The Night of Crimson Ash
"Honey! Honey!"
The Dark Queen shook her husband's shoulder, voice trembling with fear and fire. "The demons— they're attacking!"
The Dark King's eyes snapped open, half-blinded by the crimson light bleeding through their obsidian curtains. "Wait… what? What happened, love— is everything—" He stopped.
He saw it.
Outside their palace window, the heavens themselves were burning. Black wings blotted out the stars. The armies of the Seven Demon Kings poured through rifts torn in reality—oceans of shadow, fire, and blood cascading across the silver plains of Aethelion.
The Dark King rose, his aura cracking the marble floor.
Each step he took shattered time itself, the air rippling around him like glass. He snapped his fingers—
and the world answered.
Across continents, the Aethelian Army awoke from stasis—soldiers of light emerging from crystal tombs, banners unfurling in silence. The skies filled with radiant wings as entire legions ignited their souls to answer their King's call.
But behind the throne, a child cried.
Aethon.
Born beneath the dying heart of a star.
His small hands reached toward his mother, unaware that this night would be the last his race would ever see.
The Dark Queen turned, tears blazing like molten diamonds. "He's too young… he won't survive this."
The Dark King gritted his teeth as explosions rippled through the castle walls. "None of us will."
He pressed his forehead against hers, their crowns touching, their fires merging one final time. Outside, the Demon Kings roared—their voices erasing mountains, drowning galaxies, commanding extinction itself.
"Save him," the King whispered. "Save our son."
The Queen nodded through her tears. She kissed Aethon's forehead, whispering an ancient spell. Runes spiraled around the crib, sealing him in a cocoon of gold and light.
The palace shook.
The gates fell.
The last of the Aethelian gods screamed as reality burned.
The Queen raised a trembling hand—snapped her fingers—
and the child vanished.
Through flame, through void, through every dying memory, Aethon was cast into another world—his past locked away, his power sleeping deep within him.
When the last echo of his cry faded, the Dark King stood alone on the shattered balcony.
The armies of demons surrounded him.
He smiled through the blood and ruin.
"If my son lives," he said, "then even death is a lie."
And as the heavens fell, the Aethelians died standing—
their light swallowed by the endless dark