Fire devoured the sky.
Ash rained from the heavens like snow from a dying god's breath.
And I couldn't move.
My arms were broken. My legs—numb.
Every breath scraped through blood. Not sure if it was mine. Didn't matter.
The battlefield was a grave.
The divine. The damned. Monsters I didn't have names for.
They were all dead.
Or worse — silent.
Something had silenced them.
I was the only one still breathing. Barely.
Then I saw it.
A figure, walking through the fog and flame.
No sound. No footsteps. Just presence.
It didn't glow. It didn't roar. It didn't need to.
Everything knelt before it — corpses, smoke, even space.
A cloak — blacker than shadow, trailing ash like a comet's tail.
Hair grey, wild, floating in still air like time refused to touch it.
Its eyes—
No.
I never saw its eyes.
Only the feeling of being seen.
Like the entire sky had turned to stone and was pressing down on my ribs.
I didn't know why I spoke. Maybe instinct. Maybe madness.
"Wh…o a…re…you…?"
It stopped.
Even the wind held its breath.
It turned its head slightly. Just slightly. Enough to feel that pressure shift.
Like reality was bending to its will.
Then it answered.
Not with a whisper.
Not with power.
Just a voice — tired, soft, impossible.
"This is not your story anymore."
And the world fractured.
---
[Scene Break – Years Earlier: The Village of Nareth, Mountain Province]
The soft chorus of birdsong mingled with the gentle murmur of the river and the whisper of the wind...Everything felt calm and still.
I woke to sunlight slicing through the old shutters, painting gold lines across the stone floor.
It was cold. Spring melt.
I tightened the wraps around my forearms and tied my boots. My back ached from sleeping on the floor again. Grandpa said it built character. I said it built spinal damage.
The house was quiet.
Outside, mist rolled off the cliffs like breath from a sleeping giant.
The yard was still. The old post logs we trained on stood like tired soldiers.
I stepped out.
The breeze was sharp, almost biting, and smelled of pine.
I stretched, feeling the knots in my shoulders crack.
Every morning, I trained before school.
Every morning, I was alone.
Until I wasn't.
Footsteps.
He appeared under the archway, arms crossed. A shadow cast long by the early sun.
Riven.
Tall. Quiet. Always watching.
The kind of guy who never said anything unless it mattered.
My best friend since we were kids.
He had brown eyes, darker skin than mine, and a jaw that looked like it could cut granite. Wore a black scarf year-round. Never told me why.
He didn't say anything.
Just walked past me, picked up a training staff, and began the drills.
Like he belonged there.
Like he always had.
We never used names during training. No need. We knew who we were.
We practiced in silence. Stance. Step. Strike. Repeat.
The rhythm was familiar, like a heartbeat.
Then — a shout from the house.
"Breakfast's almost ready! If you two idiots are done playing swords, come eat before I eat yours!"
Lirei.
Our childhood friend. Bright red hair tied in a messy bun. Freckles. Wild smile.
The kind of girl who punched harder than she hugged.
She lived next door but spent more time in our house than her own. Claimed our kitchen was more 'spiritually aligned with proper frying.'
"Coming!" I called, cracking my neck.
Riven didn't stop.
"You really don't get how stomachs work, do you?" I said to him.
He paused, deadpan. "Training first. Hunger is a distraction."
I groaned. "You sound like Grandpa."
"He's not wrong."
Lirei stormed out of the house, apron still on, holding a frying pan like a weapon.
"Do I need to knock you both unconscious and force-feed eggs down your stubborn throats?"
I saluted. "Yes, chef."
She threw a loaf of bread at me.
I dodged. Barely.
"Ugh. You both are hopeless. You know what, Riven? I swear, the moment I die, it'll be from sheer frustration caused by your training obsession."
He blinked. "Noted."
We laughed. He didn't.
Not that day.
---
[Scene: Inside the House – Family]
We finally dragged ourselves inside.
The smell of fried eggs and roasted barley filled the air. My mother stood by the stove, apron half-burned and hair pinned up like she'd fought it into submission.
"Boots off. Don't track dirt in," she said without turning.
"Already off!" I lied.
Lirei snorted. "Liar."
Mom glanced over her shoulder. "Kael, don't make me summon your father's old spear."
"He's been dead ten years," I said.
She gave me a dry look. "And I still haven't figured out where he hid the socks."
I snorted. Lirei rolled her eyes.
Even Riven smiled. A little.
Riven sat silently, hands folded, but Mom still patted his head like she always did. "You eat enough, boy?"
He nodded once. She ruffled his hair harder anyway.
"Lirei," she added, "if you're going to raid my pantry every morning, at least pretend to help with dishes."
Lirei held up a fork like a sword. "I help by boosting morale."
Mom raised an eyebrow. "You boost volume, maybe."
Lirei gasped. "I am hurt, madam! Mortally!"
"Good. Dramatic suffering builds appetite. You three are thirteen, not thirty. Stop sulking like old men and eat your eggs."
We did.
And for a moment, it was just that — warmth, eggs, mockery, and a table too small for all the noise.
---
[Later That Day – Forest Edge: The First Sign]
That afternoon, we had a long class session with Master Yorrik on basic rune structures.
Yorrik was an old mage with eyebrows like exploding bushes. He'd taught at the local school for decades and smelled like burnt sage and wet parchment. Hated shoes. Always barefoot. Still kicked harder than Lirei.
"You three," he pointed, "stay back and clean up the ink glyphs."
Riven didn't complain. Lirei did. Loudly.
"Why do we always get stuck with the crap jobs?" she muttered, scrubbing at the floor.
"Because we're the only ones who don't set the entire school on fire by accident," I said.
"Yet," Riven added.
I stared at him.
"Did you just make a joke?"
Lirei dropped the cloth. "He did! That counts as emotional development!"
Riven blinked. "I'll stop."
We laughed again.
It was a good day.
Until it wasn't.
After school, we went toward the river for our usual spar.
But the moment we reached the forest edge—
The air changed.
A strange humming, like glass being tapped.
Light. Soft. Green.
A stone. Floating above scorched ground.
Symbols glowing faintly around it.
Riven took one step toward it.
"Whoa, hold up," Lirei said, raising a hand. "It literally looks cursed. Let's definitely touch it, yeah? Great idea."
I nodded. "Hard pass. Let's go home before someone ends up haunted."
Riven didn't stop.
"Riven," Lirei warned, voice sharper now, "I was joking."
Too late.
He stepped forward.
Touched it.
Light flared.
The wind howled.
Lirei screamed.
I blinked.
And when the light faded—
His eyes were silver.
Then he collapsed.
The stone was gone.
Lirei rushed to his side, grabbing his shoulders.
"Riven! Hey, hey! Say something, you idiot!"
His mouth opened.
Whispers. In a language none of us understood.
Then he passed out.
---
[Scene Break – Present, Battlefield Again]
Time skips like a stone across water when you bleed too long.
I don't know how long I lay there after he vanished.
After the figure — the god — left.
I remember the silence. The kind that presses into your chest like grief.
The kind that knows you by name.
I tried to move.
Couldn't.
I thought I'd die there.
Thought maybe I should.
But a voice came.
Not real.
Just a memory, echoing across the cracks in my mind.
"Get up, idiot. You're not done yet."
Lirei's voice.
The exact words she'd snapped at me the day I fell off the cliff ridge during a sparring match — right before she kicked me in the ribs for good measure.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
I opened my eyes.
The sky was whole again.
But the world wasn't.
And neither was I.