Before the rivers carved the land, before the forests took root, before mortals drew their first breath — there was war.
The Celestial Veil blazed with light as the hosts of the Divine gathered, their banners rippling in a wind born from the breath of creation itself. At their head stood Serathion, First Blade of the Eternal Throne — the mightiest of the Divinities, forged in the heart of the Aetherion Flame. His armor shone like molten silver, his wings unfurled in a span that could shadow mountains. In his hands rested Aurealis, the Holy Blade, its edge singing with the voice of the stars.
Across the shattered sky, the Abyss roared. From its depths rose Maltherion, King of Demons — once the brightest of the Divine, now crowned in shadow. His wings, once white as dawn, were torn and blackened, dripping with the Void's corruption. In his grasp burned Noxfang, a blade of unholy fire, its edge drinking the light around it.
They met where heaven and the Abyss tore into each other — a battlefield of broken constellations and rivers of molten light.
The first clash split the firmament. Aurealis struck with the weight of creation; Noxfang answered with the hunger of nothingness. Each blow shattered stars, each parry sent shockwaves through the realms below. The armies of light and shadow clashed around them, but all eyes were drawn to the duel that would decide eternity.
Serathion's voice rang like a war horn.
"You were the Morning Flame, Maltherion! Why trade glory for ruin?"
The demon king's laughter was a storm.
"Glory is a chain, brother. I chose freedom."
They fought through seas of fire and storms of shattered light. Serathion's blade carved arcs of pure Aetherion, each strike a hymn to the Throne. Maltherion's counterstrikes bled Void into the air, each swing a promise of unmaking.
At last, Serathion's wings flared, blinding the battlefield in a burst of holy radiance. Aurealis pierced through Noxfang's guard, driving deep into the demon king's chest. Light erupted, tearing the shadow from his form.
Maltherion's roar shook the heavens. His wings burned away, his crown of shadow crumbling into ash. The chains of the Divine wrapped around him, forged from the very light he had once served.
With a final, thunderous cry, Serathion cast him down.
Through the Veil, through the skies, through the newborn world — until he struck the earth with such force that mountains rose and seas boiled.
Where he fell became the Abyssal Scar, a wound in the world that would never heal.
The war ended, but the cost was carved into the bones of creation.
And though Maltherion's body was bound to the earth, his voice still whispered in the dark places, promising that the day would come when the chains would break.