, they'd shift — taking the shape of his memories, half-formed drawings from his youth, faces of people long dead or never real. Some laughed. Others wept. Many simply stared.
Voices whispered, but never spoke.
It was as if the caves peeled back the flesh of the soul and showed you the marrow underneath.
Vesper passed murals carved in forgotten tongues, statues of cloaked figures with veiled faces, holding stars in one hand and ashes in the other. He passed rivers of molten mana, bubbling pools of time-thickened sorrow, and fields of glowing mushrooms that flickered with illusions of ancient wars.
And then — silence.
A grand chamber opened before him. So vast it seemed to bend the horizon. The ceiling vanished into darkness. The walls were sheer crystal and stone, inscribed with impossibly old sigils, thrumming with power.
At the center stood an altar.
It wasn't just any altar — no.
It was carved from pure marble, unnaturally white, yet untouched by time. On one side, the Sigil of Shadow curled like black smoke, swirling with flickers of forgotten gods. On the other, the Glyph of Death, sharp and precise, humming with finality. Between them, a thin line of crimson light shimmered — balance.
This was a conduit. A puzzle of entropy and truth. An ancient device from before written time, capable of channeling mysteries and revealing answers only through trial.
"Damn," Vesper muttered, staring at it. His mana swirled around him now like a storm of coals, his body trembling with the pressure. He stepped forward, his aura surging with every breath.
He felt it... a creature staring at him.
He began to chant.
"The flame of entropy wanes."
A low flicker sparked at his feet.
"Madness spreads."
His voice was cracked, worn — but steady. Red light bled from his veins, tracing the runes beneath him. Flames leapt, licking the walls. The crystal above ignited.
"Dance in joy… for it is time."
Shadows erupted, spinning in frenzied spirals. Visions flashed. Laughter. Screams. Faces melted into symbols, into dust.
"Cometh forth… and heed thy master's call, O Shadow of Chaos."
His Domain Spell activated.
Flames and shadows swirled like twin dragons — his aura surged to pinnacle Rank Two, the air vibrating, mana howlingin resonance. His body was alight with raw intent, his soul exposed entropy-chaos reined supreme.
"Equinox," he said, the word like a gavel of balance.
The storm settled. The domain stabilized.
Half fire. Half shadow. Chaos, madness and control. Death and creation.
"Now come out," Vesper called, his voice echoing across the stone. "I sense you. Whatever you are, I challenge you. Face me."
The air fractured.
From the dark emerged a form — an aura so dense it choked the flame. Pinnacle Tier Two, just like him. No, equal to him. Or… worse…
Him.
It wore his face.
His voice. His smile. His eyes — but not. Too sharp. Too deep. Eyes that had seen far more than Vesper had. A twisted future. Or a broken past.
The creature bowed low, mockingly.
"My oh my… welcome to my humble....abode, oh Herald of the Void." Its grin widened, voice silk-wrapped razors.
Vesper blinked."Herald of the Void?" he whispered to himself. "Damn… that's kinda sick." He grinned.
"Did I just get a sick moniker from a corrupted reflection? Sweet."
He laughed. A little mad. A little amused. A little scared.
And then he charged.
Flames roared. Shadows screamed. The cave became an inferno of mirrored war.
It was do or die.
Vesper would either rise — or be forgotten, devoured by the version of himself that knew how he broke, how he feared, how he failed.
But he'd said it before just as Atlas had eons ago.
Pressure was not a burden. It was a privilege.
And he would either become a legend.
Or die trying.
....
Far beyond the six Great Realms, beyond even the edge of Dunya's sun-touched skies or Wai's endless ocean moons, amidst the void between fractures, the space where gods bled and concepts wept, something streaked through the dark like a falling whisper.
A figure flew. Sickly pale, shrouded in black scholarly robes, drifting as if held by invisible threads rather than flight. In one hand he held a long, narrow staff of spiral bone and brass, and behind his back shimmered a subtle ouroboros — a golden serpent devouring its own tail, coiling endlessly through his tattered robes.
This was Saelir. Cursewright of the Thirsting Word.
