Smoke choked the skies as Kaelion ran—feet torn, blade slick with blood not his own. Behind him, his village crumbled, swallowed by fire and shadow. No banners had warned of this. No help had come. And the gods they prayed to… were silent.

So Kaelion turned to the ones buried in fear and myth.

Now he stands before the gate—tall, ancient, carved from volcanic stone black as the void. The ruins pulse with an old power, wrong and familiar all at once. His fists slam against the sealed door, his voice raw with desperation.

“Open!” he growls to the dead stone, to the forgotten gods, to anything that will listen. “I offer blood. I offer what’s left of me. Just—answer!”