The city of Aeloria, a jewel of Aquindor, stretched beneath him, its grand spires and towering citadels bathed in the faint glow of twilight. The streets, alive with the pulse of nightly affairs, seemed distant from his perch atop the crumbling remnants of a forgotten tower. Here, far above the world, he could see the kingdom in all its majesty—an expanse of stone and steel steeped in history and ambition.
Once, he had walked among its people, a protector, and a leader in times of both war and peace. Now, the kingdom felt as foreign to him as the endless horizon he stared into. The vibrant capital, a sea of bustling structures, hid within its walls the rot he had come to know all too well.
Aeloria had not always been this way. He remembered a time before its grandeur, when the land was but a rugged frontier, wild and untamed, its forests and rivers alive with creatures both fierce and gentle. Back then, he had fought to protect it with unwavering resolve. But the fire that once burned in him had dulled over the centuries, leaving behind only the ashes of forgotten victories. Now, he was just another ghost, a silent watcher over a kingdom that had long moved past his time.
The wind stirred, carrying with it the distant sounds of Aeloria's struggles—shouts, the clang of metal, and the faint cries of those living in the shadow of power. Beneath the kingdom's gilded surface, corruption festered. It flowed through the veins of the royal court, the merchant guilds, and the alleys where the impoverished huddled. The rulers spoke of prosperity and peace, but the truth was evident to anyone who cared to see it.
From his vantage point, he could see the suffering etched into the city's rhythm—the poor toiling in the fields for scraps, the destitute crowding the alleys, while nobles feasted in opulent halls. Each promise of progress was hollow, each proclamation of peace a thin veil over the endless cycle of oppression. He had fought for change, but every victory had been fleeting, swallowed by the relentless tide of greed and betrayal.
He shifted against the cold stone of the tower, feeling the weight of centuries pressing heavily on him. His bones ached, but it was a different kind of pain that had taken root—one that had nothing to do with the battle scars of his youth. It was the quiet, persistent realization that he no longer had a place in this world. Once, he had led armies, faced down demons and angels alike, and stood shoulder to shoulder with comrades who believed in a better future. But those days were gone. The memories of battles fought and walls defended now felt like shadows of a distant dream. There had been victories, yes, but with each one, something inside him had died. And now, standing on this tower, he questioned whether his cause was still worth fighting for.
The wind carried a faint noise from below, breaking his reverie. A figure darted between the shadows of the streets, quick and deliberate. Another desperate soul, lost in Aeloria's endless tide of small crimes and quiet sufferings. His hand twitched at his side, instinct urging him to act. A flick of his wrist, and the offender could be subdued. But what difference would it make? For every crime he stopped, a hundred more would sprout in its place. The rot ran too deep for simple solutions.
Instead, he watched as the figure disappeared into the labyrinth of streets, swallowed by the ceaseless pulse of the city. A familiar sense of resignation weighed on him. The days of small interventions were behind him. His purpose now was far greater—to stand vigil as Ilyrion teetered on the brink of an even greater battle. The shadows of angels and demons loomed on the horizon, their presence a fragile balance between light and darkness, threatening to shatter the delicate equilibrium that held the world together.
His heart tightened with bittersweet resolve as memories of the fallen surfaced once more—the sacrifices they made for this world. He drew a slow breath, his fingers tightening against the cold stone beneath him as if grounding himself against the weight of his memories. Their lives had been the price of peace, a peace he had once believed worth any cost. But now, watching the rot seep into every corner, he questioned if the cost had been too great.
He thought of those comrades: Darian, with his laughter like summer rain, had fallen in battle, the weight of his youth stolen by the chaos. Liora, her fiery spirit and unyielding sword, had met her end amidst the enemies that surrounded them. Thalia, the healer, whose gentle touch has saved him time and again, had perished casting the final spell to protect them. And Kieran, her magic blazing like wildfire, had sacrificed herself for victory. They had all given everything for this world, and now they were nothing more than shadows in his memory. Their presence was fading, slipping into obscurity—just as his own place in this world seemed to disappear.
His mind returned to the present, to the kingdom before him. He stood on the edge of a world that seemed beyond saving, his heart burdened with the weight of memories he could not forget. For tonight, like every night, he would remain the silent watcher guarding a world that neither knew nor cared for him. And when the time came for him to act again, when the true darkness emerged, he would be ready.
Until then, he would keep his vigil, standing alone, guarding the world from what lay beyond and from itself, which no longer remembered its past.