They say the sky remembers the night it bled fire. That the wind still carries the king's last breath, lost to the ashes of Noctara
Prologue: The Eclipse War
The sky bled fire.
Winds howled through the ruined capital, carrying the scent of charred flesh and the echoes of dying warriors. The once-proud city of Noctara, home of the Eclipse Bloodline, burned beneath the weight of the Empire's wrath.
The war had lasted over a decade. A slow, merciless purge that left nothing untouched.
The Eclipse Bloodline had ruled these lands for centuries—children of the night, masters of the unseen. Their dominion had stretched beyond the mountains, beyond the reach of any mortal army. They had shaped the darkness itself, bending it to their will like living smoke.
But power breeds fear.
And fear breeds destruction.
Atop the last standing tower, a lone figure stood amidst the ruins. Cloaked in blackened armor, his silver eyes glowed like twin moons beneath the shattered sky. His breath was ragged, his body covered in wounds, but he remained standing.
Because this was the night he would die.
And he would not kneel.
The armies of the Obsidian Emperor flooded the city below, their banners gleaming in the firelight. Tens of thousands of soldiers, an endless tide of death, marching in unison beneath the Imperial sigil—the golden sun.
It was almost poetic.
The last of the Eclipse Kings, surrounded by the light, drowning in fire.
A shadow moved behind him. A flicker of something dark and shifting.
"My lord."
The voice was hoarse, broken, barely above a whisper. A soldier—one of the last—dragging himself forward, blood spilling from a gash in his side. "They've breached the sanctum. The vault is lost—the Obsidian have it now. The artifacts, the blood seals… all gone."
The Eclipse King did not turn. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. "And the child?"
The soldier hesitated. "He escaped…sir Lugh has taken him…"
A slow exhale.
Then there is still hope," the king whispered. "Let the world forget us—but not him
Then, the first wave of Imperial soldiers reached the tower's edge.
Blades drawn.
The Eclipse King lifted his sword. The shadows around him stirred, responding to his will. They curled at his feet, whispering in a language only he could understand.
One final stand.
He surged forward.
The first enemy fell before he could scream, impaled by blackened steel. The second was consumed by his own shadow, twisting unnaturally as darkness swallowed him whole. The third had no time to react before a tendril of night slammed him against the burning stone, his skull shattering on impact.
The Eclipse King moved like a specter, a phantom among men. His sword was an extension of his will, striking with impossible speed, weaving through the onslaught like a dancer in the dark.
For a moment, it seemed as though he might turn the tide.
But then—
A blinding light erupted from the heart of the battlefield.
A spear of white fire, cutting through the night, aimed straight at him.
He turned just in time to see the attack descending upon him.
And for the first time in his life—
He was too slow.
The spear pierced his chest.
A searing pain.
The shadows screamed.
His sword slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly against the stone. His body convulsed as white-hot energy coursed through his veins, burning him from the inside out.
He staggered.
His vision blurred.
And above, the shattered moon reflected in his fading sight.
The last Eclipse King fell.
The city burned.
And in the dead of night, a lone woman disappeared into the shadows, cradling a child in her arms.
The bloodline had not ended.
It had only begun again.