The sky itself bowed.
Nikelan Aureflame stood at the heart of the Convergence Plains, where the boundaries between the three great domains blurred into neutral ground. Around him, thousands had gathered. Dragons with scales that caught the dying light, elves whose ancient eyes held the weight of millennia, humans whose short lives burned twice as bright in their fervor. All had come to witness what had not been seen in over a thousand years.
The choosing of a Balancer.
He cut a figure that made poets weep and warriors question their worth. Seven feet of refined power wrapped in humanoid perfection, every line of his form spoke of strength tempered by grace. Crimson hair fell past his shoulders like cascading fire, framing features so distinguished they seemed carved by a master sculptor who understood beauty as a weapon. His eyes, those damned eyes, burned the same deep crimson, holding depths that promised either salvation or damnation depending on which side of his judgment you stood.
Temptation made flesh. Desire given form. That"s what the whispers called him, and they weren"t wrong.
But it wasn"t his beauty that had brought the realm to its knees today. It was his power.
The heavens cracked open.
Reality peeled back like parchment before flame, and from the wound in existence itself, it descended. The Realm Core. A sphere of crystallized destiny no larger than a human heart, yet containing within it the very essence of the Middle Realm. It pulsed with light that existed in colors unnamed, power that transcended mortal comprehension.
It had judged every worthy candidate across three races. It had tested them in ways that left dragons broken, elves hollow, humans mad. Trials of strength, wisdom, sacrifice, will. Most failed at the first. Some made it to the second. A precious few reached the third.
Nikelan had passed them all.
The Core descended slowly, as if savoring the moment, trailing motes of pure creation in its wake. The gathered masses held their breath. Even the wind stilled, as though the world itself waited.
It stopped before Nikelan"s chest, hovering at heart level.
He extended his hand, long fingers, refined knuckles, the hand of an artist or a killer, and the Core drifted forward. The moment his palm made contact, the universe screamed in ecstasy.
Power erupted.
Light consumed everything. Not the warm light of the sun or the cold gleam of the moon, but something primal. The light of creation itself, of stars being born and worlds taking their first breath. It poured into Nikelan in a torrent that would have atomized a lesser being, rewriting every fiber of his existence with celestial fire.
His crimson eyes blazed brighter, becoming twin suns. His hair whipped in winds that existed only in the space between moments. The ground beneath his feet cracked, not from force but from sheer presence, from the weight of what he was becoming.
The Core sank into his chest, merging with his very soul.
When the light finally faded, Nikelan stood unchanged yet utterly transformed. He looked the same, still that impossible beauty, that devastating form, but the air around him sang with barely contained divinity. Every breath he took resonated with the realm itself. His existence had become synonymous with the Middle Realm"s survival.
The first to kneel was Dragomir, the ancient dragon whose scales had dulled with age but whose pride remained diamond-hard. When he lowered his massive head, when he who had sworn to bow to none pressed his snout to the ground before this being who wore the face of youth, the rest followed.
Dragons folded wings and bent necks. Elves, those proud immortals, placed palms over hearts and lowered their heads. Humans dropped to both knees, some weeping openly at the sheer honor of witnessing this moment.
"Rise," Nikelan said, and his voice carried across the plains without effort, warm as summer wine and commanding as thunder. "I am not your master. I am your shield."
He turned slowly, letting his gaze sweep across the gathered masses. "The Middle Realm has granted me the honor of its protection. I accept this burden gladly. But know this. I seek no dominion over you. I desire no conflict unless conflict desires us first. What I offer is simple: peace. Time for your children to grow without fear. Space for your dreams to flourish without the shadow of annihilation."
His crimson eyes seemed to look at each of them individually, seeing into their very souls. "I will stand between this realm and anything that threatens it. This I vow on my name, on my blood, on the Core that beats now in time with my heart."
He placed his fist over his chest, over where the Core had merged. "Let this be an age of prosperity. Let this be an age of harmony. Let this be an age where we remember what it means to simply live."
The cheers that followed shook the foundations of mountains.
And so began the Age of Peace.
‐‐‐
Two hundred and seventeen years.
