A Night of Reckoning
In a land scarred by war,
Under the moon's peering light,
A ritual of blood, a carnage's gore.
A rousing hope, burning the night
Yet what summoned was no saviour king,
Nor a dawn, a new life blessing.
An Ancient force, from a world in flame,
Torn form its rest, fate now unnamed.
Bound to a purpose, lost and forlorn,
To find new meaning, where legacies are born.
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The full moon, white as a pearl, hung upon a black lightless backdrop amongst the cumulous veil. It shone like a lighthouse, piercing through the ocean mist, as if it were the eye of a god searching for a disturbance, an agitation under this starless night.
Its lunar gaze fell upon a monastery, hidden by the Forest of Murmures Perdus, where not a whisper of wildlife could be heard. This silence stood in stark contrast to the crashing waves just a mere stroll from the forest edge.
Tonight, however, accompanying the ocean's rhythm was the echo of hooves. A horse-drawn carriage trudged along the forest path. A figure cloaked in a grey robe sat hunched on the rider's seat. His robe clung to him like a ghost, tattered and frayed with ragged edges and loose seams. Its threads hooked on the countless wood splinters of the carriage. His ragged breath left white puffs in the air as he moved, his frail arm gripping the harness with surprising strength.
As he slowly approached the monastery, another figure emerged from the building. This one also wore a grey robe, but it merely covered part of his shoulder, revealing a rugged frame clad in a hard leather surcoat, belts armed to the teeth slung over his shoulders and waist. He stood guarded, hands on the pommel of his sword.
The carriage halted. The rider bent down and whispered to the armed man.
“Montclair,” came a raspy, dry tone. The guard released his pommel, slamming his now-free hand on the stone wall of the monastery, sending dirt and dust flying.
After the third knock, a horde of robed personnel poured out from the back of the monastery. They went to the carriage, leaving with sacks of something on their shoulders.
One of the burlap bags loosened, revealing locks of ruby hair, causing the man carrying it to pause mid-step.
The hunched man grinned, teeth bared. “This one’s of Rhodental,” he said. Heads snapped toward him, eyes quivering in shock.
“T-Truly?” the guardsman asked.
“…the lost ill-fated child of Rhodental,” the man carrying the child murmured.
Cackling at their reaction, the hunched man jumped down from the carriage and placed a hand on the guardsman’s shoulder. His fingers twitched as they stretched open, but the grasp was firm, strong enough to move the man's entire frame with one swing. The frail appearance belied the monstrous strength within.
“Tonight shall be the night of our saviour’s arrival. Inform Calvor of this,” he said with glee, revealing a set of teeth, white as a porcelain doll. The guardsman bowed rapidly, then took off, rushing back inside the building alongside the one carrying the child.
Moments later, the gloomy, lightless monastery lit up with moving candle lights, and a rousing chatter approached the carriage.
All the while, the unnerving white grin never wavered.
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“Could you stop doing that?” Calvor asked, irritation edging his voice. He was a man clad in a matted robe, its crimson sleeves sharply contrasting with the dark fabric. His narrowed eyes, heavy with bags like storm clouds, still carried a piercing gaze.
That gaze was fixed on a pale, scrawny man beside him, dressed in grey. Around them, a dozen robed figures busied themselves—some preparing engravings for the ritual, others hauling crates of glowing vials. None dared interrupt, aware of Calvor’s authority. His sharp jawline, accented by a well-groomed beard, added to his commanding presence. Scars marred his complexion, but his amber eyes, though dulled by insomnia, could still send a knight running.
This man was Keeper Calvor of the Silence Dawn—the one in charge.
Yet the pale man on the receiving end of that intense gaze remained unfazed. Unhooded, his wide grin revealed rows of porcelain-white teeth against his thin, almost anaemic face. Wisps of smoke clung to his hair, jutting out in all directions, giving him the look of a revenant.
