The realm burned.
Buildings fell beneath skies lit not by sun, but by fire. Shadows stretched tall as towers cracked, and the wind carried the cries of those who begged for mercy.
Amid the ruin, a lone figure stood on a hill of ash, wrapped in tattered black. His eyes—white as moonless frost—held something unnatural. They did not blink. They did not waver. They saw beyond what others could bear. Past and future danced in them like a storm trapped behind ice.
He was known by many names good and bad
The Hero
The Prophet
The Chosen One
The False Prophet
The Fallen One
The Chaos
Below him, in the hollow of what once was a city, a miracle cried into the soot-filled air.
A newborn, untouched by flame or rubble. Cradled in a strange stillness, swaddled in the impossible—neither divine nor mortal, yet both. The child's cries echoed through the smoke, fragile and stubborn.
The figure was watched for a long time.
Silent. Still.
He could have ended it. He could have claimed it.
Instead, he turned. Cloak trailing behind him, the ash parting in silence. He walked away—toward a horizon bleeding red, toward something only he could see.
Some say that moment rewrote destiny.