The twin suns of Aetheris hung low on the horizon, their once-vivid light dimmed by a veil of ash and shadow. The world was dying. The air reeked of decay, and the land lay cracked and barren, a grim testament to the chaos that had consumed it.
Long ago, Aetheris was a realm of balance and prosperity. The Riftstones, ancient relics of immeasurable power, served as the lifeblood of the world, harmonizing the delicate threads between dimensions. But harmony is a fragile thing.
No one remembered who struck the first blow—whether it was the arrogance of man or the malice of unseen forces. What was certain was that the Veil, the ethereal boundary between Aetheris and the Void, had been torn apart. From the rift emerged the Phantoms, spectral beings of wrath and hunger, their forms shifting between shadow and flame. They were not mindless; they were precise, deliberate, and utterly relentless.
Entire cities fell in days. The guardians of the Riftstones, the Voidbreakers, fought valiantly, their strength tied to the very relics they sought to protect. But the Rift's corruption was insidious. For every Phantom they destroyed, a piece of their humanity was stripped away, leaving only hollowed warriors consumed by despair.
It was said that the last Voidbreaker fell a century ago. Since then, Aetheris had been a realm of survivors, its people eking out a meager existence in the shadows of ruined spires and poisoned rivers.
In the heart of this dying world lay Vorrath, a once-mighty city now reduced to a crumbling husk. Its streets were choked with ash, its towering walls marred by the claw marks of countless Phantom sieges. Few remained here, and those who did clung to the faint hope that the Phantoms might one day grow tired of their hunt.
Hope, however, was a fleeting thing.
Beneath the fractured skyline of Vorrath, a boy moved through the ruins, his steps light and careful. Kael, barely sixteen, had known nothing but this world of ash and shadow. His dark hair was matted with grime, his wiry frame hidden beneath threadbare clothes patched together from scavenged fabric.
Kael had learned the art of survival young—quiet steps, sharp eyes, and quicker hands than anyone else. Today, his hunt had led him to the outer edges of the city, where the risk of encountering Phantoms was greatest.
He crouched behind the remains of an overturned cart, his keen gaze fixed on a derelict building across the street. The shop's faded sign swayed gently in the breeze, its script barely legible beneath layers of soot. Whatever it had once sold was irrelevant. What mattered was the faint glimmer of something metallic inside.
Food? Tools? Medicine? Anything could be valuable in Vorrath.
Kael tightened his grip on the rusted knife he carried—a pitiful weapon, but one that had saved his life more times than he cared to count. He exhaled slowly, willing his heartbeat to steady.
Then he darted forward.
The world seemed to hold its breath as Kael crossed the open street. He reached the building's shattered doorway and slipped inside, his movements fluid and silent. The interior was dark, the air thick with dust and mildew. Broken shelves lined the walls, their contents long since scavenged or destroyed.
Kael's eyes adjusted quickly, drawn to the source of the metallic glint he had seen earlier. It was a small, ornate box, partially hidden beneath a pile of rubble. He knelt and brushed the debris aside, revealing intricate carvings etched into its surface.
Before he could open it, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
A low, guttural hiss echoed through the building.
Kael froze, his pulse quickening. He had felt this sensation before—the oppressive, suffocating presence of a Phantom. Slowly, he turned his head toward the sound.
It emerged from the shadows, its form writhing and indistinct. The Phantom's body was a mass of flickering darkness, its edges crackling with bursts of pale blue energy. Its eyes burned with an unholy light, and its movements were unnervingly fluid, like smoke given purpose.
Kael's grip on the knife tightened, but he knew it was useless. Phantoms were impervious to mundane weapons. The best he could hope for was to run and pray it didn't follow.
The Phantom lunged.
Kael rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the creature's claws as they gouged deep furrows into the stone floor. He scrambled to his feet and bolted, the box clutched tightly to his chest.
The Phantom gave chase, its movements silent save for the crackle of energy that accompanied each step. Kael darted through the ruined building, leaping over debris and weaving between collapsed walls. He burst out into the open street, his lungs burning as he sprinted toward the safety of the underground tunnels.
But the Phantom was faster.
It closed the distance in seconds, its claws reaching for him. Kael stumbled, his foot catching on a loose stone, and fell hard to the ground. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he rolled onto his back, clutching the knife in a futile attempt at defense.
The Phantom loomed over him, its claws poised to strike.
Then a flash of light cut through the gloom.
The Phantom shrieked, its form convulsing as a blade wreathed in blue flame sliced through it. The creature's body dissolved into wisps of shadow, its unearthly cries fading into silence.
Kael blinked, his vision blurred from the sudden brightness. A figure stood above him, their silhouette framed by the dim light of the dying suns.
"You're lucky I found you," the figure said, their voice low and gravelly.
Kael's vision cleared, revealing a man clad in dark, weathered armor. His face was scarred, his eyes sharp and calculating. He held a sword unlike anything Kael had ever seen—a weapon forged of Voidsteel, its blade glowing faintly with the same energy that had destroyed the Phantom.
"Who... who are you?" Kael managed, his voice hoarse.
The man sheathed his sword and extended a hand to help Kael up.
"Name's Lyrik," he said. "And if you want to live, you'd better come with me."