A great mountain loomed above the world, cut from black marble by the eons of time.
At its base, a shore of tranquil ebony sand resisted the assault of a terrible blood red ocean, trying desperately to break free of its confinement, trying to return.
Tendril-like waves of bloodied water mounted and climbed the indifferent mountain to no avail.
It was an entirely hopeless endeavour. However, just like the raging winds, the waves didn't submit to the mountain's reign and poured all their efforts into eroding and consuming it.
The mountain stood pristine and indifferent, uncaring for all, for it had seen the birth of this world and would survive to see its end.
Towering dark clouds veiled the sky, as if there existed something so dreadful that even the sun decided to hide.
The mountain cared not.
It was entirely unyielding.
There on its lofty peak an ancient temple stood, entirely untouched by the ravaging flow of time.
It was carved from the black marble so perfectly, it looked as if it had grown from it naturally.
Behind the wide-open gate, resembling the maw of an unnatural and unholy beast, carved murals adorned the walls leading deeper and deeper into the mountain.
They told stories of endless bloodshed and carnage, ruby dust flowing from them in especially harrowing scenes, like blood.
Only a light breeze flowed through the maze of corridors leading deeper. It was as if even the raging storms outside didn't hold any power inside these walls, their reign denied and dismissed just like the wishes of a child by their neglectful parents.
It seemed as though no human could have ever set foot in this profane place.
Yet, somewhere deep down near the mountain's core, a few daredevils had made their home.
These orphans of fate called themselves The Crimson Rose. On this fateful day, they had all been drawn here together for the first time in ages long forgotten.
It had been so long all of them had come together, it was almost as if even the universe itself had forgotten about their blasphemous deeds.
Almost.
In a dimly lit hall that seemed to have been carved for giants, eleven shadows loomed over a vast altar.
At its center a minuscule crimson gem floated, rivers upon rivers of blood streaming from it, draining from the hall through carved channels that originated at the center of the altar which was drowning in blood.
Suddenly one of the shadows shifted, a raspy and deep voice vibrating through the entire hall.
"It is done, Chaos and Havoc will wreak the lands soon again once more."
Some of the shadows seemed relieved, others exited, while others again filled the hall with dark, gleeful laughter.
All of them, however, appeared tense and foreboding.
"As you know," the shadow continued.
"They will not let us be after today."
Some nodded, others sighed, but it was news to none.
"As we have decided, we will now leave behind our heritage and then join our followers in the final war."
Another of the eleven spat on the ground resentfully.
"Sure we will," he growled, discord evident in his voice.
"You have no choice." The first shadow stated in an absolute tone that left no room for objection.
Without waiting for a response, he continued. "Bring the boy."
A moment later a young man lay on the altar, his eyes tightly shut and his breath ragged and shallow.
"On this day the final orphan was born." The shadows whispered in unison, the echo of their voices shaking the entire hall as if the world itself were somehow straining to intervene.
Suddenly the gem at the center of the altar shattered, an impossibly thin thread shooting out from the void left behind in its place.
The hall shook and the mountain groaned, deep crevices and cracks forming all around as the world protested to no avail.
"Goodbye." The lonely shadow whispered, affectionately caressing the boy's cheek with its gloved hand.
They were alone in the hall, the other ten had vanished some time ago.
Had it been seconds or eons?
The shadow no longer knew.
"Gloria." It whispered, inky tears rolling down its face.
The surrounding pressure grew stronger yet, splitting the altar in half just a fraction of a moment after the shadow plunged an unholy dagger through the boy's heart.