(5,000 years before the modern world)
The sky churned with storm-dark clouds, winds cutting cold across the charred earth. From the distance came the cries of the villagers—anguish woven with the shrill voices of children calling for parents who would never answer again. Flames licked through the ruined homes, the fire swallowing timber and thatch alike, and thick, choking smoke blotted out what little light the heavens offered. The smoke carried more than ash; it carried a truth, the bitter stench of innocence burned into nothingness.
Kaemor staggered through the broken path toward the heart of the village, his shoulder torn and bleeding, each step leaving a dark trail behind him. His gaze swept the ruin, his chest heaving, until his knees gave way and he collapsed into the dirt. For a moment he knelt there, trembling—not from weakness, but from fury.
His eyes blazed, catching the reflection of the fire, and the name that seared itself into his mind was Dravanar. The butcher. The shadow that had brought this destruction. Kaemor's hands clenched into fists, his rage no longer grief but resolve, a vow that Dravanar would fall by his blade.
Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet, his armor streaked with soot and blood. At his side hung his sword, its steel dulled by the lives it had already taken. With a sharp pull, Kaemor drew it from its sheath, the weapon heavy, its edge caked with dark crimson.
In his other hand, the jewel stone flickered weakly, its glow fading, drained by battle. Yet as he lifted it, pressing it to the sword's hilt, the dying ember within it stirred. He closed his eyes, whispering a silent plea, and felt the jewel's power answering. Light seeped into the cracks of the metal, golden threads crawling along the blade until every inch of it shone with searing brilliance.
The air itself trembled. Sparks scattered from the weapon, and a low hum rose, as if the earth and sky both recognized the awakening of its strength. Kaemor tightened his grip, the glow of the sword reflecting in his determined eyes.
The army was coming. Dravanar was coming.
Kaemor rose from the ash-stained ground, his hand still clutching the blade that now breathed with pale fire. His shoulders were torn and bleeding, but his back was straight, unyielding, as he stepped into the half-light of flame and smoke. Each stride was heavy.
The remnants of his host gathered before him in the square—soldiers blackened by soot, their armor dented and cracked, their faces streaked with blood and despair. Farmers with scythes stood beside trained men with swords, boys with bows stood shoulder to shoulder with grizzled veterans. They looked to Kaemor, their eyes hollow, their spirits faltering, but in his presence they found something they had thought lost.
A hush fell when he appeared.
He said no words, not yet, but the firelight clung to him as if the gods themselves had set their mark upon his brow. His men straightened. Their weary hands tightened on weapons that moments before had felt like burdens. Even the villagers—the mothers clutching babes, the old men leaning on staffs—dared to lift their heads.
But not all hearts were steady.
Among the gathered people, Marlyn sat in silence. The smoke curled around her, carrying with it the stench of blood and burning timber. Her hands trembled in her lap, pale and delicate, yet her eyes were fixed on Kaemor with a devotion that no flame could scorch. She had wept until her tears burned her cheeks, yet still more came, tracing thin lines down her face.
Her mind was a storm.
He will march to his death. The thought cut through her again and again, a blade sharper than any sword. She knew the man she loved—knew the fire that burned in him, the vow in his blood that he would never bow, never yield. But she also knew the numbers of Dravanar's host, the steel of his war machine, the cruelty in his wake. Against such darkness, what chance did even the bravest heart have?
Her gaze drifted to the sword in Kaemor's grip—the jewel now pulsing faintly at its hilt. It was a relic older than kingdoms, older than memory, and though it lent him power, it was fading, just as he was. She pressed her hand to her lips to stifle a sob.
There must be another way, she thought. There must be something I can do, or else all of this—our love, our home, our people—will be lost to ash.
Marlyn's fingers curled tight in her skirts. Around her, the villagers whispered, watching Kaemor with reverence, but she could not share their faith. Not blind faith. Hers was sharper, laced with fear and with love. Love that knew how fragile the flesh was, how brief a heartbeat could be.
And yet, when his eyes found hers across the gathered crowd, her breath caught. For a moment, the smoke and ruin fell away, and she saw not a king about to march into darkness, but the man who had once held her beneath the spring blossoms, who had spoken to her of peace and children and summers unbroken by war.
Her tears spilled freely then, though she forced herself not to look away. If this was to be his last stand, she would not meet it with silence. Her heart was already planning, already reaching for some desperate path that would keep him from being swallowed whole by fate.
