The wind draped the plains of Illyria in a shroud of gray.
The sky seemed ready to whisper a secret it had guarded for centuries.
That morning, the sun did not rise — for there was no sun left to rise.
Darkness had settled into the heart of the world.
In that fragile moment between night and dawn, even silence dared not breathe.
And in that moment, Moaito slept — but only his body.
His soul drifted beyond the veil of dreams, drawn by an echo calling from afar.
He found himself within an endless void.
There was no sky, no earth — only echo.
In the distance, two lights emerged:
one pure and white like the surface of a still lake,
the other black as an endless shadow.
Their balance was so delicate that if one were to breathe, the other would cease to exist.
At the point where the lights met, a sword appeared — double-edged,
one side shining with the essence of light,
the other cloaked in the silence of shadow.
The sword made no sound, yet a whisper echoed within Moaito's mind.
"Can you hear us, Moaito?"
"When the time comes, you will find us."
The voice of the blades was not a human voice.
It was more like the heartbeat of the world itself —
the murmur of earth, water, air, and fire speaking in their own tongue.
Moaito reached out, but his fingers dissolved into the mist of the dream.
And then, all turned into a dark light —
and within that light, he opened his eyes.
Morning had come.
Yet the sun still refused to rise.
It was as if night itself would not abandon these lands.
He sat upright in his cabin by the edge of the forest.
His breath came out in mist, his forehead damp with sweat.
A restless unease coiled around his heart.
The whisper from his dream still lingered in his mind:
"Come."
He stepped across the threshold.
The wind brushed his face, yet the forest was utterly silent.
No birds. No insects. Not even the rustle of leaves.
It was as though nature itself was holding its breath.
Moaito's heart pounded.
Were the swords from his dream real?
Or merely an echo born at the edge of madness?
To the north of the village stood a temple —
the Temple of the Devoured Light —
a place even the Naje people dared not approach.
It was said to be where gods once spoke,
but now, only the wind dared to enter.
Before he realized it, his steps had turned toward that direction.
He could not stop himself;
as if an unseen hand was pulling him forward.
With every step, the forest grew darker, the mist thicker.
The ground softened beneath him,
ancient stones peeking through tangled roots.
When he reached the temple, the air shifted.
The stones were damp, covered in moss,
and from the center of the ruins, a colossal tree had grown.
Cracks lined its trunk, and from within them, a pale light seeped.
As Moaito approached, his knees nearly gave way.
The light — it was the same one from his dream.
The voice of the blades returned, closer this time:
"The echo of time has awakened."
"Awaken us."
The cracks within the tree widened.
The light flared.
The stone walls trembled.
Roots burst from the earth, twisting upward.
A vortex of light and darkness intertwined.
And from within that storm, two blades emerged —
one forged in light, the other sealed in shadow.
The swords spun through the air,
and with each rotation, the wind ceased,
time itself seemed to halt.
Moaito reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the metal,
a surge of power roared through his veins.
But it was not a power meant for him — it was consuming him.
The temple quaked.
Stones tore free from the ground.
The energy from the blades split the earth, shattered the roots,
and made the forest tremble.
Moaito tried to pull away,
but his hands would not let go.
A scream echoed — not human,
but filled with pain.
Darkness swallowed the light.
And then, silence.
When he opened his eyes again, the tree was still.
The swords were gone.
Only a pale mark remained upon his hands —
a wound where light and shadow had once touched.
Moaito fell to his knees.
A faint hum filled his skull,
and a whisper stirred within his chest:
"You have awakened us.
The balance will be reborn."
And then, he heard footsteps in the distance.
From within the mist, a silhouette emerged —
a woman with a bow in her hand and a torn cloak over her shoulders.
He would later learn her name: Sere.
But at that moment, one truth burned in Moaito's mind:
Nothing would ever be the same again.