The Scorching Ravines burned like the mouth of an ancient god.
Molten rivers carved black scars through the earth, their glow painting the sky in blood-red hues. Ash swirled in the air, coating every breath in grit and heat. Here, the Pyrodran race had bled for centuries...flames feeding flames until even the rocks learned to burn.
Bodies littered the ground. Some still twitched, steam curling from their wounds. The smell of scorched flesh hung heavy, too thick to ignore.
Kael Verilion leaned against a cracked pillar, breath ragged, blood soaking into the dragonsteel mail that barely clung to his charred skin. Once, he had worn it as a prince of flame. Now, it was a coffin waiting to close.
Three royal bodyguards of the royal family of Redale, his blood-kin—encircled him like carrion birds. Their spears gleamed with residual heat.
"You were born without flame," one sneered, his voice cruel and mockingly, as if rehearsed.
"A prince in name only, living in the shadows of others. Even the lava refuses to burn for you."
Kael's lip curled. "Then kill me and be done with it."
The spears shifted forward—
Crack.
The heat shifted. The Ravines fell quiet.
From the edge of the battlefield, a figure stepped into view. Tall. Wrapped in a darkness that bent the light around it. His eyes glimmered faintly, like dying stars staring from a void.
'Vael'Zaryt.'
One cousin scoffed. "A lesser demon? You dare walk into the holy land of Redale?"
Vael'Zaryt didn't answer. His hand simply moved..slow, deliberate—toward the hilt of a black-forged blade.
The First Cut
The three guards lunged, flame wreathing their weapons, air screaming under the force of their strikes.
Vael'Zaryt moved.
Not with fury. Not with flourish. But with a stillness so perfect, it was almost unnatural.
The sword left its sheath without a sound.
"Form I – Whisper of Ruin" Vael'Zaryt gently spoke.
A diagonal slash, faster than the blink of an eye. The spear, the arm behind it, and the fire they carried– reduced to drifting ash before the scream could leave the attacker's throat.
Kael's eyes widened. "That's… not a demonic art. That's a divine art."
The second the other two guards roared, summoning a pillar of fire that split the ground.
Vael'Zaryt slid aside, letting the molten blade miss by inches.
Then he called forth, "Second form – Crescent Breaker"
A low, sweeping cut that shattered the attacker's stance, folding both legs at the knees. The guard tumbled backward into the lava, that was melt the ground from the heat of the attack. The hiss of flesh boiling was drowned out by the steam.
The last bodyguard faltered, terror cracking his voice. "What are you?", that moment, all he could see was his death—flashing before his eyes all his memories.
Vael'Zaryt answered with a strike.
"Third form – Black Finale".
The blade came down like judgment, breaking the enemy's shield in one breath and his body in the next. Blood hissed on the hot stone.
After the Silence
Only Kael remained standing—if leaning on what strength he had left counted as standing. He looked at his savior with eyes, as if seeing a nightmare wearing flesh.
"You fight… like you've killed gods," Kael muttered.
Vael'Zaryt's eyes met his. Empty. Uninterested.
"I didn't ask for your help," Kael forced out.
Vael'Zaryt flicked the blood from his sword. "Then die faster next time."
Kael's jaw tightened. "You're a selfish bastard."
"I've heard worse."
"…I want strength," Kael said after a pause. "Take me under you. But when I'm stronger—I'll leave."
Vael almost smiled. "Try not to die."
He turned away, walking toward the burning horizon. Kael's legs trembled, but he followed.
In his mind, he swore he'd surpass that shadow.
But deep beneath the oath, another truth gnawed at him—one he would never speak aloud.
Why does someone so broken… look like the the one being, I always wanted to be?