It began with the birds.
At dawn, the skies over Abhokai were usually dotted with golden-winged striders—long-feathered avians that drifted between the skybridges, singing as they passed over shimmering towers. But this morning, the skies were still. Not a single call. Not a single wingbeat.
The birds had vanished.
Ethan Valtaris stood on the sparring platform beneath the Flamecourts, sweat clinging to his pale skin. His damp sandy-blond hair stuck to his forehead, and faint, barely-visible stripes of gold and blue pulsed dimly beneath the skin of his upper back. Not glowing. Breathing.
He held a training blade loosely in both hands, resetting his stance.
Across from him, his best friend and sparring partner, Kaiser Ortega, circled slowly. The same age as Ethan—nineteen—but far more imposing, Kaiser had bronze skin etched with training scars, short dark braids swept to one side, and the confident build of someone who knew how to break bones.
"You're off," Kaiser said, rotating his polearm. "Too much breakfast?"
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "No. The air's just... wrong."
"You always say that when I'm about to win."
They moved.
Blades collided. Sparks scattered. The rhythm of war training echoed through the sunlit sky-terrace—but Ethan's attention wavered.
Something beneath his skin was pulsing. Not mana. Not fatigue. Something alien. Something he never experienced before.
Mid-swing, he froze.
Beyond the city's edge, far past the towers, a thin, gray line hung in the sky.
Perfectly straight. Unmoving. Silent.
---
Elsewhere, within the Astral Library's forbidden wing, Emilia Valtaris ran her gloved fingers over a tome that bled ink.
Pale-haired, sharp-eyed, draped in scholar's robes laced with sigils of old, the elder Valtaris sister was no stranger to cursed artifacts. But this tome refused to stay readable—glyphs rearranged themselves, meanings collapsed, and the pages hissed with a scent like burning metal.
A scrying orb nearby blinked violently.
Then it whispered.
Not in words.
In concepts.
Something was about to rupture.
---
Later that night, Ethan stood alone in the bathhouse. Steam curled beneath marble columns. Lamps flickered.
He dropped his tunic.
Five.
Five golden-blue stripes ran across his white skin—ribcage, spine, arm. Each one faint, yet unmistakably alive.
He touched one. It pulsed beneath his fingers.
The lights dimmed.
And then a tear opened—not in the mirror, but in the very air.
A thin vertical crack. Bleeding faint smoke. Bending light.
A low hum filled the room.
Then—
> "We see you."
It wasn't a voice. It was presence. A whisper lodged directly in his thoughts.
Ethan stumbled back in horror.
The crack vanished.
He stood panting, chest heaving.
Then the horns sounded—one, then two, then a third.
A Rift breach.
Too early.
---
He ran.
Rushed through the citadel, past scrambling guards and crackling mana-beacons. He didn't stop until he burst into the Royal Sanctum, breathless, heart pounding.
Elicia Valtaris, his mother, stood waiting—already clad in partial armor over her white robes, her long pale hair tied back, golden eyes sharp as blades.
"Ethan?" she asked, crossing to him.
"I saw a tear," he gasped. "It opened—it spoke to me. It said my name."
Elicia froze. For a heartbeat, she only stared.
Then—boom.
The wall behind them shattered inward.
Creatures poured through—flesh warped, jaws split too wide, claws ripping through enchanted stone like parchment. Guards screamed. Mana-wards detonated.
Elicia stepped in front of Ethan, her arms raised.
A torrent of white fire vaporized the first wave. The air roared with heat. More followed.
Elsewhere in the city, Rift after Rift tore open—blood-rain and monsters flooding the towers and streets.
Abhokai was under siege.
And high above them, something else arrived.
A figure descended through the red-lit sky.
Eight feet tall.
Muscular. Humanoid. Ominous.
Its pale, tight-drawn skin rippled over corded muscle. Two jagged wings extended from its back. Its face bore no emotion—just hunger. And its sword—a massive, obsidian greatsword—buzzed with black anti-mana.
It landed on a shattered tower.
And stared.
Kaelor Valtaris, King of Abhokai, was already there.
In gleaming crimson war-plate, his black hair sweeping in the wind, his radiant blade ignited in his grasp, Kaelor didn't speak first.
The creature did.
In a cold, slow, whispering tone:
> "He watches me."
"Your boy. Ethan."
Kaelor's eyes widened. "What did you say?"
The creature grinned.
And said nothing.
Kaelor's rage exploded.
He launched at the creature like a meteor, sword glowing white-hot.
---
Their battle tore the city.
Kaelor fought like a storm made flesh—his strikes cracked spires, mana burning with divine clarity. He drove the creature through three towers in under thirty seconds.
But the creature laughed—gleeful, delighted.
Blood dripped from its chest. One wing half-shorn.
Still, it smiled.
It loved this.
Kaelor pressed harder, carving a glowing arc into its shoulder, blasting it through a wall of molten glass.
But in one slip—a twist, a faint stagger—the creature drove its massive blade into Kaelor's side.
The king bled. Still standing. Gritting his teeth, he held the blade in place, burning it with radiant energy.
"Why. My. Son?! What do you want from him?!" he snarled.
The creature only leaned close.
"He is marked."
Kaelor screamed in fury, and with a final surge of strength, he twisted his blade upward into the creature's chest—nearly severing its left arm.
But it grabbed his throat, shoved him back—and impaled him cleanly through the torso.
Blood burst from his mouth, but Kaelor didn't fall.
He turned his head toward the outer walls where his soldiers, his people, his children were still fighting and shouted with every last ounce of strength:
"PROTECT THE PEOPLE OF ABHOKAI! NO MATTER WHAT!"
The creature twisted the blade and yanked it free.
Kaelor's body dropped—radiant armor scorched and broken.
And above him, the Rift opened wider.
The sky bled red.
There was no stoping it now
---