The sky was not a sky anymore, but a vast sea of storms. Clouds twisted like wounded beasts, torn by thunder that seemed to devour itself. At the edge of the mountains, flames burned black — not fire, but corruption — crawling across stone and ruin, killing whatever dared to breathe. Death had taken form, and it spread.
Above it all, wings unfurled like curtains shutting out the heavens. Vast, grayish membranes, older than memory itself, veiled the moon in shadow. Between them glowed two burning eyes, ancient and merciless. He was Zaryon, Lord of the Black Flame, last heir of the draconic age. To gaze upon him was to witness the peak of a civilization that had ruled when men were dust beneath their talons.
The land beneath trembled. A single knight advanced across that corpse-field, each step falling heavy upon the silence of death. His armor, silver-blue, bore runes etched in lunar light; his sword — a monstrous two-handed blade of dark blue steel — carried the weight of a single purpose: to end what could not be ended. He was known in legend as the Knight of the Moon.
When he raised his head, his voice echoed with calm, and yet with finality."Zaryon. The destined death."
The dragon's wings cut the clouds as he rose. Mountains quaked with the violence of his movement."You… human. So small, so fragile… and still you dare."
He landed. The sound was not of stone breaking but of the world itself being commanded to kneel. His voice carried, not as sound, but as law. Few of his kind had ever spoken in human tongue, fewer still to their prey.
"There is no escape from the flame of death."
The Knight of the Moon did not lower his gaze. His eyes, pale under the silver visor, locked into the burning abyss of the dragon's. He knew the truth of those words. He had known it for years.
Once, there had been four.
The Storm Knight — golden armor traced with lightning, a tempest bound in flesh. She was the wind itself, striking dragons where no one else dared: in the open sky.The Divine Iron Guardian — the wall of eternity. A mountain encased in steel, his blows breaking bones, his body holding the weight of storms.The Scarlet Arcane — robes of black and crimson, fire and frost coiled at his fingertips. His wrath rivaled the gods themselves, his magic consuming everything but his own soul.
And finally, the Knight of the Moon.
Together they had been more than men, more than hunters. They had been the edge of hope. Pulled from their lives and thrust into a cruel world, they had learned the truth of eternity: death was not an end. Each time their bodies broke, each time their screams fell into silence, they rose again in front of the divine fire. Reborn, and commanded to suffer again.
But eternity does not liberate; it corrodes.
The Storm Knight's speed became frenzy, until she struck phantoms in empty skies.The Guardian's invincibility grew heavy, until his armor became a coffin he could not remove.The Arcane burned himself hollow, until his words were not spells but obsessions.
Madness devoured them. Not the quick madness of men, but the slow unraveling that eternity demands. They died and returned until returning meant nothing. Until their names became burdens heavier than their blades.
Only the Knight of the Moon remained. His will was not strength, but curse. He endured what should not be endured, driven by a prophecy whispered by the moon itself — a prophecy that had promised an end.
Now that end stood before him.
Zaryon's shadow swallowed the field. The earth cracked under his weight. His eyes were furnaces without bottom, and his breath reeked of graves unopened.
The knight raised his blade. Moonlight rippled down its edge, leaving a trail of stars carved in the night. He moved, faster than silence, and the dragon struck, claws of fire ripping through air. For an instant the sky was torn open.
They clashed. Sword against claw, magic against flame. Each blow was a quake, each roar a sundering. The heavens dimmed; the ground itself caved. A duel beyond measure — dragon and knight, death and defiance — waged until breath itself seemed unwilling to exist.
And then, in a moment torn from fate, the knight's blade found its mark. A crescent of lunar fire pierced through scale and bone, tearing into the dragon's heart.
Zaryon screamed. His voice was not a sound but a cataclysm. Mountains shook. The sky faltered. The flames died.
His fall shattered the earth. His last words came like a prophecy defiled."Insignificant creature. The extinction of our race will not save your soul."
Silence.
The knight knelt, body broken, lungs burning. He lifted his gaze. The sky still bore the wounds of black fire, yet through them the moon glowed — vast, radiant, merciless. For a breath, he thought victory meant freedom.
Then everything vanished.
No pain. No sound. No body. Only emptiness — a prison without walls, a silence more terrible than death.
From that abyss came a voice. Distant. Ethereal. Without anger, without mercy, without anything human.
The age of men must begin.
He tried to resist, but resistance was not his to command. His essence was pulled apart, stripped, and forced into a mold that did not belong to him.
And then, he awoke.