He slipped between asteroid husks and star-choked mist, moving at a pace no mortal eye could ever register. Within the outer void — that cold, chaotic canvas that sat between realms — only madness, perhaps corpses of dead gods, and half-forgotten cosmic guilds held claim. Factions of nobody, wars of everything, purpose turned inside out.
Mortals did not belong here.
Saelir grinned. He thrived here.
The realm he sought was a quiet one — a backwater planet nestled in a small broken system between great fractures, where simple green forests still stood and sky still shimmered blue. He fell into its atmosphere with a soft exhale, robes utterly untouched by flame or speed, the golden ouroboros gleaming faintly with soft judgment. He landed beneath a humble tree, one no different from millions like it, and sat cross-legged, calmly. he exhaled as he enjoyed this little respite.
Waiting.
The world hummed.
Then — the sky cracked.
A pillar of light, streaking like the wrath of dawn itself, broke through the other side of the planet. From heaven's throat came a lance — and then a woman.
She hit like judgment incarnate.
Where she landed, mountains cracked, and oceans fled. The very bedrock of the planet shattered, and golden flames licked the horizon.
A hole, perfectly circular and miles wide, was left smoking and raw where she struck. From within the crater rose a woman clad in ornate, gilded armor — her chestplate emblazoned with the rising sun, her skin almost glowing with light. Her eyes were molten gold, her hair like woven flame, and her ears gently curved — elven.
This was Innara the Illuminated, Angel of House Dawn.
And she did not wait to speak.
Innara looked around and scoffed, this little planet was useless to her, yet it shall serve a purpose, as a battlefield today.
She saw saelir through the crust of the planet, miles beneath, her divine vision unbothered by distance or matter. With a single hand, she drew light from the core of the her soul and pointed downward.
A beam of unrelenting holy light pierced the crust, the mantle, and the soul of the earth itself — spearing toward Saelir.
He sighed.
Still calmly seated beneath the tree, a rodent-like creature nuzzled beside him. He patted it, let it scurry off. He had, of course, known she was coming. One cannot ignore Innara's presence — her mana alone could be felt from the other side of reality.
"Innara, gods, why you're ever so angry...here I had almost thought you missed me," he muttered as the ground beneath him exploded in a radiant detonation.
The light struck, and the planet wept.
Continents lifted into the sky, chunks of land the size of cities thrown into orbit. Tides surged, tsunamis screamed across now shattered coastlines. A star-shaped light still was floating in stasis as it kept the destruction incoming a pillar of Light so thick and powerful illuminated the area around and at its top a cross shaped star the sun right above.
From the light Innara emerged, her radiant spear summoned — forged of pure light and will. Saelir stood now, casually floating upward through the smoke. The ocean below her boiled as the sky lit with flame and mist.
"You wear a new trick, angel," Saelir said, half-weary, half-admiring. "That's not the Sunspear."
"Be grateful," she replied coldly from across vast distances. "You're not worthy of the Sunspear, Cursebearer. I wasn't authorized to burn the system."
"Ah its those ancient Seraphs again I reckon, heh, since when did they care?"
She raised her weapon ignoring him. "This is the Lance of Illumination. My latest creation. Blessed by five suns. Forged in the first morning of this era."
The Aura of the Lance spiked as she fed mana into it
Saelir's eyes narrowed. This was no normal weapon.
"Pinnacle Rank Six," he muttered. "Ah, delightful." He smiled. "Then I won't hold back either."
He raised his staff, and blood answered.
From across the planet — ancient glyphs shimmered to life, drawn in patterns unseen by even the most divine. Some small as pebbles. Others vast as mountain ranges. Lines of cursed red crisscrossed the skies and oceans, drawn in living blood — some his, some borrowed.
Some stolen.
"Thirsting World," Saelir whispered.not bothering to call upon his full domain spell just yet.
His Domain Spell erupted.
The air bent. Luck unraveled. The laws of probability fractured like glass. Leaves fell upward. Light twisted sideways. Death came at random, while miracles ignited from nothing. A bird lived and died in the same breath. Every creature that harbored blood died all at once even rank five creatures fell to Saelirs tyrannical curse, above the planet, a giant blood red ouroboros began to devour its own tail, the concepts of blood, curses and luck were now Saelirs to command.
Innara flew.