Those brave enough to look upon him were met with that unsettling smile and sunken, bloodshot eyes. For a split second, they might have noticed something stuck between his teeth—meat, still fresh and moving.
He was known as the White Claw of Eldun, a far cry from his official title, Lugar of the Bladed Meadows.
Lugar cackled, showing off the blood dripping from his fangs. The sound was a grating mix of a dying horse’s last breath and a chair scraping across the floor. The noise made those kneeling on the blackened limestone freeze, hands clutching hammers mid-motion.
The younger ones bolted, hiding behind the pews near the main altar. Their crumpled robes quivered as they whimpered, eyes wide with terror as they recognized the monstrous truth behind the man they once thought an ally—a creature wearing the veneer of a human.
“It’s exactly that!” Calvor exclaimed, his voice strained. Lugar’s grin faltered, and he huffed.
“You work a poor old man to the bone, and can’t spare him a sliver of fun after hours? Our savior won’t be pleased with your attitude.” Lugar leaped onto the benches, sending dust flying.
Those hiding behind the piles fell back in fright, their hands clenched so tightly some nearly drew blood. As they looked upon this man—this thing—some wished desperately for the nightmare to end, their minds trapped in trauma. Others, however, met Lugar’s gaze with newfound resolve, though terror still clawed at their hearts.
Lugar, perched atop the benches, swung his legs idly, boredom filling his eyes as he lazily looked down at the Keeper.
“My young kindlings!” Calvor’s voice cut through the tension. “One of you shall bring me the key. Those who wish to call it a night may leave.”
Three young deacons shakily rose, their hands trembling as they tugged their hoods low and stumbled away.
The last child stood up, hands shaking but clenched, blood dripping from his palms. His small frame revealed his age—no more than 14—but his eyes burned with a fire fiercer than any storm.
This caught Lugar’s attention. His bored expression shifted back to that of a grinning demon, his sunken eyes now fully focused on the boy.
The boy flinched, his gaze wavering, but he never looked away.
Lugar snickered. “You heard the Keeper, young kindling! Bring out the key.”
The boy broke eye contact, turning away, but not before glancing at Calvor. The Keeper responded with a look of pity. The boy left the church, brows knitted in determination, a trail of blood slithering behind him.
“I beseech you not to provoke my members, Lugar of Eldun,” Calvor said through gritted teeth.
“You mustn't be so high-strung, Keeper. I was merely indulging the boy in his little tantrum. He seems to have quite the story, I presume?” Lugar’s tone was mocking.
“It’s not something that should concern you. All I ask is that you avoid discomforting my members. If tonight’s event passes fruitfully, the findings you plundered from Montclair are yours to keep.” Calvor’s words were candies to his ears.
The emaciated man leapt down from the pile, landing within arm's reach of Calvor. He pulled up his hood but not before flashing one last decrepit grin.
“You know me so well, O Keeper Calvor,” Lugar sneered, to which Calvor could only grimace.
“S-Sir?” a voice came from behind. “The gateway... it’s finished.” Both men turned to the speaker, a young teen, and beyond him to the newly carved magic circle, still dusted with limestone in its crevices.
The circle’s diameter spanned the entire nave, composed of two distinct layers. The outer layer was an intricate maze of orthogonal geometry, riddled with entry points and exits, littered with symbols—burning stars, interstellar mists, endless voids, birthing celestials. The inner layer was still dust-covered.
“So—the prophecy was true,” Lugar remarked.
“Did you think my words were lies?” Calvor’s voice held slight indignation.
“Eldun’s suspicions are mine as well, Keeper. I thought you knew me better.” Lugar's tone dripped with feigned offense.
Calvor brushed away the limestone dust covering the centre of the circle, revealing a silhouette of an eye, its iris an entry point. Below it, a crescent shape bound together by an ascending beam of light.
This was the sigil of their saviour—of their god.
Surrounding it was a ring of symbols, their outlines soft, flowing into one another to form a singular pathway leading through the iris.
