The wind carried ash instead of snow that morning. It swept through the silent valley, curling around bones of long-dead titans and towers swallowed by ivy. Somewhere within that ruin of a world, a boy awoke beneath the pale light of two moons—one whole, one cracked and bleeding silver across the clouds.
He stirred slowly, his body stiff from cold stone. Dust clung to his hair, and his eyes—gray like weathered iron—blinked open to a sky that felt far too large. For a long while, he did not move. The silence around him was too deep, too absolute, as though even sound feared to return to that place.
When he finally sat up, the wind whispered through the ruins, brushing past ancient runes carved into the broken marble floor. He traced one symbol with his fingertip. The lines shimmered faintly, glowing gold for a heartbeat before fading again.
He didn't remember drawing it. He didn't remember anything.
No name.
No home.
Only a single word echoing inside his mind like a distant bell:
"Cycle."
He rose, legs trembling, and looked around. The ruin stretched endlessly—a temple perhaps, or a fortress long fallen. Statues of gods with their faces chipped away stood like mourners around the shattered altar. At the far end, the remains of a massive gate lay half buried in sand and vine.
Something inside him urged him to move. So he did. Barefoot, half-starved, he crossed the cold stone floor and stepped into the open air.
The valley below was breathtaking in its desolation. Rivers of mist ran through cliffs of blackened rock. Massive trees, petrified into crystal, stood like pillars beneath the twin moons. And at the valley's heart, a beam of silver light rose toward the heavens—the wound of the sky itself.
The boy stared, entranced.
The broken moon's fragments circled that beam, slowly, endlessly, as though the world itself revolved around it.
He didn't know why, but he whispered aloud:
"The Remnant…"
The word came unbidden, as though someone else had placed it on his tongue.
And when he spoke it, the mark on his hand began to burn.
He gasped and looked down—three thin lines, faintly glowing beneath his skin. They pulsed with rhythm, like veins carrying liquid light.
"You have awoken, then."
The voice came from behind him.
He turned sharply.
A woman stood among the fallen statues. Her hair was white as bone, her skin the color of moonlight, her eyes endless black. She wore a cloak woven from raven feathers, and a blade hung at her side—curved, ancient, its edge carved with runes that shimmered faintly in the ash.
"Who are you?" the boy asked, his voice hoarse.
The woman tilted her head. "A better question is what you are, child."
He swallowed. "I… don't know."
"Then the world has forgotten again," she murmured, stepping closer. "It always does."
Her gaze drifted to the wound of light in the valley. "That is the Moon's Remnant. The heart of the Cycle. Every age, it awakens those bound to it… Eclipsers, we once called them. You are one of them."
"Eclipser?"
She nodded. "Born when the moon breaks, to walk the line between life and rebirth."
He looked down at his glowing hand. "And this?"
"The mark of the first eclipse. Proof that you were chosen by the old gods."
He stared at her, the words sinking like stones into still water. "If I was chosen… then what for?"
The woman's eyes softened, almost pitying. "To end what they began."
Lightning cracked across the clouds. The silver light in the valley pulsed brighter, and a low hum rolled through the ground. The air smelled of ozone and salt.
The woman drew her blade. "Stay close to me, child."
From the ruins around them, shadows began to rise. They slithered across the stone like oil, taking form—bodies of smoke, faces twisted and eyeless. Their mouths opened, releasing a chorus of whispers.
"Cycle… break the cycle…"
The boy stepped back, heart pounding. "What are they?"
"Echoes of the last world," the woman said grimly. "Souls that never found rest when the gods reset the age."
The first of the shades lunged. She met it midair, blade singing with a flash of white light. The creature burst apart, scattering like mist, but two more followed. The air filled with the shrieks of the lost.
The boy stumbled away, clutching his burning hand. He didn't understand what was happening, but something deep within him—something older—stirred.
The runes under his skin flared, and light exploded from his palm.
The shades recoiled, hissing. The beam struck one, turning it to dust.
The woman glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. "So it's true. Even without memory, your soul remembers how to burn."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Don't stop!" she snapped. "If you falter, they'll devour you!"
He raised his hand again. The mark glowed brighter, tracing arcs of golden flame through the air. The energy built until it roared like a living thing. He screamed—not in pain, but in release. The light surged outward, a wave that swept across the ruins, erasing every shadow in its path.
Then—silence.
The valley dimmed again, the ash falling softly like snow.
The boy collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. His vision blurred at the edges. "What… what did I do?"
The woman sheathed her sword. "You invoked the Sunfire. A gift of the First Flame. A dangerous power, even to those who understand it."
"I don't," he muttered. "I don't even know who I am."
She studied him for a long moment. Then she reached down, pulling him gently to his feet. "You will. The Cycle never creates an Eclipser without reason."
"Then tell me my name," he said quietly.
Her expression darkened. "Names are not given by others. They are remembered."
She turned toward the valley. "Come. The Remnant stirs, and with it, the beasts of the deep earth will awaken. We cannot linger here."
He hesitated. "Where are we going?"
"To the last kingdom still standing. The Sanctum of Asterra. There, perhaps, the priests will help you recall what you were before the moons broke."
"And you?"
She smiled faintly. "I am merely your shadow, boy. Bound by oath to guide the Eclipser until the end of his light."
The wind shifted. The beam at the valley's center pulsed once more, and distant roars echoed from the mountains.
The boy looked back one last time at the temple that had birthed him. The carvings on the walls seemed to shimmer now—scenes of gods tearing the heavens apart, of mortals rising from ash, of a sun eclipsed by a blade of light.
He felt the weight of something immense pressing against his chest. Not fear. Not awe. Something deeper. Recognition.
He didn't know why, but as he turned to follow the white-haired woman down the broken steps of the temple, he whispered again the word that lived in his bones:
"Cycle."
And somewhere, beyond the veil of clouds, something ancient answered.