The Rift was spreading, tendrils reaching ever outward, gobbling the land whole. The air shimmered with the tension of forces unseen, crackling with malignant energy. That which had been scar in the earth was now gaping chasm, a bottomless maw that swallowed everything it touched. And out of that very Rift, the demons came-dark shapes wreathed in fire, their eyes aglow with hunger. They poured forth in ever-increasing numbers, growing in strength, as if the Rift itself fed them.
What had once been fierce, proud resistance from the kingdom now began to falter. The people fought bravely, but they were only human, and against the tide of darkness, it seemed impossible. Every battle came to a close with fewer standing after it than at the start, and even the very ground on which they fought buckled under the strain. The air reeked of blood and desperation.
Yet in that despair, there was a glimmer of hope.
Adria, ever the warrior, was back in the very front line, cleaving her way through demons with her sword as though nothing could possibly stand in the way. Of course, nothing lasts forever, not even she being invincible. As she swung her blade in a deadly arc, a roar of fury rang through the battlefield-a howl that sent shivers through bone and marrow.
A general emerged from the shadows, towering above the fray, his dark armor gleaming with the blackness of the Rift itself. Cold, calculating eyes locked onto Adria. Movements as precise as that of a predator stalking its prey.
He struck without warning, a sudden brutal slash that caught Adria off guard and tore through her armor with the force of a falling star. Her body was sent sprawling across the ground, blood staining the earth as she struggled to rise.
"Elrian." Her voice was barely a whisper, drowned by the chaos of the battle surrounding her.
El'rian, who had been fighting right in the thick of combat, froze at the sight of his mother falling. His heart sank into his stomach, a deep, agonizing sense of loss flooding through him. He fought with everything he had through the madness of the battlefield, but the demons would not stop coming. They swarmed around him, but his eyes—his heart—were fixed on Adria.
He reached her side, desperation etching deep lines into his face. "Mother. no. please!"
Her eyes fluttered open; her breathing was ragged as she managed a faint smile. "Elrian. you. must. go." she gasped, battling for each word.
He shook his head furiously. "No! I won't leave you! We'll find a way!
She grasped weakly at his hand. "You have. a purpose. The mission. must. continue." Her voice was growing fainter; the life was ebbing out of her. "Don't let. it consume you."
Her hand slipped, limply, in his, and a cry of anguish tore from his throat, echoing across the battlefield. He shook his fists, shaking under the weight of her death.
But then, something dark stirred within him, something primal, something that whispered of revenge. His eyes flicked toward the general who had struck his mother down, the demon whose face was nothing more than a mask of torment.
And Elrian, in his grief and rage, made a choice.
"You will pay." His voice was cold, devoid of the warmth it once carried. The words were a promise, and in them, no forgiveness was carried.
With a drawn sword, Elrian charged, blinded by fury at the dangers around him. He fought with an unrelenting ferocity, cutting down any demon that dared to stand in his way. His movements were a blur—swift, vicious, unstoppable. He felt the blood of his enemies coat his hands, his sword, but it was not enough. He needed to reach the general.
The world began to disappear, and with it, any thought of time or speed. His thoughts resolved onto one idea only-vengeance. Before him, the general still remained, with his taunting, cruel smile and dark, bright eyes filled with humor as El'rian's ire played out.
"You think you can defeat me, boy?" The voice of the general was low, taunting. "You are nothing but another pawn in the game.
Elrian's eyes narrowed. "I will make you regret underestimating me."
With a guttural roar, he leapt toward the general, his sword raised high. The battle between them was nothing short of brutal. The clash of steel rang through the air, sparks flying with every strike. Elrian's hatred fueled him, but the general's strength was overwhelming; for every blow Elrian landed, the general returned it tenfold.
"You're weak," the general sneered. "Just like your mother. A failure."
Elrian's body burned with exhaustion, his vision swimming with red. But he refused to falter. Not now. Not when his mother's death was so close to him.
In one final act of pure defiance, Elrian pushed past the pain and his sword cut through the air in a deadly arc. The general's eyes widened in disbelief, but it was too late. The sword pierced through the general's heart, and the demon fell to the ground with a thunderous crash.
For a moment, there was silence.
El'rian stood over his enemy's body, his chest heaving, blood staining his face. But his eyes were empty, hollow. The rage had consumed him, and behind the waves of spent adrenaline lay only nothingness. He had won. But at what cost?
Far away, the Rift still stretched, its darkness devouring everything in its way. The fight was far from over. Yet, in this moment of triumph, one thing dawned on Elrian-a thing that ran a cold shiver down his spine: the war had just started.
"What now?" he whispered, his voice shaking.
There was no answer but the howling wind and the crackling of the Rift from afar.
His mother was already a victim of the abyss, and now it was trying to take him too.
It was coming for them all.
I stand before you now with blood on my hands and wonder-how did it come to this? How did I become the thing that I fear? The weight of my mother's death weighs upon me, gnawing at my very soul. This is what the Rift does: it takes and it never gives back. I had sworn to protect this kingdom, to fight for its survival, but in the end, I could do nothing for her. Nothing but watch as she died in my arms.
I am no hero, neither am I any savior. I am a monster, forged in the fire of grief and vengeance. And now, I must press onward. I have to find a way to stop the Rift, but I'm not sure if I have any strength left for it. I am not even sure if I still want to. The war, the pain—it never ends.
But one thing is certain: She will not die in vain. I'll put an end to it, even if that means razing it all to the ground."
