The storm had begun long before the first lightning split the skies above the kingdom of Deyora. Some said it had been building for centuries, carried in the whispers of oracles and the half-buried chants of forgotten priests. But to those who looked up from the safety of their warm homes that night, the storm seemed like no more than a tantrum of the skies. Few understood it for what it truly was: a warning.
The old seer Maradel did. She sat hunched in the tower of the Astral Archives, her bony fingers pressed against the ancient pages of the Prophecy of Amagedor. The scroll smelled of dust and smoke, its edges cracked with age, but its words burned as fresh as fire. Her lips trembled as she whispered the opening lines, the syllables carrying more weight than the bells of a thousand cathedrals:
"When the sky is torn in flame, and the rivers run with shadows, the Amagedor shall rise. Neither weapon nor king, neither mortal nor god—but the bridge between ruin and rebirth."
Her heart hammered in her frail chest. She had read these words countless times in her long life, but tonight, they did not feel like history. They felt like truth about to unfold.
⸻
Far below the tower, in the heart of the city, a boy named Kael sprinted through the rain-slick streets. He was seventeen, though hunger and hardship had sharpened his face into something older. His tunic clung to his skin, his boots splashed through the mud, but he never slowed. Behind him, two armored guards thundered in pursuit, their lanterns bobbing like predatory eyes.
"Stop, thief!" one bellowed, his voice echoing through the narrow alleys.
Kael clutched the loaf of bread tighter against his chest. It was barely a meal, but to his younger sister waiting at home, it meant survival. He darted left, then right, his feet knowing the shortcuts of the city better than his pursuers ever could. He leapt a crumbling wall, slid beneath a wagon, and vanished into the labyrinth of the slums.
Only when silence returned did Kael allow himself a breath. He ducked into the shadow of a ruined chapel, where weeds grew between broken pews and rain leaked through shattered windows. Sitting on the cold stone, he tore the loaf in half.
"Hold on, Lira," he whispered to the absent figure of his sister. "I'll get us through another night."
What Kael did not know—what no thief, king, or scholar could know—was that his name was written in the very prophecy Maradel studied above. His life, insignificant as it seemed, was about to collide with the fate of kingdoms.
⸻
The storm worsened. Lightning raked the horizon, striking the towers of the palace. Within those golden halls, King Arvel paced restlessly. His once-proud crown weighed heavy on his brow, his beard gray with years of strained rule. Advisors knelt before him, voices filled with fear.
"My liege, the border villages burn. Reports confirm it—shadows moving as armies, fire without torches. The people speak of demons."
"Demons?" Arvel snarled, though his hands trembled. "Do you take me for a fool? Shadows don't march. Find the truth!"
But in his heart, Arvel knew. He had heard the stories, the forbidden whispers of the Amagedor and the doom it foretold. Still, he shoved the thought away. Prophecies were for the weak-minded. He was king. He had an army.
And yet… beyond the palace walls, even the thunder sounded like war drums.
Back in the tower, Maradel lit a single candle, the flame flickering as though it too feared the night. She turned to the final passage of the prophecy, words she had never dared to read aloud until now:
"One shall come from ash and hunger, bearing no crown nor blade. A thief, a child, an exile. From their hand shall the Amagedor awaken, and in their choice shall lie the breaking or the binding of the world."
She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Ash and hunger. She thought of the city's starving slums, of the orphans and runaways who lived in shadows. Somewhere among them, the Amagedor's vessel was waiting.
A distant bell tolled. Midnight. The beginning of the end.
Kael reached home—a crumbling shack near the city wall. Lira, pale and thin, sat wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Her eyes lit up when she saw the bread, and she devoured it hungrily, crumbs clinging to her lips.
"You're a hero," she mumbled between bites.
Kael laughed bitterly. "Heroes don't steal from bakers."
But before he could say more, a sound split the night. Not thunder. Not rain. A roar—deep, monstrous, inhuman—echoing from beyond the city walls.
Kael froze. Lira clutched his arm, her face pale.
"What was that?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. Because in that moment, Kael realized the city of Deyora would never be the same again.
And high above, Maradel closed the prophecy scroll, tears streaking her cheeks.
"The Amagedor has awakened," she whispered into the storm.