"Monsters!"
The shout came from a woman whose voice trembled with terror, a scream swallowed almost immediately by the chaos that had begun to rain down upon the Eastern Continent that very day.
The lands of men, long accustomed to the struggles of war and famine, now faced an apocalypse unlike any recorded in history. Across the continent, knights, mercenaries, and mages of every nation rallied under the banners of the Twelve Heroes, the chosen champions blessed by the gods themselves, sworn to stand against the abominations that threatened to corrupt the land.
These heroes were no ordinary warriors. They were the living embodiments of divine will, vessels of godly power and champions of hope. Yet among them, one stood apart. Aiorel Morningstar, the Magic Sword Saint, had ascended to their level without the blessing of any deity.
A young man of noble bearing, clad in a dark warrior's uniform, with hair black as a raven's wing and eyes like polished obsidian, Aiorel was a paradox—human yet greater than many gods' chosen. Once a victim of the monsters' wrath, he had lost his parents to their carnage.
The rage that burned within him did not consume his mind but sharpened his resolve, forging his body and soul in preparation for the battles to come. Magic and swordsmanship became extensions of his will, and in time, he became the greatest among the heroes, even without divine favor.
---
Inside a modest tavern in Calvesset, the capital of the Morningstar Barony, Aiorel sat across from Sariel Draeven.
"I understand that you're blessed by Azrael, but to claim you can sense your best friend's impending death—it's a bit extreme, don't you think?" Aiorel asked, his tone calm yet edged with curiosity.
Sariel's expression was serious, unyielding. "I'm only speaking what I feel. The other heroes… their movements have been… unusual. Something stirs beneath their smiles."
Sariel Draeven, young and sharp-eyed, bore the mark of the God of Death, Azrael. His black hair framed a face still in its twenties, his deep-red eyes almost unnervingly aware of the world's inevitable ends. Aiorel allowed a faint nod, his composure steady.
"I'll deal with whatever arises when the time comes," he replied, his voice unwavering.
Sariel leaned back slightly, a note of admiration in his tone. "Still… to think you've rebuilt your family's nation from the ashes. That alone is commendable."
Aiorel's lips curved into a faint smile. "Indeed."
The Morningstar Barony, once on the brink of ruin, now stood resilient under the guidance of Aiorel and the dedication of its regents. Nestled in the eastern interior, between the scorched wastes and the dense Sylvarock Forests of the Eryndral Wilds, the Barony had long been regarded with superstition. Its lands bore the scars of repeated beastly raids, a nation untouched by divine blessing, yet these hardships had forged a people of extraordinary strength. Its soldiers, the Star Knights of Morningstar, trained rigorously to safeguard the land and its people, a testament to resilience born from struggle.
"And now," Aiorel continued, voice proud yet tempered, "I am regarded as a hero. With that, the reputation of our Barony has risen beyond measure."
Aiorel's lips twitched in a half-smile. "So, don't look so down when my time comes. My sister exists to carry on in my stead."
Aiorel smiled faintly, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of mortality and duty. "The time will come. Until then, I will act."
Rising from his chair, Aiorel wiped the rim of his mug and straightened his posture. "I'll return to the Citadel first. It's been a good drink."
Sariel followed suit, standing tall. As they exchanged farewells, Aiorel set out for the Morningstar Citadel, the fortress-palace perched atop the central hill of Calvesset. Its spires and walls bore the emblem of the Morningstar family, a symbol of resilience and vigilance.
"Greetings, young lord!"
The regents of the Barony greeted him in unison, bowing in perfect synchrony as Aiorel walked down the central aisle of the martial hall, finally taking his place upon the throne-like seat that overlooked the entire council.
"Young lord," Caelthorn began without hesitation, concern furrowing his brow, "we must show the Ignaran Empire what it means to dare touch our lands. Their incursions along the eastern border have increased!"
