Kairo and the other lords had move into the terratory, their armies standing guard outside for any new threats that may emerge. Kairo, Claymond, Lyra and jacks sit on the dining table, Shiri prepares food for all of them.
The chamber was still, heavy with the weight of secrets that had slumbered for centuries. The council of Ruin Lords sat around the table like living statues, their eyes glimmering faintly in the dim torchlight. The flicker of flame carved their faces into sharp masks—some calm, some arrogant, some dangerous.
Claymond leaned forward, his hands folded together as though he were about to recite a prayer. His voice was deep and slow, like the toll of a bronze bell, carrying the gravity of ages.
"Kairo," he began, the air tightening as though the stones themselves were listening, "you stand upon a land birthed by war—no, by calamity. This world was not always broken into scattered shards of soil and sea. Once, in the Age of Unification, there were three great continents, three pillars of existence that upheld all creation. Their names are remembered in fragments, carved upon ruins and whispered by dying seers."
He raised a finger, as though counting the bones of time.
"The first was Sylvarael, the World Tree Continent. A cradle of roots and endless canopy, where the sacred tree rose so vast it touched the firmament. Its shade birthed countless races, and its fruits sustained gods and mortals alike.
The second was Aetherion, the Continent of the United Alliance. It was a bastion of civilization, where elves, men, dwarves, and spirits forged a pact to live as one—its cities glittered like jewels upon the land, and its armies marched beneath a single banner.
The third… was Drakathor, the Continent of Giants and Dragons. A realm of titans, where mountains themselves were but toys to its rulers. It was the stage for legends… and the tomb of eternity."
The chamber darkened as Claymond spoke, his words carrying such vivid weight that Kairo could almost see them. He could imagine Sylvarael's endless emerald boughs, Aetherion's shining towers, and Drakathor's skies torn by wings of fire.
"But peace," Claymond said bitterly, "is never eternal. The Age of Unification ended when Drakathor was sundered by war. The continent was home to two mighty factions. The first was the Moonbringers, the dragons who bent their necks only to the pale light above. They worshipped the Moon as their sovereign and their god, led by Indra the Silver, the Radiant dragon who carried lunar fire in his veins.
Opposing them were the Burning Hand, the giants who knelt only to the sun's merciless blaze. They worshipped the Sun as the eternal flame of dominance, led by Rudra the Crimson, whose blood ignited the heavens with every strike.
Two powers, equal in strength, equal in pride. The moon and sun cast their chosen champions into the world, and the world could not endure them both."
Lyra, seated beside Claymond, shivered at the name. Even Jacks, who until now leaned lazily against his chair, seemed to straighten.
Kairo's breath caught. He remembered his dream—the clash of the sun and moon, hords of giants and dragons about to clash—and the beast locked deep in the endless sea.
Claymond's voice deepened further, taking on a cadence like scripture.
"And thus began the Age of Eclipse.
Moon and Sun locked in hatred eternal, their chosen—Indra and Rudra—tore mountains asunder. Rivers boiled. Skies bled. The forests screamed.
The World Tree burned at its crown, yet froze at its roots. Its leaves turned to ash, and its branches to ice. Sylvarael wept as its heart split, and its body fell into five broken lands.
Aetherion, the proud alliance, rose to halt the tide. Kingdoms gathered their armies, cities emptied to the march of war. But before dragonfire and giant's flame, before moonlight spears and sunsworn fists, they perished in mere battles. Aetherion shattered into one great land and countless islands, its unity dissolved forever.
And Drakathor, the motherland of both giant and dragons, was crushed into rubble, drowned in its own fury, until only fragments remained beneath the sea."
The room was utterly silent. Not even the torches dared to crackle too loud.
"For centuries," Claymond continued, "this war raged, neither side yielding. And when they finally met for the last time, their hatred reached its zenith. They battled not upon soil but upon the ocean itself, their clash splitting tides and sundering stars. Indra's silver fire, Rudra's crimson blaze—the collision shattered reality itself. A wound was torn into the sea, a Rift of Eternity, through which horrors unknown to this world spilled forth. Beasts of abyss and nightmare claimed the deep, poisoning the waters forever. To this day, no vessel dares to cross far seas, for the rift's spawn devours all.
And then… the dragons and giants vanished. Whether slain, sealed, or ascended beyond our reach—none can say. Only silence followed. The gods they worshipped, sun and moon, left no word."
Kairo swallowed hard. His dream came flooding back—he had seen it, not as story, but as memory. He had seen Indra's silver coils, Rudra's burning hand, and a being deeper still, bound within the sea's abyss. He hesitated, then asked, his voice low but firm:
"…Claymond. Was there another? Another being who fought in that war besides Indra and Rudra?"
Claymond's brow furrowed. Lyra tilted her head, intrigued, while Jacks raised an eyebrow.
"Another?" Claymond murmured. "If such existed, history does not remember. Much was destroyed in that age. Scrolls burned, temples crumbled, witnesses slaughtered."
Kairo's fists clenched at his side. His dream felt less like imagination and more like prophecy.
Claymond exhaled, continuing:
"After the Age of Eclipse came the Age of Separation. A world broken into fragments, the world-tree withered, seas crawling with horrors, and continents sundered. Races turned upon one another like wolves. In those days, kings feared that among them, a new Indra or Rudra might rise—so they hunted any who bore the potential to reach such power. These hunted ones were banished, cast into exile upon a land forged of ruin. This land…"
His hand gestured downward to the stone floor they stood upon.
"…this continent is called Nythravel, the Fallen Continent. It is built from the remnants of Drakathor's corpse and fragments of Aetherion's bones. A land of exile, a land of cursed inheritance."
The Ruin Lords shifted in their seats. A faint smile curved upon the lips of one.
Claymond's eyes gleamed as he pressed on.
"Then dawned the Age of the Fallen. Here in Nythravel, the banished lords built their own dominions from ash. And three powers rose above all others:
The Veyra Family, whose bloodline runs with ancient royal veins. The Flood Lord, who commands beings once touched by the abyss. And the Inheritor of the Dragons, who claim lineage from Indra himself."
He lowered his hand, his voice returning to normal but still carrying menace.
"The Ruin Lord Alliance exists to break the balance between these powers. To rend the stagnation that chokes this continent. And so I ask again, Kairo… where do you stand?"
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The lords leaned forward, their eyes narrowing like blades drawn from their sheaths. Some smirked, others glared. Their gazes pressed down on him, heavy as mountains, sharp as daggers.
Claymond's voice was calm, but there was iron beneath it.
"If you do not join us, then you must either remain neutral… or declare yourself an enemy. There is no fourth path."
The words hung in the air like chains. Kairo felt his chest tighten, his mind spinning. The choice loomed before him, vast as the histories just unveiled.
Join the Ruin Lords? Ally with beings who sought to disrupt the balance of this already broken world? Remain neutral, knowing neutrality in such a place was as fragile as glass? Or stand against them, marking himself as prey for powers far older and stronger than him?
He remembered his dream again. The clash of sun and moon, the shadow beneath the waves. Was he truly just a pawn in another ancient cycle… or something more?
His lips tightened. His eyes dropped to the obsidian floor, where torchlight warped and bent across the polished black surface like a pool of midnight water.
The Ruin Lords' gazes bore into him, waiting.
Kairo's mind whispered: What should I choose?