That"s how long the dream lasted.
Nikelan had kept his word. The realm flourished under his guardianship in ways that historians would struggle to capture in mere words. It wasn"t just the absence of war, it was the presence of something greater. Hope. Joy. The simple pleasure of existence without the constant weight of survival.
The dragons, always the most territorial of the three races, found themselves with the luxury of focusing on art and philosophy rather than border disputes. Their hoards grew not with plundered gold but with knowledge, with beauty, with experiences worth treasuring. Some even began teaching the other races their ancient secrets, something that would have been unthinkable in any other age.
The elves emerged from their forests more frequently, their isolationist tendencies softening as they realized the world had become something worth engaging with. They shared their mastery of natural magic, their understanding of the realm"s deeper rhythms. Elven music once again filled human cities, and human innovation began incorporating elven wisdom.
The humans, blessed and cursed with their brief lives, exploded with creativity. No longer needing to spend every generation rebuilding from the last war, they built wonders that touched the sky. Their cities became centers of culture where all three races mingled freely. A human child might learn swordplay from a dragon warrior while an elven sage taught her brother the songs that made flowers bloom.
And over it all, Nikelan watched.
He rarely interfered directly. His presence alone was enough, the knowledge that if danger came, he would be there. He mediated the occasional dispute, his wisdom and fairness becoming legendary. He sealed dimensional rifts before they could become problems, his power making such threats trivial.
He was often found in his sanctuary atop Mount Aurelion, a place where the sky seemed closer and the realm"s heartbeat could be felt most clearly. Sometimes he would stand at the peak for days, crimson hair dancing in winds that never touched the ground below, simply watching his realm thrive.
Other times he walked among his people. He had a fondness for human taverns, for the raw honest emotion that flowed as freely as the ale. Dragons sought his counsel on matters of honor and legacy. Elves engaged him in philosophical debates that could last weeks, delighted to finally find a mind that could match their immortal perspectives.
He was not a distant god. He was present. Real. And perhaps that was his greatest gift, not his power, but his accessibility. Children knew his name before they knew their letters. Lovers invoked his blessing. Warriors trained with his example burning in their hearts.
The realm grew comfortable in its safety.
And Nikelan, if he was honest with himself during those long nights atop his mountain, grew comfortable in his supremacy.
Within the Middle Realm, he was invincible. The Realm Core beat in his chest, making him one with the very fabric of existence here. He could feel every corner of his domain, could traverse from one end to the other in heartbeats if needed. His power here was absolute, his authority unquestionable.
Minor threats came occasionally. Weak creatures attempting to slip through the barriers between realms, desperate beings fleeing their own worlds. He dealt with them effortlessly, often with nothing more than a gesture. It never took more than a fraction of his power.
He had no equals here. No rivals. No one who could push him, challenge him, force him to grow beyond what he already was.
And so he didn"t.
Why would he? He was the Balancer. He was enough. He had always been enough.
The realm loved him for his strength. He loved the realm for giving him purpose. It was perfect. Sustainable. Eternal.
Two hundred and seventeen years of perfect peace.
And then the sky began to scream.
‐‐‐
Nikelan felt it before he saw it.
He was in the Verdant Reach, the great forest that marked the border between elf and human domains, sharing wine with Lord Theron and his wife who had just announced her pregnancy. The celebration was warm, intimate, the kind of moment that made two centuries of guardianship worthwhile.
Then his chest constricted.
The Realm Core, usually a steady warm presence synchronized with his heartbeat, suddenly lurched. It wasn"t pain, it was wrongness. Like a musical note that existed half a tone off from reality, grating against the very concept of harmony.
Nikelan stood abruptly, his wine glass falling forgotten from his hand. His crimson eyes blazed, seeing beyond the physical, beyond the present moment, reaching out with senses that spanned the entire Middle Realm.
There.
The Northern Wastes, where even dragons rarely ventured, where the barriers between realms grew thin and unstable. Something was tearing through.
"Nikelan?" Theron"s voice seemed distant, concerned. "What"s wrong?"
But Nikelan was already gone, his form dissolving into crimson light that shot skyward like a reverse meteor, crossing a thousand miles in seconds.
