Part I: The Cursed Dawn
The world lay in ruin.
Once-mighty cities now rotted beneath ashen skies. The bones of gods lay scattered across shattered fields, their hollow skulls half-buried in the dirt. What light remained struggled to pierce the thick veil of storm clouds, leaving the land in a bruised, perpetual twilight.
In the shadow of a ruined citadel known as Tharion's Fall, a lone figure moved through the crumbling stone streets. His cloak was tattered, his boots caked with mud and old blood. He wore no crown, bore no sigil, only a jagged mark on his chest that glowed faintly beneath his tunic when the wind howled just right.
His name was Dren.
But in his restless dreams, a voice called him something else.
Kael.
He didn't know why.
He didn't remember much at all. Only the fire. The screaming. The face of a woman whose storm-dark hair tumbled around a face he couldn't quite grasp. A name he couldn't quite recall.
But his chest burned with every heartbeat, and the cursed mark he carried whispered of a life lost to betrayal and blood.
Part II: The Storm-Blessed Witch
Far to the east, beyond the blackened forests of Vharon'sGrasp and the drowned ruins of Elyric, a woman stood alone atop a jagged cliffside. The wind tore at her raven-dark hair, and her cloak billowed like smoke in the gloom. The sea below churned with violent storms that had raged for days without rest, and in every crashing wave, she heard voices.
Names ,Whispers, Warnings.
They called her Seris.
But the name felt wrong in her mouth, as though it belonged to someone else. In the stillness between lightning strikes, she dreamed of other names. A man's face she loved and hated. A war she did not remember but whose scars lived in her soul.
She was called the Storm-Blessed Witch by those who feared her, and she had gathered to her side the forsaken ,outcasts, witches, seers, and broken warriors too cursed or dangerous for the fractured kingdoms.
But even they did not know the truth.
Seris had been marked long before this life, and though the world whispered of gods long dead, something ancient still moved in the dark, and it called to her.
Part III: Shadows in the Smoke
A thousand leagues away, in the frozen north, a gathering of figures cloaked in ash-gray robes knelt before a cracked, ancient altar. Upon it lay a crown forged of bone and shadow, the last remnant of a forgotten god-king. The air smelled of blood and burnt offerings.
A voice rose among them.
"The Nameless King shall rise. The old world is ashes. We shall shape the new."
At the head of the gathering, a tall, pale-skinned figure with eyes like dead glass removed his hood. His face was flawless, unnatural, and cruel.
Darren Veyne.
Once brother to Kael.
Now ruler of the Pale Court, and self-proclaimed heir to the ruined realms.
At his side stood a woman clad in shadowed armor, her hair like liquid night, her lips stained red as old blood.
Azura.
Alive.
And eager for revenge.
Part IV: The Awakening Dream
That night, as the world moaned beneath storm and shadow, Dren lay beneath the crumbling arch of an ancient oak, his ragged cloak pulled tight against the cold.
He rarely dreamed.
But tonight, the visions came.
A woman, cloaked in midnight, her face turned away. Her voice was soft as falling ash, calling his name, not Dren, but Kael. And with each word, the mark on his chest burned hotter, until it felt like molten iron against his skin.
"You promised me a crown of stars, Kael… you promised me forever."
He reached for her.
But when she turned, her eyes wept blood, and behind her, a wall of flame consumed a throne of bone.
"They'll come for you, my love. And when they do… remember who you are."
Dren woke choking on ash, the taste of blood in his mouth, and a single word etched into the earth beside him in scorched letters.
LYRA.
Part V: A Message in Blood
At that same moment, leagues away, Seris sat in the heart of a storm-split cavern, her followers huddled near flickering witch-fires. An old seer named Maeryn read bones in the dirt, her lips trembling as the shadows shifted unnaturally.
"My lady," Maeryn rasped, "the veil… it shatters. The mark stirs. The old blood calls."
Seris's eyes narrowed. "Whose blood?"
But before the seer could answer, the winds screamed through the cavern mouth, snuffing out the flames.
On the cavern wall, painted by lightning itself, appeared a mark, a jagged, ancient sigil.
The mark of the Shadow King.
Seris's heart pounded.
She didn't know why, but the sight of it filled her with both terror and longing.
And somewhere beyond the storm, the voice she had chased in her dreams whispered one word on the wind.
"Kael."
Part VI: The Pale Court Moves
Atop the frost-bitten battlements of Khorven Spire, the heart of the Pale Court's dominion, Darren Veyne gazed into the storm-swallowed horizon. His cloak of tattered bone shimmered with trapped souls, their faces flickering within the fabric like restless moths.
At his side, Azura spoke softly, her voice carrying the scent of blood and regret.
"The mark stirs. The Cycle stirs."
Darren's pale lips curled into a grin.
"Good," he murmured. "Let them come. We will tear the last threads of fate from the loom and remake this world in our image."
He gestured toward the map of the shattered realms stretched before them.
"Send word to Graven's Hollow. Gather the bone-shapers and blood priests. By week's end, I want Erathe's ruins sealed, and the old tomb uncovered."
Azura hesitated.
"And the girl?"
"The witch?" Darren sneered. "She'll come. The blood always calls to its own."
And in the flickering brazier between them, the flames twisted into the face of Seris.
Eyes filled with stormfire.
Part VII: An Oath of Ashes
Dren stood at dawn's bruised edge, his thirty loyal outcasts silent behind him. The ghost of the mark on his chest still ached, and he knew, without understanding how, that his path was no longer his own.
"Erathe," he murmured.
The word felt ancient on his tongue.
Alenor, the one-eyed mercenary, frowned. "Bad business in that place. They say even the gods won't walk there."
"I'm not a god," Dren said darkly.
Miren, the witch, stepped closer. "You're something worse."
He looked out across the ash-thick plains, feeling the weight of every life lost, every promise broken. He no longer remembered the face of the woman from his dreams, but her voice was etched into his bones.
And he would follow it to the ends of the world.
He turned to his men.
"We march east."
Part VIII: Storm and Shadow Collide
The road to Erathe was a graveyard.
Bones of old battles littered the path, ancient banners still clinging to rusted spears. The very earth wept a crimson mire with every step.
Dren's company moved like ghosts, blades drawn, eyes wary.
But it was the storm ahead that stopped them.
A storm not born of weather.
It coiled like a living thing, lightning streaking violet through unnatural clouds. At its heart, the air shimmered as though a doorway had opened between this world and another.
And from the storm's maw emerged a host.
Cloaked riders, wolves of shadow at their heels, and at their head, a woman draped in night and stormlight.
Seris.
Her eyes met Dren's across the battlefield-to-be.
Neither spoke.
But somewhere deep within them both, something ancient stirred.
A bond shattered by death and reborn in spite of gods.
And the mark upon Dren's chest and the sigil woven into Seris's cloak both flared, twin pulses in the darkness.
Alenor cursed.
Miren whispered, "Two marked by ash…"
And the wind carried a name only the earth remembered.
Kael. Lyra.
And with that, the skies broke.
Lightning. Ash, Betrayal.