A smile crept across Calvor’s face as he ran his fingers over the sigil, marvelling at each curve and crevice, before lowering his forehead to the eye and shutting his eyes.
In the darkness, he saw an endless field of sand beneath a twilight sky. Warm winds blew across his skin, peppering him with smouldering grains of sand. Yet the heat did not scorch him; it only warmed him, igniting the cold, frozen heart within—one he believed could no longer beat since he lost her.
He held onto that sensation as he gazed upon the golden sunset.
The light did not shine from the sun but from the Sigil.
His one true god.
He who would be the gateway to their salvation.
And then... he could see her again.
Lugar observed the scene, his visage stoic and neutral, though his hand inside his robe trembled as he fought to suppress his furrowing brows.
A faint click, followed by the soft whoosh of a door opening, brought both men back to the present. Their eyes fixed on a boy carrying a child in rags over his shoulder, her red locks cascading down his side. His hand was still clenched, now wrapped in cloth, soaked with his own blood.
The child was no older than six—no longer an infant, but not yet developed enough to escape his grasp. Yet she struggled, pushing down his hood to reveal a young face marked by scars. Three jagged lines ran across his eye and up to his scalp. Though his vision was spared, the damaged skin could no longer support hair, leaving bare patches amidst his dirty blond mane.
He looked over to the Keeper, sparing a brief glance at Lugar before carrying the child over to the sigil. He then stopped, standing motionless in front of Calvor.
“M-May I ask, Father Calvor, why are we using children for this ritual?” His voice wavered, and Calvor could see his furrowed brows, lips parting and shutting as if trying, but failing, to object.
“They aren’t innocent souls, little kindling,” came Lugar's voice, like metal scraping metal. His mocking grin only further fuelled the fire in the boy’s auburn eyes. Yet he did not glance at Lugar; his rationality warned him of the danger of provoking such a creature. He merely looked on, pleading with the Keeper—the father who had sheltered him from the war that had torn his world apart—hoping he would show these children the same mercy he had once received.
But none was given.
“They are children of the Albionian noble class. We are here because of them. Do not forget that, kindling Alfred,” Calvor said, his voice firm.
“But—” Alfred began, trembling.
“The past is but a fading star,” Calvor continued, unwavering. “Lost to the dawn, erased from afar. It is the tenet of our Saviour. Only through the total erasure of the past can we move forward. The Albion Empire has fallen, and so will their scions.” His voice was stern, conclusive.
Alfred’s shoulders slumped, his hands unclenching as the last hope of saving the children slipped from his grasp. His head bowed low, the weight of Calvor’s words pressing down like a heavy shroud.
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“Take that child on your shoulder as an example,” Lugar's grating voice cut through the silence. “Sigmund von Rhodental, father of Anneliese von Rhodental, sold his daughter to the maws of Albion, resulting in that child. She, in turn, discarded her. By offering her to our god, we end the lineage of torment brought about by Albion.” Lugar’s tone dripped with condescension, but Alfred could do nothing but stand there, his grip tightening around the child on his shoulder.
“Did you give her the sedative?” Calvor asked, emotionless. Alfred nodded. The child had been motionless on his shoulder for some time now.
“My Kindlings,” Calvor’s commanding voice rang out. The kindlings turned towards their father, their hands and gazes awaiting his command.
“Tonight, we stand not as the lost, but as the chosen—those whom the world abandoned, but whom our Saviour has called! After this night, your past shall no longer define you as remnants of war, but as heroes of a new Dawn. Under His guidance, we will rewrite the world order, purge the blood of tyranny, and strike at the gods who wronged us!
The world believes us weak—but tonight, we shall prove them wrong! We shed the remnants of our old selves and become the architects of a future where the tyrants are brought low, where the cries of the forgotten are answered, and where no soul is cast aside. We will burn away the rot, cleanse the world of its sins, and build a new order upon the ashes of the old!
