> Place : Midfold

> Realm : Unknown.

> Ethan’s Status : 3 Zyk in Fairy age (5.5 yr in human age), 3’6’’ft, growing up.

> Time : 1048th Rev of Timestar. Present.

> Population : 0.00000000000000001% (Only Ten fairies and Ethan)

Zovrath, the towering warlord, looms over the stone throne, an imposing figure surrounded by the cold, endless expanse of space. His dark, battle-scarred armor catches the dim light of distant, dying stars, creating an eerie, shifting pattern of light and shadow. Each scar on his armor tells a tale of countless wars and victories, while his eyes, glowing faintly beneath the shadow of his helm, radiate a chilling intensity. They are the eyes of a being who has witnessed the rise and fall of entire worlds, a silent observer of the cosmos’s most profound tragedies.

The vastness around him is a graveyard of celestial remains: shattered planets, floating debris, and remnants of vanished civilizations. The sight of these fragments—crumbling remnants of once-thriving worlds—serves as a dark testament to Zovrath’s unrelenting power. The space is thick with a palpable tension, as though the galaxy itself is holding its breath, awaiting the next cataclysmic act from its dark sovereign. Zovrath’s posture is one of casual dominance, his hands resting on the throne’s armrests with an air of controlled authority, signalling his readiness to act with ruthless efficiency.

Blackspire, his voice betraying a quiver of anxiety, steps forward, his imposing form dwarfed by Zovrath’s presence. He pauses, hesitant, as if the very act of speaking might provoke his lord’s wrath.

Blackspire: (voice trembling) "Lord Zovrath…"

The silence that follows is thick and oppressive, broken only by the distant, haunting echoes of the void. Zovrath’s eyes, twin embers of ancient malevolence, shift slowly to focus on Blackspire. The silence is deliberate, laden with an ominous weight that makes the dark lord’s voice all the more chilling when he finally speaks.

Zovrath: (voice resonating deeply, echoing through the emptiness) "Do you hear it, Blackspire? The silence…"

Blackspire’s head lowers, his immense form bending slightly in submission as he acknowledges the vast, chilling quiet that pervades their surroundings. His voice is steady, though still imbued with a trace of fear.

Blackspire: "Yes, my lord. The silence of those who have fallen, the ruins of realms crushed beneath your might."

A sinister smirk tugs at the edges of Zovrath’s lips, yet his gaze remains fixed on the swirling void of space. The smirk is a fleeting expression of dark satisfaction, hinting at the boundless destruction he has wrought.

Zovrath: "No. It is not merely silence. It is the silence of anticipation. Every realm, every being, senses it. They feel the weight of inevitability. They know that I am not yet finished."

His voice carries the gravitas of countless battles, a reminder of the inexorable force of his conquest. The very fabric of space seems to shudder under the resonance of his words, as if the universe itself is recoiling from his presence. Blackspire’s eyes widen with a mix of reverence and fear as he looks upon his master.

Blackspire: "Your power is absolute, my lord. None can stand against you."

Zovrath turns his head slowly, the movement so deliberate that it feels almost like a tidal shift in the cosmos. His eyes, burning with the weight of his countless victories, lock onto Blackspire with a piercing intensity.

Zovrath: "Absolute? If that were truly the case, I would not be here… shackled to this throne."

The bitterness in his voice is palpable, a dark reminder of the enigmatic force that has bound him in this cosmic prison. For a brief, unsettling moment, the vastness of space seems to tremble in response, as if acknowledging the injustice of Zovrath’s current plight.

Blackspire: (hesitant) "Those who dared to resist… they are no more, my lord. You have obliterated everything in your path. Only the last realm remains—"

Zovrath’s hand rises, cutting Blackspire off with a slow, deliberate motion. His fingers curl into a fist, not just as a gesture, but as if he is grasping the very essence of existence itself.

Zovrath: "No, Blackspire. It is not merely the realm I seek. It is the Codex. I have obliterated their realms in search of it."

His voice, filled with a cold, calculating fury, echoes through the void, underscoring the depth of his obsession.

Zovrath: "And now… it lies in that small vermin of fairies."

Blackspire, visibly trembling, responds with fervent confidence, trying to mask his fear with bravado.

Blackspire: "He now stands no chance, even against our weakest dihodos, my lord. But the fairies—"

Zovrath interrupts, his tone cold and resolute, emphasizing the significance of his next statement.

Zovrath: "The boy may seem like vermin to be crushed under my feet but… he is the reason I'm here....away from what is mine...."