For she was not merely the anxious lover of a doomed king. Marlyn carried her own resolve, quieter than Kaemor's but no less fierce. And in the shadow of Dravanar's coming storm, her mind turned toward choices that might damn her soul if only they could save his.
Kaemor stood before them, his armor cracked, his shoulder bleeding through the leather straps, yet in his eyes burned something fiercer than pain. The fire from the burning homes cast his shadow long across the ash-strewn ground. He raised the sword, its jewel flickering faintly like a dying star, and his voice cut through the whispers and the weeping.
"Look around you," he began, low, steady. "See the smoke, the fire, the ruin that has fallen upon us. Hear the cries of the children who will never again call their fathers' names. Smell the blood that stains this earth. This is what Dravanar brings. This is what he leaves behind wherever he treads."
The crowd was silent, every face turned to him.
"They think us broken. They think us beaten. They think we are no more than ash to be scattered by the wind. But they are wrong." Kaemor's voice rose, fierce now, ringing with fury. "So long as I breathe, so long as this sword remains in my hand, I will not bend, I will not flee, and I will not yield this land to a butcher!"
He stepped forward, and his soldiers straightened, as though his will alone lifted their backs.
"You are not fighting only for yourselves. You are not fighting only for me. You are fighting for every soul that burns tonight in these flames, for every ancestor buried in this soil, for every child yet to be born who deserves to walk free beneath these skies. If we fall, we fall as men and women who stood. If we die, we die with steel in our hands, not chains around our necks."
Kaemor lifted his sword high, the jewel flaring once as if answering his fury.
"Dravanar comes with his horde, but he will not find a herd to slaughter. He will find a wall of flesh and iron. He will find men who will not kneel, and women who will not weep in silence. He will find a king who will tear the very breath from his lungs before I let him take what is ours!"
His voice thundered now, rolling through the smoke-filled square, shaking even the children from their grief.
"So take up your blades. Take up your spears, your bows, your stones if you have nothing else. Tonight we fight not to live, but to make the world remember that we did not bow! Let the gods bear witness—Kaemor of the Ashen Flame still stands, and with him stands a people who will not be broken!"
The soldiers roared then, a cry torn from weary throats, louder than the crackling fires. Spears struck shields, swords clanged against battered helms, and even the villagers raised their voices, a wave of sound that rolled against the smoke and fire. For the first time that night, fear gave way to something stronger.
Marlyn, seated among the people, felt her heart shatter and soar at once. His words were fire, but fire could burn just as easily as it warmed. She saw hope flare in their faces, yet in her own heart, the fear grew sharper. For every word he spoke was a promise he could not break, even if it meant his life.
She came to him slowly, as if each step cut against her heart. And when she stood before him, her voice trembled with the weight of prophecy itself.
"Kaemor," she whispered, so low only he could hear, "the prophecy will not be changed. Whether we fight or whether we flee—it ends the same. We have no choice. The threads are woven, and no mortal hand can unmake them."
Her words seemed to draw warmth from the air. Kaemor's jaw tightened, though his eyes lingered on her face as if her truth was another wound he must bear. "We have choice," he said, his voice low, grim, edged with iron. "There is always a choice. So long as breath fills my lungs, I will not bow to fate."
Her hand shot out, fingers clutching at his wrist, desperate. "Listen to me. Dravanar is not a man you can cut down as if he were any other. He carries the Black Jewel, Kaemor. The dark stone that drank the blood of kings before us. Do you understand what that means?" Her voice cracked, but still she pressed on. "He commands the Five. The creatures that no blade, no fire, no army can slay. They bend to him. They live in his shadow. We cannot stand against that. Not you, not your soldiers, not even with the jewel you wield. The light you carry cannot withstand his darkness."
For a moment, silence fell between them, broken only by the distant wails of children searching for their dead parents, the hiss of collapsing timbers as another house gave itself to the flames. The night was alive with despair, and yet here, in the hollow of that ruin, the world narrowed to only the two of them.
Kaemor looked at her—not as king to subject, nor warrior to witch, but as man to the woman he loved. His roughened hand lifted, scarred from battle, trembling faintly from pain, and he cupped her cheek. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, as though she were the only soft thing left in this dying world. Her skin was warm beneath his calloused palm, and he could feel the racing of her pulse, fast and frightened.