Let the old gods tremble, for we are the flames of the Saviour’s light! We shall not be silenced, we shall not be stopped! Tonight, we begin anew! The dawn is ours, the future is ours, and by His will, the world shall be reborn!”
The dimly lit church erupted in cheers, the space filling with newfound vitality. The children's once-dull eyes now blazed with fierce resolve. Fists clenched, a powerful chant rose from their throats: "We are the flames! We are the dawn!" Their strong, united voices echoed off the stone walls, reverberating through the night like a defiant war cry, embodying the fury and determination of a generation discarded by the world.
Yet amidst this rising heat, one candle refused to burn. At the centre of the crowd, Alfred stood with his hand raised, but his voice was silent. The chants blended into noise, overtaken by the deafening sound of his own heartbeat. Sweat dripped down his side, soaking the bloodied rags clinging to him.
“Child,” a soft voice cut through the noise. Air rushed back into his lungs as he gasped, his body suddenly remembering the weight on his shoulder.
The Keeper called out to him, his eyes neutral, but Alfred knew his foster father well enough to see that he had been caught. For a brief moment, Calvor’s gaze softened with a flicker of sympathy.
“Lay the key down on the sigil,” Calvor instructed, “then you may return to your quarters if you do not wish to witness the ritual.”
Alfred obeyed, laying the little girl onto the crescent-shaped part of the sigil. Her small, curled form seemed cradled by the crescent, lying under the omniscient eye of their god.
“No,” Alfred said suddenly, firm. “I will stay and witness, as a test of my allegiance.” He turned away, taking a seat at the far right corner of the room behind the benches. The chants hushed to a whisper, all eyes focused on him.
But Alfred saw only the child lying at the centre of the ritual, his mind trapped within itself.
The Keeper cleared his throat, redirecting the attention back to himself. “Bring me the Primordial Drops,” he ordered.
At his command, the teens scattered. Some retreated and settled down in foetal positions, rocking in anticipation, their eyes locked on their father. Others whispered among themselves, gossiping about Alfred’s tone. The remaining kindlings busied themselves, opening crates filled with vials of bonded Primordial Mana. The liquid’s ethereal glow seeped through the narrow gaps, casting a shimmering radiance inside the crate.
Each vial contained a misty liquid that glowed iridescently, flashing between amber, magenta, azure, and cyan. Each colour held a meaning, a power beyond mortal comprehension.
To possess such a quantity of Primordial Mana was a testament to the trust the Order had in the prophecy—and in Calvor.
Even the White Claw was momentarily silenced, his grin fading as his sunken eyes focused on the ritual.
But Alfred’s thoughts remained fixed on the child as the might of the cosmos unfolded around her.
The kindlings uncorked the vials, pouring the contents into the outer circle. The liquid cascaded out in a smooth flow, but behaved unlike any ordinary liquid. The moment it left the glass, it transformed—spilling out not just as liquid, but as shimmering mist. It drifted downward like a waterfall of fog, the glowing droplets evaporating, leaving behind an ethereal trail.
Only the main stream retained its liquid form, its behaviour becoming even more esoteric as it touched the ritual floor. The mass raced along the grooves like a living organism, permeating every nook of the outer circle and igniting the limestone floor in a storm of light.
As the liquid continued toward the inner circle, it passed through celestial symbols. With each touch, the iridescent glow shifted, locking into one of four colours corresponding to the motif:
Amber for the burning star.
Magenta for the interstellar mist.
Cyan for the endless void.
Azure for the birth of celestials.
But as the mana reached the gateway between the inner and outer circles, its advance halted, as though a force transcending logic was holding back the primordial essence. The liquid pooled at the threshold, shimmering with potential energy, straining against an invisible barrier.
The sight entranced every soul present, leaving them breathless, struggling to comprehend the visual grandeur.
Even Alfred was momentarily drawn into the hypnotic display. But the allure was short-lived. The Keeper stepped into the inner circle, unsheathing a dagger from his robe. With a swift motion, he plunged the blade into the vermilion-haired girl. The sedative spared her pain as she lay motionless, her lifeblood filling the crescent moon.
