The Abyss does not stir lightly.
It churns. Sleeps. Watches.
And when it moves—realities bleed.
Deep beneath the known realms, beneath the roots of broken stars and the skeletons of failed universes, the Abyssal Thrones sat in mute formation. Towering spires of bone and black flame encircled a pit of living shadow.
In the center, a throne of obsidian nerves pulsed with a dark heartbeat.
Val'zaruun, Warlord of the Twelfth Depth, sat unmoving.
Massive. Cloaked in veils of entropy. Eyes like dying suns. His fingers were claws, but he held no weapon. He was the weapon.
And now—he was listening.
Before him knelt three Abyssal Sentinels, cloaked in dripping shadowmail, heads bowed low.
"Speak," Val'zaruun rumbled, voice like oceans folding in reverse.
One of the Sentinels trembled. "We found no remains of the Demon Gods, my lord. The battle sites were clean. Reality was… overwritten."
Val'zaruun leaned forward slightly.
"No trace?"
"None. No essence signatures. No soul fragments. It was as if they were…"
The Sentinel hesitated.
"…unmade."
Silence.
Then the Abyss itself trembled.
Not from rage.
From realization.
Val'zaruun slowly stood—his full height eclipsing the thrones behind him. His warplate groaned, covered in shifting scars from battles no god remembered. But his eyes narrowed now—not in fear.
In recognition.
"…It's him," he whispered. "The one beyond prophecy. The anomaly the Abyss could not drown."
One of the other Sentinels dared to speak. "You believe it's the same being that broke the Demon God Triumvirate?"
Val'zaruun turned to him.
And the Sentinel evaporated into smoke—nothing more than a sigh of failure.
The others knelt lower.
Val'zaruun stepped to the edge of the pit, where the floor opened into a mirror of the mortal plane.
A vision shimmered within: cities unaware, skies calm.
But the veil had thinned.
And across that fragile line… Alter now walked, part of the very system he once stood outside.
"…He doesn't bend it. He doesn't break it," Val'zaruun said slowly. "He wills it."
The abyssal fog surged around him.
"Then we act now."
A hollow horn sounded—one that had not been heard since the War of the Sundering Realms.
The Thrones shook.
And Abyssal Legions began to rise—cloaked in bone-silk, bearing blades that whispered, spears that dripped with silence, and wings made of rusted gravity.
Val'zaruun raised one hand—and split the veil himself.
"To the mortal realm," he ordered. "Raze it. Burn their altars. Infect their hope. We start with the humans."
The sky in the mirror blackened.
"And then," he said, "we march on the divine."
His final whisper, spoken like an oath:
"Let the Sovereign see what becomes of a world that accepts contradiction."
It began with whispers.
Whispers that became cracks.
Cracks that became tears in the sky.
Over the continents of Terravane and Seraveth, the air shattered like glass. Rifts opened across the horizon—churning whirlpools of shadow belching forth tides of Abyss-born demons, shrieking and crawling in shapes that defied logic.
The first cities never stood a chance.
In South Valdenmoor, the spires of the Grand Library shattered beneath talon and fang.
In Serathen, the high priests' chants died as the temple split in half.
In Korr's Edge, soldiers tried to form ranks—but the sky rained with black fire, and their screams filled the dawn.
Within hours, the eastern fronts were burning.
The demons surged—each wave stronger than the last. Hounds made of smoke and screaming iron. Glaive-wielding wretches that moved between shadows. Winged horrors that fed on memory. Their eyes glowed not with flame, but with hunger for ruin.
And the humans—blindsided, divided—could only hold for minutes at a time.
Across both continents, death reigned.
But not everywhere.
Far to the south, hidden behind a curtain of storm-forged mountains, was a land the demons had not accounted for:
Dratharek.
The homeland of the dragons.
And the grave-temple of the Dragoons.
When the first rift opened over the northern sky, the ground itself recoiled—
as if the land remembered the last time it had tasted demon blood.
And the mountain roared.
Deep beneath the peaks, sleeping dragons stirred.
Eyes of ember and frost opened for the first time in centuries. Great talons scraped stone. Wingbones cracked like thunder. The Elder Brood, long silent, growled in their native tongue:
"The Abyss rises again."
Across the valley, the Dragoons—mortal warriors bonded to dragonkind—awoke with them.
They wore no gold.
Only steel.
Blackened scale-mesh forged in ritual flame.
Eyes sharp with lineage, minds sharpened by oath.
The Dragoons rose from their temples, vaults, and cliffside forges as one.
And when the demons touched Dratharek soil—
They met resistance.
Not in the form of prayer or desperate magic.
But in precision.
The first wave was incinerated in mid-air—torn apart by a storm-breathing serpent named Myzonthra, whose scales glinted with living lightning.
