The storm was alive. It clawed at the mountains, burying the world in white.
Seledin, an ice eagle born of wind and frost, cut through the blizzard. For three days hunger gnawed at him, but now something else caught his eye — fire, climbing the mountain. A rider on a blazing steed.
The man radiated magic. Not borrowed. Not conjured. He was magic.
Seledin circled, uneasy. That kind of power bent storms. Why fight against it? Why climb this cursed peak?
Below, Aladrim MagalaN gripped the saddle strap, teeth clenched. "Almost there…"
The wind fought him like a living thing. The mountain itself seemed to bar his path. But he pressed on, firehorse burning a trail through the snow. Nightmare — Matrim's old mount, ancient and terrible. A beast of flame as old as the MagalaNs themselves.
He could stop the storm. One surge of power and the path would open. But no. To waste magic now would be suicide. He was nearly spent. And if his reserves failed, he would have to draw on his life force. That path ended in death.
Not yet. Not until it mattered.
He was the last MagalaN. All others had fallen. Five thousand years of struggle, gone. Now the end pressed close.
And still, hope.
A pulse of magic hit him from the east. So strong it staggered him.
"No…" His heart lurched. "Noreline."
He leapt onto Nightmare's back. "Ride!"
The firehorse exploded forward, mane blazing, hooves striking sparks. Snow evaporated in sheets. Flame carved a corridor through the storm.
Above, Seledin shrieked, banking east. Curiosity warred with fear. Then— a voice. My friend. Lend me your sight.
The eagle panicked, wings thrashing. But then the man showed him a feather, blue as the deep sky. Selebran's feather. First king. Long gone. Yet real.
Seledin faltered, then yielded. Take my sight, Ancient.
Through eagle eyes, Aladrim saw the truth.
Rosun burned.
The kingdom was overrun — tens of thousands, a sea of demons, walls shattered, flames devouring the streets.
"No…"
Then, light from the spire. A dragon erupted skyward, scales of sapphire flame.
"Noreline! Don't—"
The answer came in fire. A dark beam lanced from the horde, smashing the tower to rubble. Stone and bodies rained down. From the ruin, wings unfolded. Black. Vast. The Demon Lord rising.
Through Seledin's sight, every detail cut like a knife — soldiers crushed, auras snuffed out, the final glow of one soul disintegrating.
Noreline. His queen. His love.
Gone.
Grief struck. Rage followed.
"She is lost forever…"
White light burned in his eyes. Nightmare staggered as Aladrim drew deeper, past power, past reason, into life itself. His body ignited, a beacon against the storm.
"You killed my kin. You destroyed my realm. You take everything."
His voice roared across the mountain.
"I'll give you this world, demon. As your prison. As your tomb."
The storm broke. The mountain shook. And the Age of Legends cracked.