The world had become a battlefield of souls, and Elrian was its broken king. He stood at the edge of the Rift and stared into the swirling darkness that had taken so much from him. It was not just a rift in the earth but in his very soul. The blackened sky above him was the same as the void inside his heart, where once love had been, now only emptiness remained.
His sword, still stained with the blood of demons, felt heavier than ever in his grip. Every step he took was like a stride further down into some pit of despair, yet there was no going back. The mission, his mother's last words—they rang in his mind, calling him onward. The Rift had to be sealed. The demons had to be destroyed.
But with every battle, with each death, that line started to blur. For what was he fighting anymore?
He had never felt so lost.
The kingdom, which once teemed with life, was now but a ghost of its former shadow and yet it fought on. He could feel it, the cost of them all, the relentless weight of their fear and suffering. His name whispered in reverence from their tongues, he heard the tremor beneath in their voices-the cold fear that clung to him like a second skin. They knew what he had become, what he would do to see this through.
"Elrian."
The voice cut through his thoughts-a low whisper carried on the wind. He whipped around, hand instinctively going to his sword, before relaxing at the sight of who it was.
Lydia.
Her face was drawn, pale with exhaustion, yet her eyes-those eyes-still flared with the same fire they'd always held. She was the last of the council, the last of his true allies, and even she seemed somehow different. The weight of this war had changed her, too.
Lydia…," Elrian's voice sounded hoarse-a mix of relief and regret. It was only now that he realized how much he had needed her presence.
"You have been standing here for hours," she said softly, approaching him, her eyes scanning across the horizon. "You are not alone in this. We can still fight. We can still win.
El'rian shook his head, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword. "I've done enough fighting. I've killed enough demons. I've lost enough." His voice cracked, and he turned his back to her, looking into the abyss once more. "I don't know how to keep going, Lydia. I don't know how to keep fighting when everything feels so hollow."
Lydia moved closer, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm. She laid a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment, there was a flicker of warmth. "You don't have to do this alone. We'll find another way. But you have to let us help you."
Elrian's eyes closed, and a wave of grief washed over him, threatening to take him under. "What if there is no way out? What if this. this war, this suffering, it's all for nothing? What if we never win?" His voice came small, barely above a whisper, a crack in the armor he had rigorously constructed.
Lydia's face softened without a trace of pity in her eyes-to understand. She had seen what war had taken from him, just as it had taken it from herself. "We fight because we have to, Elrian. Not because we think that we'll win. But because if we don't, then everything will be lost. And if we fall, at least we'll fall knowing we gave everything. Not for glory. Not for power. But for the people who believe in us. For those who still need us."
Elrian swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. "And what about you, Lydia? What do you fight for?"
The gaze hardened in her eyes. "I fight for those who cannot fight for themselves, for those who still believe a better world is possible, for the hope that is not gone yet, even if it seems so.
There was a long silence between them, the sound of distant battle drifting through the air. Elrian's heart pounded in his chest, the words Lydia spoke sinking deeper into his soul.
He had never been good at hope. Hope had always felt like a fleeting thing-something he could never hold onto. But he finally grasped it now: standing there with wind nipping his skin, a faint smell of smoke and blood not completely dissipated from the air. Hope wasn't about winning wars; it was about fighting no matter how that fighting hurt. It was about refusal to give in to darkness even when that was highly expected.
I don't know how much more of this I can take," Elrian whispered, his voice raw. "But I'll try. For them. For you."
Lydia nodded, her face softening, though the shadows in her eyes remained. "That's all any of us can do."
Before either of them could speak again, a scream rent the distance-sharp, desperate. Elrian's heart skipped a beat as the sound reverberated through him. It was a cry of agony, the kind only a dying soul could produce.
"Not again," Elrian muttered under his breath, his hand tightening around his sword.
Lydia's face twisted in dread. "We need to move. Now.
Together, they wheeled and ran in the direction of the cry, their grief and resolution lending strength to their feet. But as they approached the clearing from which the scream had issued, a sight rooted them to the spot.
A group of demons stood over a fallen soldier, their claws dripping with blood. The face of the soldier was unrecognizable, his eyes wide open, staring blankly at the sky. It was as if the demons were savoring the moment-their dark laughter echoed across the desolate field.
El'rian's blood ran cold. These were no ordinary demons: more vicious, more intelligent than the mindless horde he had faced before. And worse yet, they had something-someone-in their grip.
Then, one of them heaved the soldier's body into the air and discarded him as if he were a doll. As the body dropped, though, another form emerged from behind the shadows. A man stood, face cloaked by an dark hood, in his very presence the air turning cold, heavier, darker than any shadow could have thrown upon their persons.
"Who is that?" Lydia asked low-a whisper, shuddering both with fear and curiosity.
Elrian's eyes narrowed, his mind racing. The man's figure seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. Not yet. But one thing was certain—the demons followed his command. And whatever power he wielded, it was not natural.
The man's voice cut through the silence. "Elrian," he said, his tone cold, calculating. "You've come so far. But I'm afraid you're too late."
El'rian's heart lurched, and he stepped forward, his hand instinctively going to his sword. "Who are you?"
The figure laughed softly-the sound was dark, ominous. "I am he who shall lead the world into the abyss, who will make certain that when the Rift finally engulfs this land, nothing will be left.
Elrian's blood ran cold. "No." His breath caught in his throat as realization hit him like a hammer. "You're-"
"Yes," the man cut in, his voice keen with satisfaction. "I am the one you feared. The one who holds the key to this war. And now, it is too late for you to stop it."
The abyss had a name.
And that name was Kaldros.