The sky burned red as flames consumed the land. Screams echoed through the battlefield, cries of warriors and civilians alike merging into a chaotic symphony of war. Steel clashed against steel, and the scent of blood tainted the wind. Fire crackled in the ruins of what was once a prosperous kingdom, reduced to ash under the merciless onslaught.
At the heart of the battlefield stood two mighty figures, locked in a fateful duel. King Aldric, the righteous ruler of the kingdom of Astralis, wielded his enchanted spear—a weapon of legend that tore through enemies with devastating force. Every strike he delivered sent waves of energy, shattering armor and sending foes flying. His golden armor gleamed even through the soot and blood, his stance unwavering despite the exhaustion creeping into his limbs.
Opposing him was King Darius, ruler of the dark kingdom of Noctis. Cloaked in obsidian armor, he moved like a shadow, his eyes burning with hatred. In his grasp, he held the Cursed Arrow, a weapon forged in ancient sorcery, capable of slaying a hundred men in a single instant. With each shot, his soldiers fell into perfect formation, executing his orders with merciless precision.
Neither side was willing to retreat. The battle had raged for an entire month, both armies suffering tremendous losses. Even the young princes and princesses, heirs to their respective thrones, fought bravely beside their warriors, their magical abilities shaking the very ground they stood upon.
Then, the unthinkable happened. A piercing cry filled the air, louder than the sounds of battle, louder than the thunder rolling in the darkened sky. A luminous bird of legend descended from the heavens, its enormous wings scattering light across the battlefield. Feathers adorned with gleaming diamonds shimmered with otherworldly colors—each hue radiating a different, unknown power.
The moment the bird appeared, an unnatural force swept across the land. The soldiers, once engaged in bloodshed, found their movements halted, their weapons trembling in their grasp. Even the kings, locked in combat, could feel the shift in reality.
A deep, resonating voice spoke—not in words, but in emotions and thoughts that filled every mind present. "The cycle of destruction must end."
A golden glow enveloped the battlefield as the bird extended its wings, an ethereal force pushing both armies apart. The flames that once consumed the land flickered and died. The screams faded into silence. A ceasefire was declared—not by men, but by a power beyond their understanding.
"Eighteen years." The message echoed in their minds. "No war shall be waged for eighteen years. This is my decree."
And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the bird soared back into the sky, vanishing into the clouds, leaving behind a battlefield frozen in time.
The war was over. But the legend of the Eighteenth Year had only just begun.