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The world was burning.
Flames rolled like waves across the shattered plains, their reflection turning the sky a molten red. The air trembled with screams, metal, and magic — a storm of chaos and ruin. Towers that once reached for the heavens crumbled into the dust, and through it all, shadows moved like living nightmares.
At the heart of it stood a fortress of black stone, half devoured by fire. Its banners — marked with the sigil of a fallen kingdom — were torn, their edges glowing faintly with dying runes. The gates had already fallen, the courtyard soaked in blood and ash.
Inside, the last of the defenders fought not for victory, but for meaning.
"Hold the line!" a voice roared, though it was drowned by the growl of something unearthly. The ground shuddered as a abyssal creature surged through the breach — a creature of twisted darkness and bone, its form shifting like smoke, its eyes two hollow suns of crimson. Arrows hissed, blades clashed, spells ignited — but nothing slowed it down.
The soldiers fell, one after another, their courage swallowed by despair.
And through the chaos, a woman ran.
Her white cloak was torn and stained, but her pace did not falter. In her arms, she carried something small, wrapped tightly in cloth — something she shielded as if it were more precious than her own life.
Behind her, another figure followed, wounded but unyielding — a man in half-broken armor, his sword dragging against the stone, the blade's edge still glowing faintly with fading runes.
"Eira! The courtyard's collapsing!" he shouted hoarsely.
"I know!" she answered, voice trembling yet resolute. "Just a little farther—he must survive!"
The man stumbled, catching her wrist. "The runes are fading. The wards won't hold much longer."
She turned to him, eyes glistening with both fury and sorrow. "Then we'll make them last long enough."
He hesitated, then nodded once. Together, they reached the heart of the fortress — a circular chamber of obsidian, carved with ancient sigils. Most of the runes were cracked, their glow weak and uncertain. But in the center lay an altar, untouched by the destruction around it.
Eira placed the bundle on the altar. The cloth slipped just enough to reveal the face of a sleeping infant — peaceful, unaware of the world collapsing outside. The boy's skin shimmered faintly, as if the light itself bent toward him.
The man stepped closer, breathing heavily. "You know what they'll say if anyone finds out…"
"I don't care," she whispered, tracing a trembling hand over the child's forehead. "He bears the mark. If the old prophecy is true, then he's our only chance."
"The prophecy has doomed more than it's saved."
"Then let it doom me," she said, her voice breaking. "But not him."
Outside, the roar of the Wryths grew closer — a cacophony of rage and hunger. The walls trembled, dust cascading like falling snow. Eira raised her hand, the runes on her palm igniting one last time. Blue light flared, swirling around the child like a cocoon.
"By name and by blood… let the world forget," she murmured.
The man watched as the chamber filled with radiant mist. The baby's faint cry echoed — soft, almost humanly unaware of the storm around him. Then, as the spell completed, the sound faded.
When the light vanished, the altar was empty.
Only the faint warmth of life lingered in the air.
Eira's strength gave out. She fell to her knees, tears cutting through the ash on her cheeks. "It's done," she whispered. "He's gone."
The man knelt beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "And so the cycle begins again."
The fortress walls cracked with a deafening roar. Shadows poured in through the broken archways, devouring everything in sight. Eira stood one last time, facing the coming darkness with eyes like frozen stars. Her fingers traced one more rune in the air — a symbol of hope, or perhaps defiance — before the world was swallowed whole.
Then there was silence.
The flames burned out. The sky dimmed.
And somewhere, far from the ruins of that forgotten kingdom, a newborn cried beneath a gentler dawn ..
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