"My love," he murmured, his voice softer than it had been in weeks, a voice reserved only for her. "Our people depend on us. Even if the prophecy speaks truth we cannot yet grasp, still we must fight. Still we must stand. For what are we if we do not?"
Tears spilled down her cheeks, glinting in the firelight. He brushed one away with his thumb, his heart aching as though the tear cut deeper than any blade.
"We tried," Kaemor continued, his gaze steady, unyielding. "Gods know we tried. We sought the hidden paths, the spells, the secrets of your craft. We bound jewel to steel, bound flesh to fire. And yet the answer lies beyond us still. But hear me, Marlyn—the prophecy does not say he will defeat us. It only warns of his coming. Perhaps in those words lies a chance. A chance the gods themselves cannot see. And if there is but a spark, then I will fight to fan it into flame."
Her lips trembled, her body leaning into his hand as though to draw strength from him. "And if that spark dies?" she asked, her voice barely audible over the crackle of burning wood. "If you fall before him, as so many others have?"
Kaemor's eyes, steel-gray and shadowed with the smoke of battle, softened. He bent his head, pressing his brow to hers, breathing her in—the faint scent of herbs and earth still clinging to her even here in the ruin. For a moment, king and warrior fell away, leaving only the man who loved her beyond reason.
"Then I fall," he said quietly, his words a vow, not of despair but of defiance. "But I fall with steel in my hand and his blood on my blade. If death waits for me, let it wait until Dravanar lies broken at my feet. If the gods decree my doom, then let me meet it as a man who fought, not as one who fled."
Marlyn's hands shook as she gripped his tunic, her nails digging into the cloth. "You speak of death as though it is nothing. But what of me, Kaemor? What of those who love you? Do you think the gods only take you? No—they take all of us with you. My heart, my soul, my very breath. Do not ask me to watch you walk into darkness with no hope of return."
His thumb stroked her cheek again, and though his eyes glistened with the reflection of the flames, his smile was faint, sad, but unbreakable. "Then pray not for my return," he said, "but for my victory. For if I cannot return, then at least let me leave behind a world where you may live free. That is the only gift left for me to give you."
She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, her tears falling freely. Around them, the night deepened, and the roar of the fires blended with the distant echo of drums—Dravanar's army marching, closer with each beat. The earth itself seemed to tremble, as if recoiling from the shadow that advanced.
The jewel in Kaemor's sword pulsed faintly, as though straining against the dark horizon. Its light was small, a single candle against the vast storm of night, but it burned still.
Marlyn opened her eyes, gazing into his, and though her fear did not fade, she saw within him the same fire she had seen when first she gave her heart to him. A fire that no prophecy, no darkness, no jewel of shadow could extinguish.
And in that moment, though she did not believe, she wanted to. She wanted to believe in him, even against fate itself.
Kaemor kissed her then—not with desperation, but with the steady certainty of a man who knew he may not kiss her again. It was slow, lingering, tasting of ash and salt, of grief and love entwined. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against hers, and he whispered, "If I must die, let it be for you. For them. For all of us."
And then he turned, sword in hand, to face the firestorm that awaited. The night deepened though the moon had not yet risen. The air stank of smoke and blood, and what was once a village of laughter and hearth-fire had become a charnel ground. Shadows clung to every ruined wall, stretching longer, moving as though with minds of their own.
Then the shadows bled together, gathering into a vast hollow where no torch nor flame dared burn. From that hollow stepped Drevalth, the shadow-born, the eclipse given form. Its body was no body at all, but a rolling shroud of blackness, pierced by two pale hollows like eyes that saw without light. Where it drifted, fire died, and men's courage shriveled in their bones.
The villagers screamed when it came among them. A boy no older than ten clutched at his mother, but the darkness coiled around them both, and in an instant they were gone, their cries swallowed by silence. A group of soldiers tried to form a shield-wall, spears braced, voices trembling out half-forgotten prayers. Drevalth passed through them like smoke, yet where it touched, their flesh withered, their armor turned to ash. The shields fell empty to the dirt, and only a scattering of bones remained where once men had stood.
The women fled to the wells, clutching children and holy charms, but the shadow poured after them, filling every alley and gap. The charms crumbled, and the wells, too, were swallowed, their waters turning black as ink. One by one, the voices fell silent.