Tall, silver-haired with streaks of black, Caelthorn Vaelric was the Grandmaster of the Star Knights, the Barony's elite military force. Clad in cold iron armor adorned with the Morningstar insignia, he carried a longsword relic of centuries past, the blade a symbol of both heritage and authority.
"My liege," Elryn spoke next, stroking his soot-stained beard, "I have completed the reforging of the Star Knights' arms. Yet our supplies of celestial steel and cold iron dwindle. Should these raids continue, both our supply chains and defensive capacity risk collapse."
Elryn Firehand, a muscular dwarf, bore the marks of the forge upon his skin, each line a testament to endless labor in service to the Barony.
"My lord," Lareth Veylin interjected with urgency, adjusting the thin spectacles perched on his nose, "the coffers strain under war. Supporting frontier garrisons and displaced villagers may require reallocating funds from trade and infrastructure projects."
Minister of Finance and Affairs, Lareth's gaze was sharp and analytical, reflecting a mind honed for oversight and calculation.
"Your Grace," Seralyth Moira intoned, her silver hair bound in intricate braids, violet robes faintly glowing with arcane runes, "our towers report surges of hostile magic near Ignaran encampments. Elemental storms and summoning arts indicate either a cadre of sorcerers or a single mage of exceptional power."
Theren Ashwind, Chief Scout and Ranger Overseer, added gravely, "Movements through Sylvarock Forests intensify. The beasts adapt—lunar wolves strike swiftly and vanish before even the Star Knights engage. Their behavior is unnerving."
Mirabel Greenborough, head of agriculture and resource management, spoke of rising famine along the borders. "Crops are being destroyed. Should the raids continue, widespread famine will follow."
Finally, Gorin Steelwright, the Barony's Chief Architect, presented his concern with the precision of a master craftsman. "Eastern fortifications are insufficient. Siege engines have been sighted near Ignaran borders. Current towers cannot withstand prolonged bombardment."
Aiorel's presence alone brought silence. His black eyes scanned each face, absorbing concern and urgency alike. He raised a hand.
"Commander Caelthorn, prepare two battalions for immediate deployment to the eastern frontier."
"Elryn, gather additional materials from allied territories. Your masterpieces are unmatched; I authorize requisition personally."
"Lareth, divert resources to the frontier and displaced villagers. Their survival is paramount."
"Seralyth, erect wards and identify any hostile sorcerers aiding these raiders."
"Theren, mark ambushes, lay traps, map every nest. Leave nothing unchecked."
"Mirabel, protect the harvests, relocate livestock as necessary."
"Gorin, fortify the weakest towers, reinforce gates, and employ additional enchantments."
With a single clap of his hands, the council was dismissed, each regent moving with precision to fulfill his or her duties.
---
Aiorel descended to the military barracks, adjacent to the Citadel, where the Star Knights trained tirelessly. Among them moved Elowen Morningstar, his younger sister, a mirror of his own indomitable spirit.
"Elowen! I'm home!" Aiorel called, waving, his eyes alight with warmth.
The young woman looked up, her long chestnut hair catching the morning sun, emerald eyes bright, her athletic build honed through years of training. She wore light knight armor adorned with the Morningstar crest. At his voice, the Star Knights paused, and Elowen ran toward him.
"Big brother!" she exclaimed.
Aiorel smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I see you've been training diligently."
"Just a little more, and I'll accompany you on the frontlines!" Elowen replied, excitement radiating from her every movement.
Yet even in this moment of familial joy, a cold chill ran down Aiorel's spine. The sky darkened unnaturally in the middle of morning, the light bending in strange angles. Then, a rift tore open across the horizon, a wound in the very fabric of reality. Its jagged edges shimmered with chaos, a grim reminder that the apocalypse had only begun.
The Eastern Continent, already scarred by monsters, now faced a terror that would test even the strongest hearts—and the greatest hero of all would soon be called upon to rise beyond humanity itself.