Blackspire’s eyes widen in realization, his mind racing with the implications of Zovrath's words.

Blackspire: "But my lord, the fairies don’t know this yet. We can seize this opportunity."

Zovrath falls silent, the vastness around him seeming to amplify the gravity of his contemplation. After a moment, his voice, firm and commanding, cuts through the void.

Zovrath: "Bring her to me. It has been a long time since I heard about her condition."

Blackspire nods swiftly, lowering his head in submission before turning to carry out the order. The cold, calculated efficiency of his movements contrasts sharply with the fear that lingers in his eyes.

Soon, Blackspire returns, flanked by two of Zovrath’s enslaved minions. They drag a figure between them—Varmora, a fairy whose appearance tells a grim tale of prolonged suffering. Her clothes are tattered and her body shows signs of relentless torment. Despite her condition, her spirit remains unbroken. Her face, though etched with pain, bears a defiant smirk, as if the trials she has endured have only sharpened her resolve.

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Blackspire: (gripping Varmora by her hair, his voice a roaring thunder) "Kneel before the mighty God Zovrath, you mere creature!"

Varmora, despite the agony she endures, lifts her chin with a look of steely determination. Her voice, though strained, carries a sharp edge of defiance.

Varmora: "A god whose days are numbered."

The defiance in her voice ignites Blackspire’s anger, causing his voice to flare with an almost palpable fury.

Blackspire: "You insolent, irreverent creature! How dare you—"

Zovrath’s voice, deep and resonant, cuts through the chaos with a commanding authority that leaves no room for argument.

Zovrath: "Leave."

The simple command is infused with an echoing finality, causing Blackspire and his minions to bow their heads and retreat, their exit marked by hurried, shuffling steps. The silence that follows is heavy with anticipation, leaving Zovrath and Varmora alone in the void.

Varmora stands before Zovrath, her posture straight and unwavering, a testament to her inner strength. Despite the visible signs of her torment, her eyes are clear and unyielding, reflecting a warrior’s resolve. Zovrath’s gaze, piercing and contemplative, remains fixed on her.

Zovrath: "What do you see in the stars, Varmora, when you look up?"

Varmora’s voice, though worn, carries a quiet strength. She speaks with a calm bravery, as if sharing a conversation between old foes who respect each other’s resolve.

Varmora: (her voice steady, like a warrior speaking to a worthy adversary) "When I was a child, I asked my mum the same question. She told me it didn’t matter what she saw. What mattered was what I saw in them." (She pauses, reflecting.) "I left Valfala, fought for my realms. And I realized my mum was right. It changed me. My way of thinking. Now, when I look up, I see freedom."

Zovrath’s gaze softens slightly as it turns to face her more directly. Its voice carries a note of unexpected respect.

Zovrath: "I respected your mother. She was a true warrior. Like you, she also saw freedom in the stars." (He begins to slowly walk past Varmora, his steps deliberate and measured. Zovrath stops, its gaze fixed on the swirling void beyond.) "Her vision changed my perspective. When you Phinixes killed Uthanaha, I started seeing the stars differently. I saw not just the beauty, but the vast expanse of what remained to be done. So much more to conquer, so much pain and suffering to be ended. A task to complete...."

He pauses, his back turned to Varmora, and the space around them seems to darken, as if reflecting the weight of its words. The silence stretches, filled with the gravity of his revelation.

Zovrath turns slowly, his towering form casting an ominous shadow over Varmora as his cold, calculating voice pierces the silence.

Zovrath: "And now, Varmora, you are here, a remnant of that freedom you spoke of. A symbol of the universes I have yet to conquer."

Varmora, despite the pain etched on her face, lets out a soft laugh, barely audible, but loud enough for Zovrath to hear. The sound of her defiance is like a thorn in the conqueror’s side.

Varmora (mockingly, her voice hoarse but steady): "With you trapped in this void for so long? I think the loneliness has begun to affect your mind."

Zovrath remains calm, his tone unwavering, as if her taunts barely register.

Zovrath: "Indeed." He takes a slow step toward her, his presence looming larger as he draws near, standing beside her but looking out into the endless expanse of the void. "But I called you here to let you know..." His voice lowers, thick with menace. "Your pathetic Midfold’s barrier weakens, with you here. Valfala cannot hold me here for much longer....and once I’m free….I'll get what I need..."

Varmora’s expression remains stoic, though the slightest tension flickers across her features.