He materialized above the Wastes just as the sky broke.
It wasn"t a portal. He"d seen countless portals in his time, clean tears in reality that opened and closed with natural rhythm. This was a wound. Reality didn"t just tear, it screamed, peeling back in layers that revealed something underneath that shouldn"t exist. Colors that had no names writhed in the gap. Dimensions folded in on themselves in ways that made even his celestial-enhanced mind struggle to comprehend.
And through it stepped something that made every instinct Nikelan possessed howl in warning.
The being that emerged wore humanoid shape the way a mask wears a face, technically correct but fundamentally wrong. It was tall, perhaps matching Nikelan"s own seven feet, but its proportions shifted subtly as it moved, as if it existed across multiple states of reality simultaneously. Its form seemed solid yet somehow hollow, present yet absent, there yet not entirely there.
It had no face. Or rather, it had too many faces, each one flickering across its featureless surface so quickly that the eye could never quite catch one. Human, elf, dragon, and things Nikelan had no names for, all cycling in impossible succession.
But its eyes, those it kept constant. Black as the void between stars, depthless and hungry, they fixed on Nikelan with an intelligence that was utterly alien yet terrifyingly sharp.
The realm itself recoiled from this being"s presence. The air turned cold despite the Wastes" natural heat. Frost crawled across sand. The barrier between realms, already thin here, began to crack further simply from proximity to this thing.
Nikelan felt the Realm Core in his chest pulse with something he"d never felt from it before.
Fear.
"Leave," Nikelan said, his voice carrying absolute authority, the command of the Balancer echoing with the realm"s own power. "This place is under my protection. Return to whatever void spawned you, or I will unmake you."
The being"s head tilted, that non-face rippling with amusement or curiosity or perhaps hunger. Nikelan couldn"t tell. When it spoke, its voice came from everywhere and nowhere, a sound that seemed to bypass ears entirely and resonate directly in the mind.
"Balancer. How quaint. Your realm has chosen well. Such power. Such presence."
It took a step forward, and reality bent around its foot like cloth around a weight.
"I am called Azhrael, though names mean little where I originate. I have crossed barriers that would shred your mind to witness, burned through the spaces between existence itself, all to reach this place. Do you know why?"
Its void-black eyes fixed on Nikelan"s chest, where the Core pulsed beneath flesh and bone.
"That. The heart of your realm. The crystallized essence of an entire dimension. In my world, we call such things Anchors. They are valuable beyond your comprehension. Treasures worth dying for. Worth killing for."
Nikelan"s expression hardened, his crimson eyes blazing brighter. Power began to leak from him, visible as distortions in the air, as reality struggling to contain the magnitude of what he was.
"You will not touch the Core. You will not harm this realm. Final warning. Leave, or fall."
Azhrael"s laugh was the sound of civilizations collapsing, of stars dying, of hope turning to ash.
"Such confidence. But tell me, little Balancer, have you ever fought something from outside your realm? Have you ever tested your vaunted power against something that doesn"t exist within the rules of your reality?"
It spread its arms wide, and darkness poured from its form like smoke, like oil, like liquid night given substance.
"No. I can see it in your eyes. You have been supreme here for so long that you have forgotten what it means to face true danger. You are a god in a pond, mighty Balancer. Let me show you the ocean."
Nikelan didn"t respond with words.
He moved.
One moment he stood a hundred feet away. The next, his fist was buried in Azhrael"s chest with enough force to shatter mountains. The impact created a shockwave that turned sand to glass for miles in every direction, a boom that echoed across the entire Northern Wastes.
But Azhrael didn"t shatter. Didn"t even stagger.
It looked down at Nikelan"s fist, then back up at his face with those terrible void eyes.
"Impressive. That would have destroyed anything native to your realm. But I am not of your realm, little god."
Its hand shot out, faster than Nikelan"s enhanced perception could track, and caught him by the throat.
The touch burned like ice and fire simultaneously, like existence and void trying to occupy the same space. Nikelan felt his power surge in response, the Realm Core flooding him with celestial energy. He grabbed Azhrael"s wrist and pulled, channeling enough force to tear continents apart.
