Before the events leading to Tyrese's death, in the Castle of King Deon, located in the heart of Elyndra, a pivotal meeting was taking place.
On a throne that appeared to be carved from an ancient black stone, King Deon sat with an air of command. His piercing blue eyes reflected the twin suns' light streaming through the high windows, their brilliance casting a golden glow across the hall. His long, golden hair cascaded over his shoulders, and upon his head rested a black crown, seemingly fashioned from the same material as the throne. The crown emitted a subtle yet awe-inspiring aura, its presence adding to the king's appearance—more divine than mortal.
The Throne Hall of the Twilight Castle was nothing short of majestic. Sigil-powered chandeliers hung high above, their soft luminescence casting intricate patterns of light and shadow upon the polished stone floor. Long, crimson curtains draped over portions of the windows, muting the sunlight and creating an atmosphere both regal and somber. At the walls stood guards in perfect formation, their armor gleaming faintly under the chandelier light. Behind the king, a man clad in a flowing robe stood silently—his appearance marking him as the royal advisor.
From the great doors of the hall, a man approached with measured steps, his silver hair catching the dim light as he moved. Upon reaching the base of the stairs leading to the throne, he knelt, his head bowed low. In a deep, respectful tone, he spoke: "I greet the King of Deon. May your reign be long and prosperous."
This man was none other than Sir Arras, summoned to the capital by royal decree to report his findings. Standing beside him was another figure, one cloaked in a long hooded robe. The hood shrouded the figure's face in darkness so complete it seemed to devour the surrounding light. Despite the figure's unassuming stance and lack of aura, there was an undeniable sense of presence that made even the seasoned guards uneasy.
This was Kiros, the Harbinger of Shadows—one of the three demigods still alive, a being who had long transcended the mortal plane. His existence was a mystery to all but a select few, for no one had ever seen his face, and his very nature defied understanding.
King Deon regarded Sir Arras with his penetrating gaze. "Speak," he commanded, his deep voice reverberating through the hall with quiet authority.
Sir Arras obeyed, recounting the events of Duskwatch in painstaking detail. He described the attack by Seedlings, the desperate battle with the Voidbringer, and finally, the discovery of the fractured mirror-like anomaly deep within the Ancient Forest.
When Sir Arras concluded his report, the twin suns had climbed to their zenith, their golden rays bathing the king and his alabaster skin in a radiant glow. King Deon turned his attention to Kiros, who remained motionless, his shadowed face betraying no emotion.
"Is it time, Kiros?" the king asked, his voice calm but heavy with implication.
Sir Arras stiffened at the question, his confusion mounting. The news he had shared—unprecedented and dire—had not shocked the king or the Harbinger as he had expected. Only the guards looked a little shaken, but their faces unreadable.
From within the depths of the hood, a voice emerged—ethereal, neither distinctly male nor female. "I believe so, Your Majesty. However, confirmation is necessary…"
Kiros paused abruptly, his hooded head tilting as though sensing something. The silence stretched, his stillness unnerving all in the hall. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned back to the king. "We need not confirm any longer. It is time. I will convene with the other Harbingers. The ritual must begin."
For a long moment, King Deon stared at Kiros, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he nodded. "You are dismissed, Centurion of Solhollow," he said, his gaze shifting to Sir Arras.
The dismissal was clear and final. Though Sir Arras burned with questions, the king's word was absolute. The exchange between King Deon and Kiros was incomprehensible, shrouded in cryptic implications. But Sir Arras could not defy the King order, even if he wanted to, he couldn't. Afterall a King's authority was more than words.
With a bow, Sir Arras rose and turned, his steps echoing through the hall as he departed. As he passed the towering doors, he cast one last glance at the throne, where King Deon, his advisor, and the enigmatic Harbinger remained, their discussion continuing in hushed tones.
The doors closed behind him, leaving Sir Arras with only the unanswered questions that churned in his mind.
---
In a place where night reigned eternal, a young boy lay sprawled on the sandy ground. His white-gray curls shimmered faintly under the glow of the fractured moonlight. His eyes were closed, his body still—until, suddenly, they snapped open.
Tyrese gasped for air, his chest heaving as he scrambled to push himself upright. His breaths came in quick, panicked bursts, his wide eyes darting around the unfamiliar terrain. The disorientation in his gaze deepened as he took in the surroundings.
The last thing he remembered was a blur. Flashes of the glass-like fracture beneath the Lost Sanctuary filled his mind, fragmented and indistinct. He recalled falling to his knees, the sensation of life slipping from his grasp like grains of sand through his fingers. And then, like a flood, the memories came rushing back—the ominous figure with the crow's head, the suffocating dread and awe it invoked, and his death.
"Am I… dead?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced down at his body, running his hands over his arms and chest. Everything felt intact, normal even. "But where is this place?"
It was night—a night unlike any he had known. The sky stretched vast and unending above him, a tapestry of stars scattered across its dark expanse. A massive moon, partially destroyed with jagged edges, hung in the sky, flanked by three smaller moons that glowed faintly. Their collective light bathed the sandy ground in a pale luminescence.
In the distance, a cluster of lights shimmered like a far-off mirage, flickering and shifting. Surrounding him was an expanse of sand, endless and cold beneath his hands.
Then, a voice broke the silence.
"I've been waiting for you, Tyrese."
The boy spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. Standing a short distance away was a man who hadn't been there a moment ago.
He appeared to be in his sixties, his long gray hair tied loosely behind him. His simple clothes were unremarkable, save for the scar on his arm. The scar wasn't ordinary—it resembled an intricate drawing, though its meaning eluded Tyrese.
Instinctively, Tyrese stepped back, his body tense. "Who are you? What is this place? And how do you know my name?" he demanded, his voice laced with both fear and defiance.
The man smiled, a calm and knowing expression that only unsettled Tyrese further.
"I've been called many names," the man replied, his tone steady, almost gentle. "But you can call me Adro. As for where we are..." He gestured around them with an open hand, his smile widening.
"Welcome to Hell."
Tyrese's eyes widened, his breath hitching in his chest. Shock rippled through him, leaving him frozen where he stood.