Alfred collapsed into a foetal position, bloodied hands wrapped tightly around his body. In his mind, he saw a familiar silhouette hovering over the girl, screaming at him to jump up, to do something.
Lugar, noticing the boy’s distress, spoke with deliberate malice. “Do you know why we chose the child of Rhodental as our first?”
Alfred didn’t look up; he didn’t need to. He could imagine the sneering smile on Lugar’s face.
“They say the Rhoden Valley was once home to tribes who worshipped dragons. When the people of Noria came, they assimilated, giving rise to the Rhodental family. So it wouldn’t be far-fetched to say they carry draconic blood within them.” Lugar chuckled, just loud enough for Alfred to hear. “And what better vessel for our god than one with mythical roots?”
As the dagger remained lodged in her side, the girl’s complexion drained away, leaving her skin ashen. The vibrant red of her blood seeped steadily into the crescent-shaped sigil, pooling around her frail body. Her small chest, which had risen and fallen with the shallow breaths of sedation, now stilled. The blood continued to flow, filling the iris before inching outward toward the inner ring. Constrained by the circle’s design, it took precious time for the blood to reach the gateway of separation.
Time she did not have.
With each passing second, her breaths grew shallower, the ritual teetering on the brink of failure. Calvor watched, praying silently for success, but the flow of blood slowed, prolonging her agony.
Alfred gritted his teeth and looked away, desperately wishing for her suffering to end.
Her body grew colder. Death was closing in.
Then, her blood touched the wall of primordial mana.
Immediately, the dark crimson liquid ignited, absorbing the ethereal essence and stealing away the light from the outer circle, feeding its brilliant citrine glow.
A surge of power pulsed through her, forcing her eyes open—now blazing beacons of light that pierced the surrounding darkness. She sat at the epicentre of the sigil, cradled within the eternal iris of their god.
But her torment was far from over. The now-empowered sigil began to drain her primal lifeforce, mercilessly consuming what little remained. Her pale skin shrivelled and cracked, turning a withered grey. Her once-lustrous vermilion locks flashed white before falling from her scalp in brittle strands. Water, fat, flesh—everything that once made her human—burned away in an instant, leaving behind only an emaciated corpse of skin and bone.
Her body was being discarded.
And the remnants, stripped of their humanity, were remade into a vessel fit for their god.
Calvor took a few steps back, a hidden smile tugging at his lips. Finally, the days of aimless wandering were nearing an end, and her face—her memories—were almost within his grasp. He allowed himself a moment to gaze around the room, taking in the sight of his kindlings, their faces bathed in the ethereal light, eyes wide with awe. They too could sense it—the night had passed, and the dawn of a new tomorrow was on the horizon.
But then, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Calvor turned to find Lugar patting him gently, an almost melancholic look on his face—a strange expression for a man like him. But Calvor, caught in the emotional swell of the moment, didn’t question it. He even returned the gesture with a triumphant smile, feeling an unexpected kinship in their shared victory.
Then he noticed something wet trickling down his shoulder, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of copper.
His eyes widened in sudden realization, but it was too late—spikes of blood had already driven deep into his neck and torso, the pain sharp and immediate.
The melancholy in Lugar's gaze vanished, replaced by a cold, neutral stare.
Calvor’s body began to sway, the strength draining from him. With his final, trembling breath, he whispered, “Why?”
Lugar’s response was calm, almost detached. “For me, it was an order. For Eldun, it was jealousy.”
Calvor’s body crumpled to the limestone floor, spraying blood all over the kindlings behind him. The sickening, wet thud of his fall echoed through the chamber, finally reaching their ears—but by then, it was too late to react.
In an instant, tendrils of blood bloomed like vicious flowers, shooting up and piercing the skulls of every single kindling in the room, snuffing out their lives in a single, merciless heartbeat.