Azhrael"s arm didn"t budge.
"Ah, there it is. That wonderful moment of realization. That first seed of doubt. Nurture it, Balancer. It will grow."
It threw Nikelan.
He became a crimson meteor, crossing the Wastes in a heartbeat before crashing into the Spine Mountains with force that triggered earthquakes across three domains. The impact crater was a half-mile wide, the mountain peak simply gone, erased by the magnitude of his landing.
Nikelan rose from the rubble, smoke rising from his form. His clothes were shredded, revealing skin that already bore bruises, something that shouldn"t have been possible. His crimson hair was wild, his eyes blazing with rage and, yes, a hint of something he hadn"t felt in over two centuries.
Uncertainty.
He thrust both hands forward, and the world obeyed. The Realm Core sang in his chest, and reality itself became his weapon. The rubble around him didn"t just rise, it transformed, becoming spears of crystallized space, blades of compressed time, projectiles made from the fundamental forces of existence itself.
They launched at Azhrael in a barrage that would have reduced an entire army to atoms.
Azhrael walked through it like rain.
The weapons that could unmake reality simply slid around it, or through it, or dissipated as if they"d never existed. The being didn"t dodge or block. It didn"t need to. It existed on a frequency the Middle Realm"s laws couldn"t quite touch.
"Your power is absolute within your realm," Azhrael said, still approaching with that leisurely pace. "The Core makes you one with this dimension. Here, you are indeed invincible to threats that originate here. But I? I am the knife from outside the sheath. The wind that blows from no direction. The color you have no name for."
Nikelan snarled and the temperature plummeted. Ice formed instantly, a glacier erupting from nothing to entomb Azhrael in millions of tons of frozen reality. Then fire, heat that could melt steel in seconds, turning the ice to steam and the steam to plasma.
Azhrael emerged unscathed, not even damp.
"Elemental fury. How primitive."
It raised a hand, and darkness coalesced. Not shadow, actual darkness, the absence of light and matter and existence itself. It formed into a spear of un-creation and launched at Nikelan.
He tried to dodge, but the spear curved mid-flight, seeking him like a living thing. It struck his shoulder and Nikelan screamed, actually screamed, for the first time in centuries. The pain wasn"t physical. It was worse. The spear was erasing him, deleting the very concept of that part of his existence.
The Realm Core surged in response, flooding the wound with regenerative power, fighting to restore what was being unmade. Slowly, agonizingly, his shoulder rebuilt itself.
But it took effort. It took time. Things that had never been necessary before.
"What are you?" Nikelan gasped, gripping his restored shoulder.
"I am what exists beyond your comfortable little reality. I am proof that your invincibility is an illusion, contingent on the boundaries of your realm. And I am here for that Core."
What followed was less a battle and more a lesson in humility written in blood and pain.
They fought across the Middle Realm. Nikelan used every trick, every technique, every ounce of the celestial power granted by the Core. He reshaped landscapes, commanded the very elements, bent reality to his will with the authority of the Balancer.
And none of it was enough.
Azhrael was stronger. Not by a little, by an order of magnitude that made mockery of Nikelan"s supremacy. Every blow Nikelan landed was shrugged off. Every technique he deployed was countered or ignored. The being from beyond fought with a casual efficiency that was more insulting than any taunt.
Days passed. Then weeks. The realm watched in growing horror as their invincible protector was slowly, methodically, broken.
The Crystalline Sea boiled and froze alternately as they clashed above its waters. The Forest of Whispers burned, ancient trees that had stood for millennia reduced to ash in the crossfire. Mountains fell. Rivers changed course. The sky itself bore scars, cracks in the firmament that leaked colors that shouldn"t exist.
The three races mobilized, their greatest warriors rushing to their Balancer"s aid. Dragons took flight, their combined might enough to level cities. Elven archmages wove spells of terrible beauty. Human armies marched with enchanted weapons.
None of them could even approach the battlefield without being obliterated by the sheer magnitude of power being thrown around.
Nikelan fought alone, as he had always been meant to. As he had always secretly preferred. And for the first time in his long existence, alone was not enough.
