Unbeknownst to the people who've hid in the confines of their home, the sparks were lit and the fireworks flew, lighting the sky with a myriad of colours contrasting the dullness the war drew. It was like a fountain; the water to their well.
Pops and bangs ruptured the night sky, ushering relief to their ears that they needn't live in silence and marches of the fighting bands.
The bright light of the missiles blew warmth to their hearts they never thought could be felt again.
But it was because of the hearts of the believers, that this was possible.
The final day of the 500th year since the discovery of Magic won't go down in sorrow and silence.
The bells rang, the horses neighed, the wind brushed by and the calm waves swayed. For this was not a day to be forgotten, but to be remembered.
The tragedies of history never stood a chance,—so long as people strived for a better tomorrow.
[Magic Day].
But one man stood alone on top of an old tower, its walls stern but tattered, mossy and dark.
The warmth of the missiles never reached him, nor did the lights that shimmered hope to the hearts of all.
He stood alone against the dark and cold wind, and he wasn't interested in joining them.
With the crimson red gem strapped in a necklace held tightly in his hand, his boiling blood warmed his body more than fire ever could.
There he swore;
To the wind and the light,
The sky and the gods of night,
The torrent and the sea of fright
The earth and the realm of might,
That he will take back what is his.
Through triumph and defeat,
He will always plant the seed,
One chapter ends; another one dawns… but not all rise with the light.