The square was a slaughterhouse. Bodies lay heaped upon one another, charred in some places, frozen in others, yet all marked by the touch of that shadow. Drevalth's form expanded, looming taller than the chapel steeple, its edges flickering like torn veils in a wind no one could feel. Its presence was suffocating, a weight upon the chest, as though the night itself had grown claws.
At the edge of the ruin stood Kaemor's last loyal men. Fewer than twenty remained, swords rattling in their hands. They had faced steel before, faced wolves and famine, but never this. Their captain cried out, voice breaking, "For the king! For Kaemor!" But his words were swallowed in a tide of black. Drevalth fell upon them, and the ground shook with the silence that followed.
Only Kaemor and Marlyn endured, their figures stark against the ruin. Around them lay silence—too much silence. No weeping, no prayers, no cries for mercy. Only the slow crackle of dying fires and the whisper of Drevalth's endless form as it coiled back upon itself, sated by its feast.
And then came the sound of hooves.
From the northern road, through the haze of smoke, rode Dravanar. His horse was black as midnight, its mane catching firelight like strands of coal. Behind him, the five creatures loomed, their shapes vast against the burning horizon—though it was Drevalth that lingered closest, its form trailing him like a living crown of shadow.
Dravanar sat tall in his saddle, no helm upon his brow, only a circlet of iron simple and unadorned, yet made regal by the man who bore it. His sword burned in his hand, fire dancing along its edge as though eager for more blood. He did not rush, nor did he need to. Victory was already his.
The conqueror dismounted slowly, boots sinking into ash and blood. His cloak, plain and dark, swept behind him as the wind carried the stink of ruin to his foes. He looked upon Kaemor, then upon Marlyn, and his lips curved into something that was not quite a smile.
Drevalth shrank behind him, its vastness folding like wings, yet its presence remained, cloaking him in a halo of night. The air itself bent around him, firelight dimming, stars swallowed by that presence.
"Your people are dust," Dravanar's voice rang, deep as the earth's own groan. "Your land burns. Only you remain, Kaemor. You and the woman."
The fires crackled, the wind carried ash, and Dravanar strode forward, the weight of five creatures behind him. The world seemed smaller in his shadow, and for the first time that night, even the fire of Kaemor's blade seemed dim.
Dravanar dismounted, his boots striking the earth with a weight that echoed like a death knell. The ground quivered beneath him, and the air around him seemed to recoil. Behind him, the five creatures knelt in perfect unison—Drevalth, the shadow unmade, writhing like a living eclipse; Vytharax, the flame-crowned dragon, its breath a furnace; Maeroth, serpent of the mind, her eyes spiraling into infinity; Crymorak, the frozen giant whose very breath stilled the air; and Varakar, the pale vampire lord, his fangs gleaming with hunger.
All bowed to their master. All bent to the will of Dravanar.
Before them, Kaemor stood with his broken body and unbroken will, Marlyn beside him, her hands shaking but her gaze sharp with fire.
The wind raged. The moon had vanished, smothered by storm and shadow. What little light remained flickered in the flames of the burning village, where cries had long gone silent, smothered beneath the slaughter.
Dravanar's smile carved across his face, cruel and knowing. His voice cut through the storm.
"I was eager to meet you in flesh, Kaemor. For centuries, the jewel has mocked me. For centuries, it whispered rebellion into the ears of fools. But now the gods themselves kneel before me, and you—" he lifted his burning blade, its fire flaring higher than the torches of the dead village— "you will join them in the dust. Without the elder swords, you are nothing. I have conquered death. I am the end of prophecy. I am the only law that will remain."
Kaemor's jaw clenched, the blood dripping from his wounds staining the earth. His voice was ragged but unyielding.
"You may strike me down, Dravanar. You may raze the world to bone and ash. But you will never silence prophecy. It has bound kings greater than you. It will bind you too."
At that, Dravanar's smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. Anger curled in his voice, low and dangerous.
"Prophecy? You dare whisper of prophecy in my shadow? No one will destroy me. Not gods. Not men. Not your fading jewel." He raised his blade higher, the fire screaming into the sky. "Bow, Kaemor. Bend the knee, and I will grant you more than mercy. Join me, and I will make you more than a king. You will feast on the spoils of the world."
