TIME: 14 YEARS AGO – THE NIGHT OF ANIR’S BIRTH
LOCATION: THE PRISON OF LANZULE
Deep within the Blood Trees Forest, a place where the trees bleed crimson sap and the air is thick with the scent of iron, lies Lanzule, the Fae’s most heavily guarded stronghold. This prison is not just a place of confinement but a living entity, its walls imbued with ancient magic that feeds on despair. Here, the Fae imprison those who defy their rule, breaking them body and soul until nothing remains but hollow shells.
In the deepest, darkest cell of Lanzule, an old woman stirs. She is neither fully human nor entirely Fae, but a hybrid—a relic of a forbidden union between the two races. Her name is Maelis, and she is the last of her kind, a living testament to a time when humans and Fae walked the same paths. Her one good eye, milky and blind, flickers open, and though she cannot see the physical world, her vision pierces the veil of fate itself.
Maelis is no Oracle in the traditional sense. She does not commune with False-gods or spirits. Instead, her power comes from her bloodline, a lineage steeped in Faith-mana, a rare and volatile form of magic that binds her to the threads of destiny.
Tonight, that volatile essence of power surges within her, violent and uncontrollable it pulsed in her veins, The tendrils of fate vibrated so fiercely the very air screamed with urgency, as if the universe itself is screaming for her attention.
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THE PROPHECY
Maelis’s back arches as the weight of ancestral memories crashes into her mind. The ancient instinct of her lineage, a spell carved into her very blood, took hold. Her lips, dry and cracked, move against her will, and her voice—rasping and filled with otherworldly power—echoes through the prison, carrying words that have been silenced for centuries:
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“When the skies fall silent and the stars grow dim,
When the forests whisper of dread within,
He shall rise from shadow, fire in his stride,
A savior born where the hunted hide.
With steps that quake the earth and sky,
He will tear the veil where the Fae lie.
Chains shall shatter, and bonds be torn,
By his will, the dawn is reborn.
Woe to the darkness that thought him prey,
For the Treader of Dawn will not obey.
With blood, with flame, with earth and air,
From slavery He shall carve a path none will dare.
The Pact will break, the masters will fall,
And humanity will rise, the rulers of all.
The false-god will fall, for
The Treader of Dawn has come.”
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As the final words leave her lips, Maelis collapses, her frail body trembling violently. Her one good eye clears, now gleaming with a sharpness that defies her age. She whispers hoarsely to the shadows that cling to the prison walls:
"The Age of Chaos is upon us," she says, her voice low and filled with grim certainty. "And with chaos comes opportunity."
The prison itself seems to shudder, its ancient magic reacting to the weight of fate in her words. What had been suppressed for ages—forgotten prophecies, buried truths, hidden fears—spreads like wildfire through the invisible tendrils of fate.
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THE DEEP-LANDS STIR
Far beyond the prison, in the cursed expanse of the Deep-Lands, the restless darkness trembles. This is a place where light dares not tread, a realm of eternal night ruled by ancient, unspeakable predators. These creatures, born of primordial chaos, are drawn to the tremor in the world’s fabric.
Somewhere, far from their reach but close enough to provoke hunger.
A soul has been born—a soul strong, luminous, and ripe with potential. The creatures of the Deep-Lands do not understand prophecy or fate. They do not need to. All they know is the tantalizing scent of power, a feast unlike any other.
An immense, shadowy mass stirs, its formless body shifting as countless eyes blink open within its depths. A low, guttural growl reverberates across the land, a sound that sends weaker entities scurrying to the safety of darkness.
The birth of a soul like this is a rare occurrence. To the entities of the Deep-Lands, it is an opportunity—a chance to gorge on power and despair.
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MAELIS’S WRATH
Back in Lanzule’s prison, Maelis slowly pulls herself upright, her body racked with exhaustion from the strain of channeling the prophecy. But she is smiling now—a cruel, knowing smile.
She reaches for a rusted chain embedded in the prison floor and yanks it free. The sound of metal grinding against stone echoes through the chamber, a harsh reminder of her captivity. Yet, even in chains, she has influence.
Her whisper spreads like a serpent through the currents of magic, seeping into the ears of her kin: “The Treader of Dawn has come. Let the false masters beware. Their rule will burn before it crumbles.”
Her laugh is soft but filled with malice. "And as for the Deep-Lands... let them chase their feast. Let them gorge on their own despair when they fail."
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The Blood Trees Forest rustles ominously, as if in agreement. Somewhere far from this cursed place, a newborn child cries, oblivious to the storm his very existence has unleashed.
And the world begins to shift.
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TIME: 14 YEARS LATER, AFTER THE BREAD AND HONEY FEAST.
For the first time, the tribe slept with something close to joy in the air. It wasn’t the unrestrained happiness of a feast or celebration—no, it was careful, hesitant, like stepping over a frozen stream and hoping it wouldn’t crack beneath you. But it was joy nonetheless.
The smell of honey and bread lingered in the cave, mixing with the warmth of shared bodies and muted conversations. For one night, we almost forgot the horrors that prowled outside in the darkness. Almost.
When morning came, I woke up feeling… different. Less like a walking ball of paranoia fueled by past-life trauma and existential dread. Less like a cornered animal ready to lash out at every shadow. It was progress, however small.