On the forty-third day, Azhrael caught him.
They were in the ruins of what had been the Silver Spire, humanity"s greatest city, now evacuated and half-destroyed by their battle. Nikelan had pushed himself beyond his limits, channeling so much power from the Realm Core that his very existence was starting to fray at the edges.
Azhrael"s hand closed around his throat again, and this time there was no escape.
"You fought well," the being said, almost respectful. "Better than most Balancers I"ve encountered in other realms. You have heart, little dragon. You have will. But you lack the one thing that would have made a difference."
"What?" Nikelan managed to gasp out, his crimson eyes still blazing with defiance even as his power waned.
"Perspective. You have been the strongest in your realm for so long that you forgot there was anything beyond your realm. You never sought to grow because you never encountered anything that required growth. Supremacy made you comfortable."
Azhrael"s free hand reached forward, pressing against Nikelan"s chest. Against where the Realm Core pulsed with weakening rhythm.
"You were the biggest fish in a small pond, and you were content with that. But the ocean is vast, Balancer, and full of things that would eat you whole. Remember that in whatever comes next."
Nikelan tried to resist, channeling every last particle of power he possessed. The Realm Core blazed in his chest, fighting to remain bonded to its chosen guardian. Reality screamed in protest as two fundamental forces warred within Nikelan"s body, the Core that defined him, and the void-touched hand trying to extract it.
But Azhrael was relentless. Unstoppable. Inevitable.
With a sound like reality breaking, like a heart being torn from a chest, the Realm Core was ripped free.
Nikelan convulsed, his scream echoing across dimensions. The pain was beyond physical, beyond spiritual, it was the pain of being severed from his very purpose, from the source of meaning that had defined his existence for over two centuries.
The Core emerged from his chest in Azhrael"s hand, still pulsing with light, still fighting to return to its Balancer. But Azhrael"s grip was iron, and the Core"s struggles grew weaker with each passing moment.
Nikelan fell, no longer supported by the being"s grasp. He hit the rubble-strewn ground hard, his body now merely physical, the celestial power that had elevated him draining away like water through cupped hands.
Above him, holding the stolen Core, Azhrael examined its prize with those terrible void eyes.
"Magnificent. Worth every barrier crossed, every dimension traversed. With this, I can..."
It paused, looking down at Nikelan"s crumpled form with something that might have been curiosity.
"You yet live. Remarkable. Most Balancers die the moment the Core is removed. Your tenacity is admirable."
Azhrael turned toward the wound in reality that still gaped in the northern sky, the portal through which it had arrived.
"I would end you properly, but you"re already dying. Your realm is already falling. Consider this mercy. You will perish knowing you were simply insufficient. But take comfort. You were defeated by something beyond your capacity to resist. There is no shame in falling to the inevitable."
It began to walk toward the portal, toward escape, leaving Nikelan broken and bleeding on the shattered stones of what had been a city he"d sworn to protect.
The realm trembled.
Without the Core, the barriers that separated the Middle Realm from the infinite chaos beyond began to collapse. Rifts opened across the world, small at first, but growing. Things began to slip through. Twisted creatures, mindless and hungry, what would later be called Chimeras. The beginning of two thousand years of chaos.
But Nikelan saw none of this. His vision was fading, his crimson eyes dimming for the first time in centuries. Blood, actual blood, mortal blood, pooled beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He was dying.
And in the encroaching darkness, his mind raced.
How? How did I lose? I was the Balancer. I was chosen. I was perfect for this.
But he knew the answer. Azhrael had spoken truth. Comfortable. He"d grown comfortable. Supreme within his realm, unchallenged and unchallenging himself. He"d spent two centuries maintaining peace rather than preparing for war. He"d been a guardian, not a warrior.
He"d been invincible in his realm.
And that had made him weak.
If only I had known. If I could have prepared. If I could have trained beyond my realm"s boundaries. If I could have understood that being the strongest here meant nothing against threats from beyond.
His thoughts spiraled as darkness closed in.
If I could do it again I would be different. I would be ready. I would be...
No.