Everyone but the boy sitting far from the crowd.
Alfred, whose mind had just caught up with the horror unfolding before him, ripped a splintered piece of wood from a nearby pew, fashioning it into a crude stake as he sprang forward, charging at the pale beast with all the fury he could muster.
In his adrenaline-fueled rush, he failed to notice the undulating pool of blood that encircled him. It shot up suddenly, coiling around his limbs and halting him in his tracks, suspending him in a grotesque mockery of the Vitruvian form. Alfred strained against the blood-tentacles, yanking and twisting with every ounce of strength he had, but they held fast, refusing to let go. Eventually, his strength gave out, the adrenaline subsiding and leaving him in excruciating pain as he realized the extent of the torn tendons in his arms and legs. Yet, even as agony surged through him, he looked up, determined to face this monster head-on.
What greeted him, however, was a hauntingly familiar sight.
Dozens of lifeless bodies, those with whom he had shared memories, hardships, pain, and fleeting moments of happiness, lay strewn across the floor in pools of their own blood.
A father figure, cold and still.
And the young girl, her tiny form cradled by death.
All victims of a monster.
And he, powerless to stop any of it.
“A pity, really,” Lugar said, his back still facing Alfred. Slowly, he pivoted to face the boy, and what Alfred saw was even more unnerving than the blood-soaked grin he had anticipated.
There was no sneer, no dripping fangs—just a calm, almost sorrowful expression.
It was as if the massacre had genuinely saddened him.
As if the slaughter had been necessary, but regrettable.
“Go to hell,” Alfred growled, his voice strained, a desperate call teetering on the realm of wishes.
“By whom? The saviour?” Lugar let out a sardonic chuckle. “The outer gods are not so sympathetic as to grant your every whim, boy.”
Then, almost without warning, the Claw formed a pillar from the pool of blood, launching it at neck speed. It struck Alfred’s solar plexus, knocking him out in an instant and sending him crashing into the altar’s wall, narrowly missing the splinter-filled pile of wood.
Suddenly, he felt a presence that forced him down onto one knee. At first, he thought the ritual was approaching its end, that the soul of their god had successfully torn into this world.
But something felt off. The intensity was overwhelming, like being crushed at the bottom of the ocean. The presence of a god was mighty, but it was still limited by the vessel it inhabited. Even remade to fit a god, the vessel needed time to grow, time for the soul to truly settle in.
Yet, with every ticking moment, the force bearing down on his existence grew heavier and heavier. Now, he lay sprawled on the floor. An instinctive fear welled up within him, screaming at him to run and hide—so overwhelming that it nearly drove him to the brink of madness.
Whatever the result of the ritual, success or failure, he had to end it now.
Summoning every ounce of his inhuman strength, he barely managed to turn his head. Each inch took excruciating effort, each breath felt like it could be his last. And when he finally saw the source of his dread, it truly did take his breath away.
The light shining from the sigil was no longer citrine but had deepened into a golden hue, tinged with shades of ruby—colours beyond anything he could have imagined. The liquid within the sigil began to expand, climbing unnaturally over the grooves of the circle, moving in ways more esoteric than even the primordial mana. Its surface churned with untold momentum, yet flowed with perfect, impossible smoothness, erasing every trace of the engravings on the limestone floor before flooding the entire church with its auric radiance.
Then, from the ever-churning surface, a new sigil arose.
A point. A star.
A Dark Sun.
Two infinitely cascading waves revolved around it—
The cycle of Life and Death, always chasing each other.
And the bridge between,
The chain-link of Rebirth.
As the sigil emerged, the light around them intensified, its rays piercing through every gap and crack, reaching into the deepest abyss of the sea—a place never grace by light.
Then, as if time itself reversed—water, fat, and flesh returned to where they once were. Her dried, ashen skin regained its colour, smoothing and softening into a healthy, vibrant hue. Locks of vermilion red hair spontaneously sprouted back into existence, shimmering with a lustre even greater than before. The wound in her stomach closed at an unnatural speed.