Varmora: "The Codex was destroyed long ago. I told you that before."

Zovrath’s eyes gleam with a predatory light, as if savoring her defiance.

Zovrath: "I see. You fairies are persistent—no matter the pain, no matter the suffering, you cling to your lies."

Varmora meets his gaze head-on, her voice unwavering despite the horror she’s faced.

Varmora: "Torture doesn’t change the truth. The Codex is gone. Destroyed. Whether you torment me or anyone else, it doesn’t change anything."

Zovrath leans forward, his dark face now inches from hers, his voice a deep rumble of menace.

Zovrath (in a low, sinister whisper): "Even if I torture... that little boy of yours?"

Varmora’s composure cracks for the briefest moment, her breath hitching in her chest. Ethan. Zovrath had found out about him. Her mind races—she had endured every imaginable torment to keep Ethan’s secret, the truth about the Codex buried deep inside him. But how could Zovrath know?

Varmora (her voice faltering, but quickly regaining her composure): "He has nothing to do with Codex. He is just a human....got into our realm somehow…and you destroyed our entire realms."

Zovrath’s gaze sharpens, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Zovrath: "Don’t play games with me, Varmora. I know the boy bears the Codex."

Varmora’s heart pounds in her chest, but she keeps her face blank, masking the fear that grips her. Her voice, though strained, holds a thread of defiance.

Varmora: "I told you....he has nothing to do with Codex....he is not worthy to even touch the codex."

Zovrath’s eyes glow with a cold, unrelenting determination, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Zovrath: "Then let the boy’s screams be the truth I seek."

The air between them hums with the weight of Zovrath’s threat, but Varmora remains standing tall, her mind racing for a way to protect Ethan. She knew this was a battle of wills, one she couldn’t afford to lose.

Varmora's voice remains firm, unwavering, even in the face of imminent death.

Varmora: "You will never get the Codex."

Zovrath's eyes flash with a deadly finality as he steps closer, his towering presence almost suffocating.

Zovrath: "Then you are no longer of use to me."

Varmora doesn't flinch. Instead, a faint smile tugs at the corner of her lips as she gazes into the abyss around them.

Varmora: "It would be my honour to die watching you, trapped here, forever, without the Codex."

For a fleeting moment, Zovrath's expression shifts, as if acknowledging the weight of her defiance. He circles her slowly, his voice a mix of admiration and cold certainty.

Zovrath: "I have conquered many worlds, realms. I’ve obliterated civilizations beyond your imagination. But never... never have I faced warriors like you and him. Fierce, unyielding."

He stops, towering over her, his tone shifting into something almost respectful.

Zovrath: "I’ll make sure you die an honourable death, Varmora."

Varmora stands tall, her posture resolute, knowing her end is near. Her breathing slows, her mind at peace with her decision. She closes her eyes, her hands lifting in a final, soft gesture, casting one last spell with the remnants of her magic.

When she opens her eyes again, Zovrath is already standing before her, his eyes locked onto hers, cold and merciless.

Zovrath: "Any last words?"

Varmora meets his gaze with a quiet, unbreakable strength.

Varmora: "You can never be a god…"

Zovrath’s expression did not waver. Without hesitation, he raised his hand and closed his fist. The void trembled with his power, and Varmora’s breath caught. Pain surged through her body as her life force was pulled away, and in an instant, her body collapsed lifelessly to the cold, hard floor.

For a few moment, Zovrath stands over her lifeless form, his expression inscrutable. Slowly, he kneels beside her, a shadow of something almost human flickering in his gaze. He reaches out, gently closing her eyes, a final mark of respect to a fallen adversary.

Zovrath: "You have my honour, Varmora." His voice, though deep, was softer now, almost sorrowful. _"Your pain, your suffering... ends now. Go, be with your mother. Find peace.

He stands, towering above her still form, a giant of destruction brought to a momentary pause by the death of a Phinix. He remains silent, the air around him heavy with a stillness that almost feels like mourning.

Zovrath then straightens, his resolve hardening once more as he turns away from Varmora. With a single motion of his hand, he summons Blackspire, his towering servant emerging from the shadows, dark and menacing.

Zovrath: "Clear the floor."

Blackspire bows low, his voice a guttural whisper.

Blackspire: "As you command, my lord."

Zovrath doesn't look back as he strides away, the sound of Blackspire moving to fulfill the order echoing behind him. The void is silent once more, but the memory of Varmora’s defiance lingers in the air—like a small, flickering flame refusing to be snuffed out entirely.