The thought crystallized with sudden, burning clarity.
I WILL do it again.
Something ignited in Nikelan"s chest. Not the Realm Core, that was gone. But something else. Something primal. Not the power of a Balancer but the will of a dragon who refused to accept this ending.
His crimson eyes blazed once more, bright enough to push back the shadows.
He was dying. That was inevitable. But death didn"t have to be the end.
Nikelan had spent over two centuries as the Balancer, with access to the Realm Core"s knowledge. He"d glimpsed secrets of reality that would drive lesser minds mad. He knew magic that had been lost before the current races were born. And in his studies, in his moments of idle curiosity during those long peaceful years, he"d stumbled across ancient texts, forbidden knowledge, spells that dealt with the ultimate taboo.
Rebirth.
Not resurrection, that was crude, often leaving the soul damaged and the mind broken. Not reincarnation, that was too random, leaving too much to chance. But true Rebirth. The art of dying while ensuring your return, of planting the seeds of your next existence even as the current one faded.
It was theoretical. None had ever successfully completed such a spell. The requirements were too steep, vast amounts of power, perfect understanding of your own soul, and most critically, the willingness to sacrifice everything in the attempt.
Nikelan had all of those things. Or at least, he had the remnants of the first, enough of the second, and absolutely the third.
His fingers began to move, etching symbols in his own blood. His lips formed words in languages that predated the three races. Every remaining scrap of his power, every last ember of celestial energy still clinging to his fading existence, he poured into the weaving.
I will return, he swore, each word of the spell binding his intention into reality. I will be reborn when the realm needs me most. I will come back with the knowledge of my failure to fuel my growth.
He wove safeguards into the spell, mechanisms to recover his memories and skills as his new self grew stronger, progressive unlocks tied to milestones of power. He would grow as he had before, but with purpose, with direction, with the memory of his defeat driving him to heights he"d never reached in this life.
I will return ready. I will return stronger. I will return...
Pain lanced through him as the spell neared completion. This magic was never meant to be cast by someone dying, let alone someone whose soul was still connected to the now-stolen Realm Core. The backlash was enormous, tearing at his very essence.
But Nikelan didn"t stop. Couldn"t stop. He"d lost everything. His power, his realm, his purpose. This spell was all he had left. This desperate, reckless gamble that he could cheat death itself and return to fix his failures.
Let me be reborn, he commanded reality itself, his will burning bright enough to momentarily eclipse the pain. Not as I was, but as I need to be. Let me return to...
The spell was almost complete. Just one more component. Just one more...
His consciousness flickered. The darkness surged. He was out of time.
In his planning, in his careful weaving of the rebirth magic, Nikelan had intended to specify exactly how he would return. What form, what circumstances, what advantages to ensure his new existence would be positioned for success.
But there was no time. No power left. The spell was incomplete.
So he made a choice that would echo across two millennia.
He released control.
Let the realm decide, he thought, letting go of his carefully laid plans. Let fate choose. Let me be reborn however I must to save this world. I don"t care how. I don"t care when. I don"t care what form I take.
Just let me have another chance.
The spell ignited.
His blood glowed, the symbols he"d drawn consuming his essence and translating it into pure potential. His soul began to fragment, pieces of his consciousness, his skills, his memories, being encoded into magical structures that would persist beyond death.
The pain was exquisite. Unbearable. He was being unmade at the most fundamental level, his existence being rendered down to its base components and prepared for reformation.
His last coherent thought as Nikelan Aureflame, the Dragon Lord, the Balancer, the apex of his race was simple:
I will return. And when I do, nothing from outside or within will take this realm from me again. I swear it on my name, on my blood, on the ashes of my failure.
I will be stronger.
The spell completed.
His soul shattered into fragments of light, scattering across time and space, seeking anchor points in the realm"s future. His body crumbled to ash. His existence erased itself from the present moment.
Nikelan Aureflame died.
In the ruins of Silver Spire, where the greatest battle in Middle Realm history had reached its tragic conclusion, there was nothing left but bloodstains and a lingering sense of something monumental having ended.
The realm mourned.
And in mourning, began its long descent into chaos.