There was a time when he was not a ghost, not a mere whisper on the wind. His name had once carried weight—reverence, even among the gods. But now, it was forgotten, erased from the lips of those who had once chanted it in victory. Time had reduced him to a myth, and that, perhaps, was for the best.
The sky had burned red on the day it all ended.
It had started with the faintest of disturbances, barely a ripple in the fabric of the cosmos. And yet, those who stood guard, those sworn to protect the delicate balance between realms, had felt it. At first, it was but a whisper, a distant hum that pulsed from the heavens themselves. Then, as weeks passed, the hum turned into a rumble, a cacophony that rattled the stars and sent tremors through Ilyrion.
They had come—angels of the highest order, shimmering like beacons of light, their eyes as cold and distant as the firmament itself. And behind them, from the darkest reaches of existence, the demons emerged, clad in shadows and fame, their malice as thick as the smoke that trailed them. Both factions, long at odds, now united for one purpose—to claim Ilyrion.
But they hadn't expected him.
He stood alone at first, at the edge of the battleground where heaven and hell collided with Ilyrion caught in between. His comrades—those who had fought alongside him in battles long past—joined him shortly after. They were the forgotten warriors, those who had been chosen by fate to stand against the encroaching destruction.
He was their leader. Their shield.
The war that followed was beyond mortal comprehension. The heavens opened, casting blinding light upon the battlefield, while the land cracked and seethed under the weight of the demonic tide. Cities fell, seas boiled, and the once-green and thriving lands of Ilyrion became a charred ruin beneath their feet. Its people watched in helpless horror as gods and devils tore apart their world.
For every angel that fell, a demon rose to take its place. For every demon slain, another burst from the pits of the underworld. And yet, at the center of it all, he remained—unwavering, indomitable.
But victory came at a price.
As the war raged on, one by one, his comrades fell. Some died in his arms, others vanished in brilliant flashes of light, consumed by the very power they had wielded. His closest friend, a woman whose power rivaled the stars themselves, sacrificed herself to drive back a horde of demons threatening to overrun the defenses. And then there was her—his love, the one person who had understood him beyond the myth, beyond the legend. She, too, was taken, torn from him by forces beyond his control.
In the end, it was just him. Alone.
The final battle had been fierce. The sky shattered, fragments of the heavens raining down like glass as he faced the combined might of both angels and demons. The power he summoned was ancient, older than the stars themselves. It coursed through him, bending time and space to his will. In a blinding flash of light, he pushed them back—banished them from Ilyrion. But the cost was too great.
For as the heavens trembled and Ilyrion was saved, heaven itself turned its back on him.
He had disobeyed their will, acted against the celestial order. His defiance had not gone unnoticed. The betrayal was swift—his name, once written among the stars, was cast out, erased. Heaven no longer recognized him. The angels, who had once called him brother, now whispered of him as a renegade.
And so, he disappeared.
The world, broken and scarred, began to heal, but without him. His name faded into legend, his deeds told only in hushed tones by those who still remembered. As centuries passed, even those stories began to wither. The great protector, the one who had stood against the apocalypse, became nothing more than a myth.
But the Seven Families remembered.
They, the descendants of the warriors who had once fought alongside him, knew the truth. They had been entrusted with the knowledge of his existence and sworn to secrecy. Each of the Seven Families ruled over their respective regions of Ilyrion, powerful in their own right, but always bound to serve him, should the need arise again. They knew he still watched, lurking in the shadows, disconnected from the world he had saved.
And now, he watched in silence.
From his vantage point, high above the cities and villages that sprawled below, he saw everything. He saw the corruption, the greed, the rise of empires built on the backs of the weak. Once, these things would have stirred him to action, driven him to bring justice to those who deserved it. But that part of him was long gone, buried with the friends and the love he had lost.
Ilyrion's mortal concerns no longer mattered to him.
Only when the demons or angels dared to interfere again would he act. That was the pact—the only thing that tied him to the world he had once bled for.
He had given up everything for this world.
Now, it was time for the world to fend for itself.