A thousand years passed. The great war faded into myth, and a fragile peace blanketed the broken realms.
Humans emerged, weak but cunning, ignorant of the divine tragedy that shaped their world. They explored
ruins and hunted monsters, opening ancient gates sealed long ago.
Inside one such gate, a team of elite hunters discovered a boy. He sat upon a coppses throne, surrounded by skeletons and ancient corpses. He looked no older than eighteen - black hair, pale skin, and glowing crimson eyes.
"Is that... a survivor?" one of the hunters whispered.
The boy opened his eyes slowly. A chill ran through the air. "How much time has passed?" he asked, his
voice echoing with something far older than he looked.
Without warning, he vanished from sight. Screams followed. One by one, the hunters were impaled by a dark
tendril emerging from the boy's shadow. He stood now atop the throne, hand drenched in blood.
"You disturbed my rest," he said, smiling. "I suppose I've awakened."
The child was no child. He was Nytheris - reborn in human form. Though weakened, his core remained
untouched: an ancient darkness wearing a mortal face.
The hunters never escaped. The gate was sealed once again, and rumors began to spread of a boy who sat
alone in the deep, laughing beneath the dead moon.