The weight on Lugar’s existence doubled, matching the ever-increasing luminosity. He could no longer see the carnage around him, nor could he even make out the silhouette of the church.
The only things he could see were himself, the child, and the outline of a great beast rising from the glowing liquid.
Then the outline vanished, and the light beaming from her eyes flashed green. All at once, the light ceased to exist—followed by a shockwave that tore the building asunder, catapulting Lugar through the church roof and sending him crashing into the forest canopy beyond.
He lay paralyzed, his form sprawled on an arboreal cushion of his own making. His mind raced, catching up and reeling from the existential terror that had gripped his very being. Fortunately, as the light faded, so too did the presence that had gripped his soul. The realization hit him as air rushed back into his lungs. Moonlight shone from above, casting him in a soft, familiar glow—light from this world, comprehensible and real. He let himself rest.
Yet something was off. The sea mist, which had blanketed the water’s surface, had receded far from view. The ebbing waves lay motionless, their rhythmic strums silenced—a stage with no play.
It was as if the world was holding its breath.
Dread climbed up his throat. He took off running toward the crumbling building—praying, hoping that amidst the falling rubble, the vessel had been crushed before the god within could awaken.
But there, among the ruins, he saw a young girl sleeping blissfully on the uneven terrain. Her peaceful form rose and fell gently, with bright vermilion locks draped across the bulging floor.
A sleeping angel amidst carnage and chaos.
But he sensed—no, knew—that within that petite form was a demon, a thing whose will and thoughts were so far beyond his already inhuman mind that he could scarcely imagine what it would do to this world.
It must be killed.
With trembling hands, he pierced his palm, almost doubling over as his mental fortitude waned. Life-force-infused blood dribbled over his nails, swarming but failing to hold form. What should have been a great blood lance faltered, crumbling into nothingness, leaving only a thin, wavering crimson rapier. This was all he could manage, so it would have to do. Every second spent trying to reform his blood lance was a second closer to that thing waking up.
With little left he could do, he charged in, rushing headfirst toward the building’s center. Every step felt like an eternity as he tumbled, slid, and fell—the grace of a predator lost in the haze of panic, replaced by the crazed desperation of a man entrapped by fear.
Yet as he drew closer, a smile crept across his face. Relief washed over him, and his soul cried out in joy.
For this accursed night was coming to an end.
For he was inches away from running her through.
From quelling a disaster.
From spraying deific blood.
But in the next instant, his body was flung miles away, impacted by a force so far beyond this world that it turned every conceivable bone in his body to dust.
In his clouded judgment, Lugar had reacted like hunted prey, failing to see the true danger lurking—two sets of viridian eyes, cloaked in the darkness of night. They locked onto his form, moving in unison as he fell beyond the horizon.
The little girl was cradled in the formidable forearm of a colossal beast—an entity so vast it towered above the forest canopy. Its ebony maw parted, releasing a ghostly mist that warmed the cold night as it slithered through the air. Expansive wings stretched from its sides—a vast and radiant mantle blocking out the stars, painted in fiery hues, with pinions that blazed from deep crimson to vibrant orange, ending in tips of emerald green. Along the leading edge of these wings, gilded scales formed a protective layer—armour befitting an ancient slayer.
But this beast was no mere killer. A crown of three golden horns graced its head—the central horn positioned between its eyes, pointing forward like a royal lance, a symbol of might. The other two horns framed its skull, rising above the clouds as symbols of authority.
This was Behemoth, a creature bearing a portion of a world’s might.
Yet the little mortal child, asleep, was fearless before such a mighty and regal form and merely snuggled deeper into its feathery embrace.
The Behemoth huffed, then looked up at the foreign sky, its presence a stark contrast to the nightly backdrop where numerous stars were strewn across a blank canvas.
And at its center—
An empty new moon.