I stretched, staring at the cave ceiling as the faint sounds of the tribe stirring reached my ears. For the first time since I woke up in this world, I didn’t feel like I was about to jump out of my skin. Maybe it was the bread. Maybe it was the honey. Or maybe my brain had finally decided to stop replaying my death and betrayal on an endless loop.
That last moment of my past life… It wasn’t just unhappy; it was a gaping wound. Fresh, raw, unhealed. When I woke up here, the betrayal felt like it had happened yesterday, not in another lifetime. My mind hadn’t caught up to the fact that I was here now, in a different body, a different place.
Looking back, I can admit it—I was a little unhinged. Seeing betrayal in every shadow, imagining enemies where there weren’t any, making pointless decisions like some cornered animal lashing out at everything. That was me. For a while, at least.
But now? Now I had time. Time to cool off, to stabilize, to think. And what I realized was… this is another life. A new opportunity.
Or, if you listen to my paranoia, a brand-new chance for life to screw me over in spectacular fashion.
Don’t get me wrong—my paranoia isn’t exactly wrong. The Fae exist. The forest is full of things that want to eat me. And people? People are always the biggest danger of all. But still, I can see it now. My knee-jerk reaction to seize control of the tribe, to make them mine, was just some primal, idiotic reflex.
Sure, it made sense at the time. Control means safety, right? If I control the tribe, I control the narrative. I control who lives and who dies. But that’s not living. That’s surviving. And if I’m going to make it in this world, I need to do more than just survive.
its time for short morning vacation.
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SHELL-SHOCKED
I stood and grabbed the iron sword I just crafted the moment before, its weight familiar in my hands. The tribe was waking up, their voices blending with the crackle of the morning fire. I slipped out of the cave, the cool air hitting my face as I made my way into the forest.
The forest was quiet, save for the rhythmic swish of my blade cutting through the air. I wasn’t training for anyone’s eyes but my own, hidden from the curious stares of the tribe. Each swing was precise, deliberate, and brutal—an extension of my thoughts made physical.
I adjusted my grip, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension there. My body moved, following a sequence etched deep into my muscle memory. A step forward, a low sweep, a twist of my wrist into a sharp upward slash. I let the motions flow, letting them pull me into a meditative rhythm.
But my mind was anything but calm.
The trauma of betrayal is no easy wound to heal from. The thought lingered, heavier than the sword in my hand. The memory of my old life, of my death, played on repeat in the back of my mind like a haunting melody I couldn’t escape.
The blade whistled through the air, slicing an invisible foe. My jaw tightened as the motions became sharper, more violent.
Even in this new world, this different life, I can still feel it—that pain. It’s not just a memory. It’s a splinter, buried deep, festering in places I can’t reach.
I stepped back, feinting an imaginary counterattack, my movements sharp but controlled. Yet, inside, there was chaos.
I’m not delusional. I know I’m behaving like a lunatic. Obsessing. Plotting. Preparing for wars that haven’t even started. My grip on the hilt tightened, my knuckles white as I brought the blade down in a heavy strike. The vibration traveled up my arm, grounding me for a moment.
I exhaled slowly, lowering the sword. My chest heaved with exertion. My aura, faint and still immature, pulsed faintly around me like an uneasy shadow.
I shifted my stance and began again, this time slower, more deliberate. My movements weren’t just a training exercise—they were a dialogue with myself.
The violence of my death was fresh when I woke up here. My body may have changed, but my mind hasn’t forgotten. And what did I decide? More violence. Violence in order. Violence as the solution.
I let the blade hover in the air for a moment before sweeping it forward, cutting through a low-hanging branch. The branch fell, and I caught it mid-air, examining its texture as if it held answers. It didn’t. I tossed it aside and resumed my drills.
My feet moved through the leaf-strewn forest floor with practiced precision, crunching softly against the undergrowth. The sword became an extension of me—of my thoughts, my emotions, my rage.
It’s not just the betrayal that haunts me. It’s the way it rewired me. Every interaction is suspect. Every smile hides a blade. And yet, I can’t stop. I don’t know how to stop. Trust is a luxury I don’t think I’ll ever afford again.
I paused, the tip of the blade resting against the ground. My shoulders slumped for a moment, but only a moment. Then I straightened, rolling my neck to shake off the tension.
But that’s the irony, isn’t it? Trust may be gone, but this paranoia? This vigilance? It’s kept me alive. I’ve traded my humanity for survival.
I stepped forward again, my blade rising in an arc before twisting into a reverse slash. The movements became smoother, the rhythm almost hypnotic. My breathing steadied, and I found myself sinking deeper into the practice, my thoughts sharpening with each strike.
This… this is my meditation. My rebellion against the chaos in my head. The blade moves, and I find a sliver of peace in its simplicity. It’s not about the violence—it’s about control. Control over my body, my mind, my choices. A way to ground myself in this cursed world.
The sword cut through the air one last time, and I stopped, planting the blade into the dirt. My chest rose and fell with measured breaths.
I stared at the trees around me, their towering forms a silent witness to my struggle. My hands relaxed on the hilt, and for the first time in what felt like hours, I allowed myself to just be.
I may never heal from what was done to me, but I can adapt. I can build something new from the ashes of the old.
With that thought, I wiped the blade clean against my tunic and sheathed it. The forest still felt hostile, the shadows too deep and too quiet. But for now, I had claimed a moment of clarity.
And in this world, clarity was as precious as gold.