Kaemor spat blood into the dirt. His voice rang like steel upon steel.
"I would rather choke on my own blood than kneel to you."
The jewel in his sword flared, as though stirred by his defiance. Light bled from its fractured veins, spilling across the battlefield.
Marlyn raised her hands, whispering the old tongue. The words clawed through the air, ancient syllables that made even the five creatures stir uneasily. A burst of silver flame leapt from her palms, striking toward Dravanar.
But Dravanar was ready. His hand shot forward, his counter-spell a torrent of black fire, heavy with rot and ruin. It slammed into Marlyn, hurling her back. She hit the ground hard, her strength fleeing her, her lips red with blood.
Kaemor roared and hurled himself forward. His sword met Dravanar's in a scream of metal and flame. Sparks rained like meteors. The clash split the air itself, a thundercrack so violent the creatures stirred, restless, eager for blood.
Again Kaemor struck, again his blade was caught. His strength was mighty, his rage a storm, but Dravanar's power was inexorable. With a final, crushing blow, Dravanar's burning sword came down. Kaemor's blade shattered, splintering into broken steel. The jewel tumbled from its hilt, rolling into the dirt, faintly glowing.
Kaemor collapsed, breath shallow, blood flooding his armor.
"Kaemor!" Marlyn crawled to him, her trembling hands glowing faintly as she tried to heal. But the wound was too deep, the light too weak. Tears streaked down her bloodstained cheeks. "Stay with me, please—stay with me!"
Kaemor's eyes opened for a moment, soft and sorrowful. He tried to speak, but his lips only shaped her name. Then his breath left him. His chest stilled.
The silence was deafening.
The jewel lay beside them, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
Marlyn's grief turned to fire. She seized the stone, clutching it in her bloodied hands. Her tears fell upon it, her voice rising in a chant that had not been heard in a thousand years.
Dravanar laughed, though unease crept into his tone. "You think your tears will bind me? Do you think to frighten me with spells? Pitiful witch. You are nothing."
But the air shifted.
The ground trembled beneath them. The wind howled, tearing the banners from their poles, scattering ash like snow. The jewel rose from her hands, floating between her and Kaemor's lifeless body.
Her voice grew louder, raw and fierce. The old tongue poured from her lips, the words burning against the night. Blood welled in her eyes, streaming down her face, but she did not falter.
The jewel glowed brighter, burning like a second sun. The sky cracked with thunder. Lightning lanced the heavens.
Dravanar's creatures stirred uneasily. Drevalth howled, its form writhing in agony at the light. Crymorak's frost melted from its limbs. Vytharax screeched, fire sputtering from its jaws. Varakar hissed, clutching his chest. Maeroth wailed, clutching her head as the spell seared through her mind.
Even Dravanar stepped back, the fire of his blade flickering. "What have you done?" His voice was thunder, but beneath it was something else—fear.
Marlyn's voice shattered into a scream, a final word of power.
Light exploded from her chest and Kaemor's still body, twin beams intertwining, streaming into the jewel.
The jewel screamed, vibrating with unbearable force, its glow brighter than day.
Dravanar bellowed, his fury shaking the ground. "STOP!" He raised his burning sword, but the light consumed his fire, snuffing it like a candle.
Marlyn looked down at Kaemor, her voice breaking. "We will meet again, my love. We will join together."
She kissed his forehead, then let him rest upon the earth. Her body lifted, caught in the storm of light, her arms outstretched.
The jewel split. The sound was apocalyptic—thunder, shattering glass, the cracking of mountains. The earth convulsed. The sky screamed.
The five creatures shrieked as their forms dissolved. Drevalth burst into shadow and was no more. Vytharax's flames guttered and died. Crymorak's body shattered into frozen shards. Varakar crumbled to dust, his fangs rotting to ash. Maeroth vanished in a scream of serpents that devoured themselves.
Dravanar fell to his knees, his cloak whipping in the maelstrom, his scream a roar of rage and terror. The light seared him, burning his flesh, tearing at his soul.
And then—silence.
One half of the jewel vanished in a streak of light, flung into the far reaches of the world. The other lay cracked upon the bloodied earth.
The storm faded. The fire died. The battlefield was ash.
Kaemor's body lay still. Marlyn was gone. Dravanar vanished, the night broken but not destroyed.
Only the broken stone remained.