The second wave was crushed beneath the descending talons of Tiravas the Ashwing, who burned a valley into glass as his bonded Dragoon Lareth rode astride his back, spear glowing with sovereign dragonlight.
The demons had come expecting conquest.
They found retribution.
For every demon that landed, ten were incinerated. No spell rituals. No delay. The Dragoons moved as one with their partners—silent, efficient, unstoppable.
Within hours, the skies above Dratharek were clear.
And the Abyss, for the first time since its march began, encountered something it did not understand:
Defiance. Without fear.
High above Dratharek, on a cliff watchtower, Dragoon Commander Rhaelyn Velhart stood as the wind howled around her silver helm. She held no blade.
Just a signal horn forged from the fang of the First Dragon.
She raised it to the sky.
And sounded a single note.
The sound crossed continents—reaching those still alive in Terravane and Seraveth.
It did not bring salvation.
But it brought hope.
The dragons had awakened.
And the Dragoons had not forgotten the taste of war.
The sky fractured like glass.
A soundless tremor coursed through the upper layers of reality—a ripple not of air, but of concept, of meaning. And then, above the twin continents of Terravane and Seraveth, the skies began to bleed.
At first, only the priests noticed. In temples, monasteries, and sanctums, those attuned to divine leyfields collapsed to their knees as their wards shattered. Diviners screamed. Prophets clawed at their own skin. The stars realigned in unnatural formations, spelling dread to any who could read them.
And then—it came.
A black ring tore open above the heart of Terravane, near the capital of Elenthys, its edges burning like obsidian fire. Another rip formed over the eastern spine of Seraveth, near the great riftlands, bathing the skies in crimson ash. These were not simple portals, but world-scarring wounds—tears in the fabric of existence, anchored from the other side.
From within the rift... demons poured forth.
They didn't come as scouts.
They came as a wave.
The first ones were feral—mutated beasts and corrupted elementals, charging across plains and cities alike. Then came the harbingers—tall figures cloaked in ichor and bone, bearing sigils of an ancient language that cracked the sky with every uttered syllable. Entire villages vanished under their march, their victims left not as corpses—but as empty husks, drained of all essence.
Panic erupted.
In Terravane, the southern cities fell within hours. The great fortresses of Solvaen and Karethor, long considered impenetrable, were overrun by demon swarmlords whose wings blotted the sun.
In Seraveth, the capital's border divisions—commanded by the finest soldiers in the northern realm—barely slowed the advance. The Mythral Dawn, led by the 14 Commanders, mobilized immediately, redirecting every active member and reserve division toward the breach.
But even their might—Selene's celestial flames, Thorne's titanic warstride, Mira's arcing froststorms, Finn's windstep slaughter—only slowed the tide.
And then… the sky above Celestia, Seraveth's capital, tore open.
A second rift, wider than any before, spewed out what could only be described as a Void Cathedral—an airborne demonic fortress suspended by chains of blood and howls. From within it descended a Demon General—eight wings of flame and rot, four arms each wielding a twisted blade of sin.
He spoke once. His voice killed every bird in the sky.
And then he raised his hand.
Meteoric fire rained upon the city.
Buildings collapsed. Defenders burned. The noble houses were reduced to rubble, their sigils torn and cast into the wind. Selene, leading a battalion of Mythral Dawn, activated the Seraphic Aegis—her divine armor erupting with radiant light. She blocked one barrage. Two. But there were too many.
It became clear—
They had come prepared for the divine.
And they were not alone.
Whispers spread across the battlefield—confirmation of other Demon Generals descending upon Terravane. One wielded a lance of plague that turned water into acid. Another summoned legions from within his own body, vomiting out armies like bile.
Takayoshi fought alongside Selene in the western trenches, his blade swinging with the weight of his lineage, warping the ground beneath him. He alone held the southern bridge for six hours, buying time for the civilians to flee. His armor was scorched. His hands bled. But he stood.
Still, it wasn't enough.
The order came at dusk.
Evacuate.
Selene resisted. Takayoshi clenched his jaw.
But it was the only choice.
Retreat from the North – Mythral Dawn's Exodus
The skies turned crimson as the Mythral Dawn activated their final contingency plan. From hidden vaults across the realm, teleportation gates flared open. Giant rune constructs—summoned by Revyn, Arinelle, and Ilyra—allowed for mass civilian exodus. Cities emptied. Soldiers bought time with their blood.
Selene stayed to watch the last of them cross.
She turned to Takayoshi. "We've lost Seraveth."
He looked at her, the weight of centuries in his eyes. "No… we retreat to reclaim."
Their new destination was the one place not yet touched by the invasion.
A place sealed by sleeping dragons.
A place with a rising force no demon had yet dared confront.
Drakareth – The Skyborne Sanctuary
Far to the south, across storm-split oceans, Drakareth remained eerily silent.
