They said the darkness would break.
They said the war was over.
But fear lingered like dust in every heart.
Across the shattered kingdoms of Ash'Var, the shattered sanctuaries of the Celestials, and the broken courts of men and demon alike, whispers spread:
He sits on the Obsidian Throne.
He commands flame and shadow.
He destroyed light.
He cannot be stopped.
In response, a secret conclave gathered—an unprecedented meeting of the terrified:
A Sun-King from the mortal South, clad in scorched gold armor.
A blind priestess of the shattered Light, her eyes shining with lightning.
A reclusive warlord from the Deep Hollow, bearing scars that whispered ancient pacts.
A rogue demon who had once served Shadow, now broken and seeking absolution.
They met within the ruins of the Radiant Spire, the once-holy beacon of the sky-forged angels.
Under vaulted ceilings blackened by cataclysmic fire, these uneasy allies pondered their only answer:
They needed a champion. Someone the realms could rally behind. Someone bold enough to challenge Shadow.
They whispered of legends. Of knights who stood for hope. Of exiles who remembered light. Of a man—or creature—who carried the spark of rebellion.
They called him The Chosen One.
The conclave lasted three nights. On the fourth morning, the light was grey, as though the sun feared to look.
One by one, candidates were summoned.
First, the Sun-King's nephew, a young knight with a blade warmed by solar flare, but no fire in his heart.
Second, the Blind Priestess' disciple—a girl born without sight, who could see truths that others could not.
Third, a hulking warrior from the Deep Hollow, rumored to have struck a bargain with a god of beasts.
Fourth, the rogue demon, winged and wretched, hoping to atone—or die.
As each came forward, the conclave tested them:
Could the knight face the void without flinching?
Could the blind girl walk across that doomed hall without falling?
Could the beast-warlord suppress his feral hunger?
Could the demon withstand the crushing aura of broken memory?
One by one, they failed.
Until the doors of the hall were thrown open.
He walked in: a figure neither knight nor priest nor demon, but all. Clad in mismatched steel, torn robe, and carrying a simple sword etched with starlight. His eyes glowed with defiance.
They called him Eryn.
No one knew his origin. Some said he was the lost son of a shattered archangel. Others whispered he had drunk shadow and spit light in return.
They tested him.
They demanded humility.
They asked him to kneel before the Bloodstone — a relic of war, warmed in Shadow's ashes.
He kneeled—alone—with no clothes beyond his belt.
He refused to back bravado. He spoke:
"I am not your hero.
I am not your weapon.
I am only what you send to stand in his light."
They whispered: the best possible answer.
He took the Bloodstone—blessed his sword with it—and let the warmth crawl through his shoulder, across his chest, warming bone and marrow, weaving shadows into light.
He was chosen.
Word spread faster than wildfire.
Eryn will face Shadow.
Across realms, alliances formed and broke. Kingdoms who loathed each other offered him support.
From the South came mounted knights; from the North came silver wings; from hidden folds came warlocks of sand and spirit charmers.
The Conclave became a caravan.
Eryn stood at its center, not as lord, but as a mirror to their fear and hope.
He trained in silence and solitude. He studied Shadow's tactics, strengths, rumored weaknesses. He prepared not for war—but for reckoning.
Banners bore slogans: "Light the Shadow." "Face the Ash." "We Stand or Fall Together."
In the nights before departure, he wandered among villages burnt in the war. He held hands of widows burned by divine fire. He offered words of humanity, mortal kindness, remembering life beyond darkness and revenge.
They looked at him and saw not a messiah—but a man full of scars, bearing their burdens.
The armies reached Obsidia at dawn.
The fortress sat within a crater of flame and earth, visible for leagues. Obsidian walls glistened like spilled night. To its gates came 5,000 hearts beating in fear and hope.
Eryn stepped forward first, Bloodstone blazing on his sword.
He called out in ancient tongue:
"Shadow! I come for peace—and if you refuse, for war.
One man. One challenge. Let them speak in the end."
Silence answered.
The gates remained closed.
He pressed on, alone.
With each step forward, shadows shifted. The ash tremored. The throne's aura sensed him.
At the walls stood the Celestial Remnants—exiled angels, now silent watchers—wings bowed, swords lowered. They had come to watch him pass or fall.
No voice above welcomed him.
He walked up the steps of wrought darkness.
The gates shattered in a silent roar—and he entered.
The great hall was empty. Tier upon tier of stone seats curved toward the throne.
And there, seated, was Shadow.
He raised his head.
His eyes SDARKFLAME glowed brighter than any sunrise.
"You come alone," he said—his voice echoing off unseen void.
"You come with light in your hands. You come believing you can save them."
Eryn stepped forward—uncertain, but steady.
"No. I come to show them why it matters.
To show you why we stand."
The Bloodstone pulsed brighter than his eyes; light and shadow clashed on the sword's edge.
Shadow … smirked.
"Bravery favors the naive. Fool.
But you are welcome nonetheless."
He rose.
The throne wept cracks of lava and obsidian dust.
They faced each other.
No armies. No honor guard.
Just two hearts beating.
The clash began.
Not with thunder—but with intent.
Eryn lunged. The Bloodstone blade met Shadow's void-forged sword, and time slowed.
Steel rang. Sparks flew. Blood dripped.
The ground cracked.
Shadow's strike was raw fury—met by Eryn's focused will. They matched in speed, neither yielding.
Each blow echoed across realms.
Each strike carried the weight of lost worlds.
Eryn parried, using light to deflect darkness. He struck, precise and cutting through shadows. But Shadow answered with raw power, part demon, part monarch.
They danced across jagged stone.
Eryn stumbled.
Shadow raised his blade—but paused.
He saw something in Eryn's eyes.
Not hate.
Not despair.
Hope.
He hit—a blow that should have killed.
It didn't.
Eryn collapsed but refused to kneel.
He spoke, trembling:
"I—I stand so they may rise again. That light may live. That darkness may learn to fear hope."
Shadow stepped back.
The battlefield shivered.
No applause. No disdain.
Just silent respect.
He knelt.
"Rise," he said.
They returned blades.
"Come," Shadow whispered.
"Show me."
In that moment, every realm felt a tremor.
A promise was made.
Not of peace.
Not of war.
But of something new.
They emerged together.
Eryn on foot. Shadow on the throne. No crowd. No armies.
But the tremor remained.
His lands would whisper of a champion who stood alone.
Heralds would spread the tale: "He fought the Shadow King and lived."
Even Broken Angels would remember that first spark.
And Shadow—King of Ash'Var—would never forget what he saw:
A soul burning with something he once lost.
A flicker of what might come after the ashes.