Magic had formed the world, not men. Prior to kingdoms rising and falling, prior to empires waxing and waning, existed the Spirits—ancient, inscrutable creatures of unimaginable might. Some spread as broad as the sky, traversing the heavens like storms that had taken flesh. Others were as small as embers, burning within the chests of men.
They explained that, many years ago, these Spirits joined with man, binding their existence to the very blood of humans. And from that day forward, every child was born with a Spirit Within, a force that granted them powers beyond those of mortal creatures. Some commanded the seas, summoning the water to serve them. Others walked in flames, unscathed, destruction in their fists. The strongest could control the earth itself, carving mountains and summoning storms.
But never was two-sided power given.
The two thousand years or so since the First Breaking had long since seen the world segmented into ten mighty continents, each ruled by those whose Spirits made them masters. Most powerful among them was Ganoth, a land of warriors and conquerors, where only the merciless thrived. At its head stood King Vaedros the Bloodforged, a man who knew no peace, whose war hunger had consumed entire civilizations. He did not rule with kindness. He did not rule with wisdom. He ruled with war, and nothing else but war.
Across the other side of the world was Lino, the weakest of the worlds. A land of tillers and thinkers, of men who had long since accepted their place beneath the boots of larger men. They had no conquests to boast of, their men-at-arms only fought in defense. To some, they were cowards. To others, they were the dying embers of a long-lost something—peace.
But peace had never lasted in this world.
Myths told of a day when it would be other. There was a myth, older even than the continents themselves, that spoke of two of them: one of Creation, one of Destruction, who would arise in a day of chaos. Their names were not known. No one knew from whence they would appear. But only that they would make the wars cease… or bring a final war no one could ever survive.
The prophecy had been uttered a thousand times, buried and forgotten a thousand more.
And so, when two children were born in distant corners of the globe, no one thought to consider them as anything other than what they appeared.
In the opulent halls of Ganoth's ravaged palace, a prince took his first breath. The youngest of King Vaedros' three sons, born of steel and blood, destined to be forged as a sword.
And somewhere far away, in the idyllic world of Lino, another boy opened his eyes for the first time. A prince of a falling kingdom, born to a world that no longer had strength to give.
Two children. Two lives.
Unrelated. Unexceptional.
For the time being.
6 Years Later
The heavens over Lino burned.
Smoke twisted into the air like the dying breath of the land itself. Villages lay in ruins, their wooden homes reduced to smoldering wreckage. The fields that had lain so still, golden with harvest only days before, were trampled into bloody mud beneath the relentless push of Ganoth's armies. War drums pounded, their ear-shattering beat echoing through the valleys like the heartbeat of a dying god. The rivers ran red, their waters heavy with the price of rebellion.
At the center of the field, astride a massive black warhorse, rode King Vaedros the Bloodforged. His armor dark as storming sky was caked with the filth of countless wars, the crimson stripes bearing witness to those who had fallen at the point of his sword. His greatsword—a monstrous sword of blackened steel—hung heavy with newly spilled blood in his hand, its mass no burden in his.
Behind him loomed his Spirit, a shapeless cloud of fire and darkness, its form ever-changing, blazing between the forms of devils and beasts. Its eyes flared like molten gold, looking out across the battlefield with starving hunger. It had no name, but purpose—war. And it had been well fed today.
Before him, amidst the ruin, stood the last defenders of Lino—its King and Queen.
Eldric and Seraphine.
Their bodies spoke of war, armor rent, cloaks tattered, blood oozing from wounds too numerous to number. But their Spirits were still burning. Eldric's, a storm-born creature of crackling lightning, wrapped itself around him, its energy pulsing in time with his fury. Beside him, Seraphine's Spirit of the wind, a golden creature of whirling air and sapphire feathers, enveloped itself warily about her shoulders, singing in the howling gust.
The battlefield was still, save the smoldering fire and the dying screams in the distance.
They had battled long enough. They had battled as hard as they could.
But they had always known the truth.
Ganoth could not be defeated.
Vaedros dismounted his horse, his boots sinking into the ground that was blood-soaked. His armor didn't matter as he approached, his sword remaining at his hip. He did not draw it. Not yet.
His red eyes rested on Eldric and Seraphine, and for a moment, something unreadable flickered within them.
"You should have surrendered, Eldric." His voice was low, nearly mournful.
Eldric wiped the small stream of blood off his lip, the edges of his mouth curling in a sour smile. "And kneel to a tyrant?" He spat onto the mud floor, the blood black against its dark color. "You were once my friend, Vaedros. We fought alongside one another. Laughed alongside one another. I trusted you."
Seraphine tilted her head back, defiance glinting in her sapphire eyes. "You swore we would never be enemies. You swore Lino would be spared from your war."
Vaedros breathed slowly. Their words hung before him like the weight of his own plate armor.
He had lied.
And worse—he had always known that it would come to this.
"There is no place for weakness in this world." His voice chilled, his fingers tightening on his sword hilt. "I gave you the chance to stand with me. You refused."
Eldric charged, his spear racing forth in a crackling shaft of raw lightning.
Vaedros blocked his way.
Their blades clashed with a sound that sent a shockwave rolling across the battlefield, shattering through the mud and sending embers scattering through the air. Steel screamed on steel, and the two kings fought like war gods, each strike delivered with the fury of a dying kingdom.
Seraphine struck from the side, the wind sweeping her up like a ghost, her daggers flashing toward Vaedros's throat.
He spun in time, escaping by a hair's breadth before launching his sword in a murderous counterattack. Seraphine sprang back, hitting the ground softly as the earth split asunder beneath Vaedros's strike.
For a moment—just a moment—it seemed as if they would hold their position.
Then Vaedros's Spirit awakened.
The shadows surged, covering the battlefield in a burst of raw, devouring power. The storm staggered. The wind fell. And in one heartbeat's pause, Vaedros attacked.
His sword pierced Eldric's chest.
The King of Lino breathed, his sword slipping from his fingers as the light in his eyes went out.
Seraphine cried silently, her desolation shifting to bitter, unyielding fury as she attacked Vaedros on a final, futile charge.
He grasped her wrist. Twisted it.
And plunged his sword into her chest.
Her corpse lay beside the corpse of her husband.
The field was silent.
Lino's last defenses collapsed. Its troopers, watching their lords die, dropped their arms to yield.
Ganoth's land was hers no more.
Vaedros towered over their bodies, his breathing slow, deliberate. He looked down at them, at the friends he had once had, and for the first time in years…
He felt something.
It was not guilt. Not sorrow.
Just… weight.
Then—a cry.
A child's scream pierced the silence, raw and full of terror.
Vaedros whirled. A boy, no older than six, was being dragged ahead by his guards. His dark eyes, like the color of the storming skies, were wide with fear—but beneath the fear, there was something else.
Rage.
He kicked and struggled in the soldier's grip, his small fists clenched tight.
The last prince of Lino.
Vaedros gazed at him.
In the face of the child, he saw Eldric's fire. He saw Seraphine's defiance.
The same flames they had died in.
And then, a thought came to him.
This boy—this prince who had been orphaned—could be broken. Forged. Remade.
Vaedros exhaled and lifted a hand.
"Take him."
The soldiers hesitated.
"My king?" one of them asked, uncertain.
Vaedros's gaze never wavered from the boy. "He is mine now."
They obeyed.
As the last traces of Lino were reduced to ash, the boy was taken to Ganoth—ripped from the ruins of his home.
From that moment on, he was no longer a prince of a vanished kingdom.
He was a weapon to be sharpened.
And Vaedros would make sure of it.