Not untouched—but watched.
For six years, the dragons had slumbered, hidden beneath shrines and bones beneath mountains. But with the first rift's appearance—an ancient pulse rippled through the land.
And from the city of Skyharbor, now transformed into a sovereign stronghold, the Dragoons rose.
Led by a commander whose form bore silver-blue celestial draconic armor.
A sovereign not born of blood, but of trials, flame, and legacy.
Alter, the Draconian Prime, had returned.
And Drakareth did not fall.
Where others fled, Dragoons stood. Where demons marched, they were crushed beneath skybound might. Their armor shimmered with sovereign light. Their weapons carried runes of death, faith, and flame.
In the skies, Ignivar, the Flameborne Apex, soared—his wings splitting storms, his roar burning demonic legions.
The demons learned quickly: this land was not theirs.
And the dragons… had woken.
The moon hung low over the volcanic ridges of Veyr'Zhalar, casting pale silver across the high towers of the Aetherflame Palace. Night had settled in gently, as though the stars themselves had paused in deference to this moment.
Selene stood alone in a quiet corridor, facing a sealed chamber flanked by two statues of sleeping dragons. The ornate door before her bore twin sigils: one of emberfire, the other of celestial stillness.
Her hand trembled as she pressed it to the center.
The barrier recognized her instantly.
A warm pulse surged through the stone—and the doors unlocked with a soft hiss of displaced aether.
Inside, the sanctum was quiet… but not cold.
Draconic warmth lingered here, layered in divine blessings. Gentle runes glowed on the walls, spelling protective phrases in the old tongue. And in the center—nestled beneath an arch of soft-threaded light—rested a dual cradle.
Two infants stirred softly beneath a shimmering veil.
Selene stepped forward—her breath catching.
There they were.
Her children.
Her twins.
Her son—Kaelion—lay on the right. His tiny form was wrapped in a copper-hued cloth, golden-red tufts of hair peeking from beneath his hood. His little fingers flexed in sleep, and with each motion, a flicker of spark leapt from his palm. Even asleep, a soft glow burned in his chest.
On the left, his sister—Serenya—rested without stirring. Her hair was soft as snowfall, silver tinged with the barest sheen of pale blue. She slept with one hand resting near her lips, a wisp of gentle light floating just above her chest. Not radiant—calm. A serenity deeper than silence surrounded her.
Selene's vision blurred.
She knelt beside the cradle and reached out with trembling hands.
Kaelion stirred first—nose wrinkling, brows furrowing as his fingers curled. He made a tiny sound—somewhere between a hiccup and a frustrated puff—and sparks crackled at his fingertips. One even burned the corner of the blanket.
Selene laughed quietly through her tears.
"Just like your father," she whispered.
Serenya shifted a second later, turning toward her brother, her hand seeking warmth. When her fingers brushed his shoulder, the sparks ceased.
A delicate balance—already forming.
Selene reached down, scooping both into her arms—gently, reverently. They stirred against her chest, little breaths fogging the silk of her robe.
She didn't speak again.
She only held them.
The silence was no longer heavy.
It was sacred.
From the archway, Princess Alyxthia approached, her voice low and reverent. "They've been waiting for you," she said softly. "No tears. No fear. Just… peace."
Selene turned, her face streaked with tears. "How long?"
"Ten moons," Alyxthia replied. "Since the day you entered the divine flame. Since the day he—Alter—passed them into our care. He told me, 'If I fail, protect them. If I succeed, they'll know us again.'"
Selene kissed Kaelion's brow, then Serenya's.
"You were never forgotten," she whispered. "And your father… will never stop reaching for you."
Later – Under the Night Sky
Wrapped in a long shawl, Selene sat on the royal balcony overlooking Drakareth's silent capital. Kaelion lay against her shoulder, one fist curled by his cheek. Serenya slept on her chest, her tiny form utterly still, but her soft breath pulsing with moonlight.
The breeze carried the scent of dragon lilies and faint forge-sparks from the lower district. All felt quiet—whole.
And then… the stars shifted.
High above, a trail of light streaked across the firmament—a divine thread of gold weaving across the constellations.
Selene looked up.
She knew that signature.
She placed her hand over her heart.
A warm pulse answered her through the Veil of Origin ring upon her finger.
Alter's presence—from the Divine Realm—touched her.
Kaelion stirred, lips parting with a drowsy breath.
Serenya's hand lifted unconsciously toward the sky.
Selene whispered, voice barely audible:
"Can you feel them, my love?"
And somewhere across the divine horizon…
Alter did.
He stood in the sky-garden of Seraphina's realm, starlight brushing his shoulders, his gaze turned toward the mortal plane.
He didn't need to speak.
The connection said it all.
They were alive.
They were safe.
And his family—was waiting.