The roar lingered in the night air long after it ended, reverberating through stone and bone. The city of Deyora, usually restless even in the late hours, fell into a suffocating silence. No dogs barked, no merchants shouted, no drunks sang in the alleys. The storm hushed as though the heavens themselves held their breath.
Kael and his sister Lira clutched each other in the shadows of their crumbling shack. She trembled against him, whispering, "It sounded… it sounded like a beast."
Kael forced a smirk, though his heart pounded so loud he was sure she could hear it. "Probably just a merchant's ox breaking loose. Don't let your imagination run wild."
But his own imagination was already betraying him. He had grown up hearing the old wives' tales—monsters beyond the borders, remnants of the Lost Kingdom, shadows that ate men whole. Tales meant to frighten children into obedience. Except that roar had not sounded like any ox, wolf, or storm. It had sounded alive, ancient, and angry.
⸻
By dawn, the city was restless again. News traveled faster than the plague in Deyora, and every mouth retold the same story: the night had been pierced by a sound not heard in centuries. Some called it a dragon. Others, a demon. Still others muttered of the Amagedor.
Kael left Lira sleeping and slipped into the streets. His stolen loaf had bought them only one night of survival, and hunger pressed on his stomach like a stone. He weaved through crowds of gossiping townsfolk, ears sharp for opportunity.
At the central square, a crowd gathered before a group of soldiers. Their captain, a scarred man with a voice like iron, barked out news.
"By decree of King Arvel, all able-bodied men are conscripted to defend the border. Reports confirm an incursion near the ruins of Velmora. We march at dusk."
The crowd murmured. Velmora. The name struck Kael like a fist. Velmora was the Lost Kingdom, a land of ruins and ash, spoken of only in fear. Children were warned never to stray near its borders. The last kingdom to rise against the gods themselves, or so the stories claimed.
Kael frowned. Why would the king's soldiers march there, unless something—or someone—had awoken?
⸻
Meanwhile, in the Astral Archives, Maradel scoured the restricted section for answers. She had not slept since reading the prophecy. Her wrinkled hands brushed across scrolls of forbidden histories, each telling fragments of Velmora's fall.
Velmora had once been a kingdom of brilliance, its scholars rivaling the gods, its towers scraping the heavens. But ambition had poisoned them. They sought to harness the essence of creation itself—a power called the Amagedor. Some said it was a weapon. Others, a being. Still others claimed it was not a thing at all, but a choice made manifest. Whatever it was, Velmora had tried to bind it.
The gods struck back. Fire rained from the skies, seas swallowed cities, and Velmora was reduced to charred ruins and haunted whispers. The Amagedor vanished—or perhaps was buried, waiting for another age.
Maradel's lips trembled as she whispered, "The roar… it came from Velmora."
⸻
Kael was still in the square when the king's soldiers began seizing men. "For the king!" they shouted, dragging farmers, smiths, and vagrants alike into the ranks. Kael turned to slip away, but a gauntleted hand caught his shoulder.
"You there—boy!"
Kael twisted, his instincts screaming. He wrenched free and darted into the alleys. Shouts followed him, boots pounding behind. His lungs burned as he sprinted through twisting passages until he dove into the cover of an abandoned cellar.
For hours, he stayed hidden, listening to the distant sounds of men being forced into service.
When he finally returned to Lira, she looked at him with wide eyes. "Where did you go?"
Kael forced a grin. "Scouting. The king's men are marching to Velmora. That's days away from here. We're safe."
But deep inside, he wasn't sure.
⸻
That night, he dreamed.
He stood on a battlefield of ash, the sky bleeding red. Towers of black stone rose like broken teeth. A voice—ancient, neither male nor female—echoed all around him:
"Kael… child of ash… thief of hunger… you are mine."
In the dream, Kael turned, and before him loomed a figure cloaked in shadow. Its eyes burned like suns, and in its hand was a blade not made of steel but of light and shadow intertwined.
"I am the Amagedor," the figure whispered. "And you will awaken me."
Kael jolted awake, drenched in sweat. The shack felt smaller than ever, suffocating. Lira slept peacefully beside him, but Kael could not close his eyes again.
He knew the ruins of Velmora were calling him.
⸻
By morning, he made his decision.
"We're leaving," he told Lira, packing the little they had—a torn blanket, a knife, a pouch of stolen coins.
"Leaving? To where?" she asked, startled.
"Anywhere but here. The king's men will take me if we stay. And… something's happening, Lira. Something big. I don't want to wait for it to crash down on us."
She hesitated, then nodded. She trusted him, as she always had.
By midday, they slipped through a crack in the city wall, unnoticed amid the chaos of soldiers preparing for war. Beyond lay the wilderness—forests tangled with mist, rivers swollen with rain, and, far to the east, the charred outline of Velmora.
As they stepped into the unknown, Kael felt the weight of invisible eyes upon him.
The prophecy was already in motion.
⸻
Far away, in a tent of black silk pitched among the ruins of Velmora, a figure knelt before an altar of obsidian. His armor gleamed like oil, his voice smooth as venom.
"The time has come," he murmured, lifting a fragment of a broken crown. "The Amagedor stirs. Soon, the child will come."
Behind him, shadows shifted like living things.
And they were hungry.