Chapter 1: The Weight of Light
The Blizzard of Aethelgard did not just freeze the body; it froze the soul.
Elian dragged his steel-plated boots through the knee-deep snow, his breath forming thick, ragged clouds in the freezing air. His crimson cape, once a symbol of the Royal Vanguard, was now torn and stained with dried, black blood. Beside him walked Kaelen, a rogue scout from the Southern Isles, whose usually sharp, joking demeanor had been silenced by the brutal cold and the looming shadow of the ruins ahead.
"We shouldn't be here, Elian," Kaelen muttered, his teeth chattering as he pulled his fur cloak tighter around his thin frame. "The Temple of the Sunken Crown has been cursed since Malakor shattered the earth. Nothing lives here but echoes and death."
Elian didn't stop walking. His silver greatsword, strapped to his back, felt heavier with every step, but the physical pain was a welcome distraction from the agonizing ache in his chest.
"I didn't ask you to follow me, Kaelen," Elian replied, his voice rough as sandpaper. "You can turn back. The bounty on my head doesn't extend to you."
"And let you die alone? Not a chance," Kaelen sighed, though his eyes darted nervously toward the jagged obsidian pillars rising from the snow in the distance.
Elian ignored the scout's anxiety. He reached beneath his heavy breastplate, his numb fingers finding the delicate silver locket resting against his heart. As he touched it, a faint, warm pulse of light beat against his palm. It was a remnant of Lyra.
Just touching the metal plunged Elian back into a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.
***
The memory struck him like a physical blow.
It was the night the sky rained green fire over Oakhaven. The village, once a paradise of golden wheat fields and endless laughter, was burning. Elian, then just a young knight in training, was fighting desperately alongside Thorne, the seasoned Captain of the Guard.
"Hold the line!" Thorne had roared, his broadsword clashing against the jagged scythe of a Shadow Fiend. But Thorne's command was cut short as a spear of dark magic pierced his chest, turning the brave captain to ash in seconds.
Panic had consumed Elian. He fought his way through the screaming crowds, his eyes searching frantically for one person. Lyra.
He found her near the village square. Lyra, with her auburn hair flowing like liquid fire, was standing between a group of terrified children and the towering, terrifying figure of Malakor, the Abyssal Lord. Malakor's laugh had chilled the air. "A Weaver of Light," the demon hissed, his voice like grinding stones. "How beautifully fragile."
"Lyra, no!" Elian had screamed, sprinting toward her. He raised his sword, ready to strike down the demon, but a wave of dark energy slammed into him, breaking his ribs and throwing him against a stone wall. He was paralyzed, choking on his own blood.
Lyra had turned to look at him. Even amidst the fire and death, her eyes held the same gentle, profound love that had saved Elian from his own darkness years ago. She didn't look at the demon. She only looked at him.
"I will always be your dawn, Elian," she whispered. Her voice bypassed his ears and echoed directly in his soul.
With a heartbreaking smile, Lyra unleashed the entirety of her life force. A blinding, pure white explosion of magic erupted from her body. It created an impenetrable dome of light over the surviving villagers and Elian, but it consumed her entirely. The last thing Elian saw before passing out was the love of his life dissolving into glowing embers to keep him safe.
***
"Elian! Snap out of it!"
Kaelen's urgent shout yanked Elian back to the freezing reality of Aethelgard.
They had reached the courtyard of the ruined temple. The air here was unnaturally still, smelling of sulfur and ancient rot.
"We have company," Kaelen whispered, drawing twin jagged daggers from his belt.
From the shadows of the shattered temple doors, a colossal figure emerged. It was Vorgath, a Beast-General of Malakor's army. The creature was a grotesque fusion of wolf and dragon, standing fifteen feet tall, with obsidian scales that seemed to swallow the dim moonlight. Its eyes burned with a sickly, toxic green fire.
"A Vanguard knight..." Vorgath's voice echoed in their minds, dripping with malice. "I smell the stench of Oakhaven on you. I smell the Light-Weaver's pathetic magic."
The mention of Lyra was the spark that ignited the powder keg inside Elian. The crushing weight of sorrow, the years of sleepless nights, the excruciating pain of waking up every day without her—it all twisted into a singular, razor-sharp focus of pure, unadulterated rage.
"Kaelen," Elian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Stay back."
Elian drew his greatsword. As the heavy steel cleared its scabbard, he unclasped the locket from his neck and wrapped the silver chain tightly around his armored fist.
"You die today, human," Vorgath roared, lunging forward with jaws wide enough to crush a boulder.
Elian didn't flinch. He channeled his grief into the locket. The tiny crystal inside flared to life, sending a surge of blinding, pure white magic up Elian's arm and into the blade of his sword. The weapon ignited with a fire hotter than the sun—Lyra's fire.
"You took my heart," Elian roared, sprinting directly at the towering beast. Tears mixed with the freezing wind on his face. "Now, I take your head!"
He leapt into the air, his burning blade illuminating the dark, cursed ruins, ready to unleash the wrath of a man who had nothing left to lose but a promise.