She struck. Her spear pierced through curses, cleaving sky and dimming distant stars. Every swing shattered geography. Mountains broke. Rivers boiled. The very planet — once calm and sleeping — now wept in cataclysmic destruction.
And Saelir?
He danced.
He danced through the air with a serpent's grace, weaving between each devastating lance, his staff glowing with runes. He cast no traditional spell — instead reversing her probabilities, twisting them. A spear that should have hit instead bent away by an inch. A blade of light meant to vaporize found its light turned to shadow, its trajectory flipped by cursed sigils.
Each time he narrowly dodged, a glyph activated. Each glyph was anchored to blood, and the blood was everywhere — in the soil, in the creatures, in him.
Innara snarled."You twist this world into rot!"
"I twist nothing," he said, sweat beading his brow. "I simply remind it that reality is negotiable."
Her spear blazed."Then I shall illuminate you until there is nothing left to twist."
"Heavens Grace"
Her boosting spell erupted.
The pillar of Light grew now piercing through the planet from both sides burning entire continents.
She spun midair, golden radiant wings bursting wide, releasing an explosion of sanctified flame. Saelir responded — calling upon the stored fates of every cursed beast he had slain, every undone potential and bitter betrayal layered into this world's heart.
A thousand failed destinies became fuel.
A thousand hopes dashed became fire.
His staff lit with a blood-wreathed sigil, and he met her strike for the first time, their energies colliding in a flash so blinding that even the suns flinched.
Their clash continued.
....
In the endless weave of the Fractured Realms, where very star holds a secret and every silence a blade, houses rise, fall, and remember.
They remember grudges.
They remember blood.
Dusk remembers Night.Hunt remembers Prime.War remembers Peace.And Dawn... remembers Shadow.
Among them, none clash with such bitter purity, such ancestral venom, as House Shadow and House Dawn. Their feud was not born of land, nor coin, nor even wounded pride. It was older than conquest, deeper than justice — a clash of truths, two pillars that could not stand without casting shade upon the other.
Dawn, ever righteous, ever burning, believed light was salvation — not just a force, but a destiny. It saw in Shadow not just danger, but deviation. A freedom too wild, too untamed. A lineage of heresy.
To them, the dark was a sickness to be cured.A silence to be broken.A realm to be conquered.
And so, they tried.
Time and time again, Dawn sent its armies, lances raised to the suns, hoping to burn away the blood-streaked banners of House Shadow. But Shadow did not burn. It folded, it waited, it struck. Born of exile, shadow was not weakness — it was will. A creed of survival. Of defiance. Of chaos made beautiful.
They could not be ruled.They would not kneel.
And so the feuds continued.
Peace, when it came, was not peace at all — merely a silence between thunderclaps. A lull in the breath of history. Every once in a while, that silence would crack, and the houses would do what they have always done.
They would choose champions.
Far from the courts, far from the councils and golden halls, in some forgotten, innocent realm not yet touched by the tide of war — two angels would descend.One cloaked in Shadow. One robed in Dawn.
And the skies would weep
Every house was guilty of this.
This time, it was House Shadow who made the first move. They had grown tired of the false calm. Tired of peace without pride. They sought not just battle — but spectacle. Proof. Their fangs had not dulled. Their lineage had not faded.
Their fire, hidden in dark, still burned.
So here, in a realm of trees and water, one that had known only quiet, two titans fell from opposite ends of the sky. Innara the Illuminated, shield of Dawn, and Saelir, Cursewright of the Thirsting Word, voice of Shadow.
And as they clashed — as mountains shattered, oceans boiled, and glyphs sang beneath bloodied moons — the realm itself began to unravel.
Because in the Fractured Realms, where gods walk masked and mana is legacy, weakness is never forgiven. Power is not just a right — it is a necessity. Tactics are not choices — they are lifelines. And when champions fail, houses fall.
Thus, their duel was no mere contest. It was a vote of survival, cast in flame and ruin.
The people of this realm will not remember who started it.They will only remember the light that pierced their heavens, and the curse that echoed in their dying forests.
And perhaps, as always, the realm will rebuild. Or perhaps it will vanish — another casualty in a war not its own.
But the Houses?
They will remember.
Because Shadow and Dawn were never meant to coexist.
Only one can stand where the light meets the dark. And neither intends to kneel.