They emerged into carnage.
The sky above was bruised crimson, stained by the rising smoke and the roaring fire crests of the witches. Dozens of red sigils twisted like serpents in the air, their glyphs screeching with infernal language as witches hurled impossible spells that scorched, devoured, and unmade. Dark magic flowed like lava, churning with claws and bone, spiraling toward Thrain's defensive line.
The frontline knights braced, shields locking, spears igniting. The ground splintered beneath them as one of the red infernos crashed into their bulwark—but they held. A knight in silver-black plate lunged forward, carving a glowing arc with his halberd, cleaving through the first witch with a crushing sound like metal devouring bone. Sparks and blood mingled.
Alistair landed in a roll, sword already ablaze with a shimmering crimson light—destruction incarnate. His blade fractured the air with every movement, carving with heat that melted steel and stone alike. He twisted mid-step, avoiding a torrent of hellish spikes by mere inches, then retaliated—his blade lashing like a whip, unraveling the very ground under the witch's feet. The impact was catastrophic—blood and flame fountained upward.
Arinelle descended in a shriek of shadows, her wings now massive, horned head low, eyes alight with feral hunger. She somersaulted between blades of cursed light, her claws trailing ribbons of black flame. She struck like a predator—silent, sudden, final. Her arms twisted, bones cracking with unnatural elasticity as she plunged her clawed hands into a witch's chest and pulled out his heart, whispering a guttural spell in a language older than the gods. The heart burst into a storm of shrieking crows made of shadow.
Thrain roared from the center, standing tall atop his elephant-carriage, now merged with a cyclopean construct of living obsidian. His stone magic churned through his veins, seeping into the ground as he hurled forward, fists crashing down. A dozen hell-crests collided with his body—and shattered like glass. He swung a hammer the size of a wagon, lined with jagged holy runes, slamming it down onto three witches. The impact forged a crater; flames and limbs flew skyward in a bloody plume.
Meanwhile, Vaerlin walked calmly forward through the carnage. His umbrella spun once—slowly—and then he vanished. A whisper of starlight folded space as he reappeared behind a witch. His punch was clean. Precise. Silent. The woman's spine snapped before she knew he was there. With one motion, he kicked the corpse into the air, flipped his umbrella open, and it glowed with celestial wind. He spun it above his head—meteors of sharpened starlight poured down, turning red sigils to ash mid-cast. His strikes were poetic and blinding. Punch. Evade. Pierce. Lift. Fall. Stars danced with every motion.
The knights of each squad surged.
The assassins of Arinelle's order slipped between dimensions—flickering like candle shadows—emerging behind witches and dismembering them with ritual daggers soaked in cursed wolf's blood. One used her own shadow to tether herself to a fleeing witch, yanking him back into a spiked tree stump.
Thrain's tanks moved like tectonic plates. One knight hurled his shield, which exploded in a quake of runes before reforming in his hand. Another plowed forward, absorbing seven spells at once into his armor, then discharged it all in a cannon-blast of searing stone shards.
The frontline knights unleashed destruction through blades that whistled like torn metal. A trio formed a perfect trident—leaping together. One knight slammed his spear into the ground and sent a geyser of molten light upward; the second vaulted off it, spinning mid-air, cleaving through witches in a rapid hurricane of fire; the third hurled her greatsword like a harpoon, impaling a conjurer mid-incantation, pinning her to a burning tree.
Alistair and Arinelle moved as one.
Alistair parried a strike of flaming bones, side-stepped with his sword scraping through sparks, then hurled his blade skyward. It hung above him, glowing like a red eclipse. Arinelle leapt off his back, claws flaring, shadows coiling up her limbs. She split mid-air—two afterimages diving apart. One plunged a claw into a witch's eyes; the other shattered a red crest with a whip of her wings.
Alistair caught his falling blade and ignited it with a spiral sigil. He plunged it into the ground. The earth shattered in a vast spiral, swallowing four witches into a howling chasm of grinding stone and flame. "Haha! Now this is more like it.."
Vaerlin blinked between five enemies at once. Each witch turned to respond, only to have their throat slit in perfect, sequential slashes. He adjusted his sleeves. "Sloppy," he murmured, glancing at their corpses.
The last wave of witches—larger, marked, their faces covered in crimson runes—arrived in a tide of malevolent shrieking. They summoned towers of skulls, raining lances of black flame that split trees like paper. The captains converged.
Thrain roared and hurled his warhammer like a comet—it struck the tower, detonating in a rain of fire and molten bone. Arinelle leapt, twisting like a wildcat, slashing through the flame as her wings hardened into razored blades. Alistair charged, sword ignited with twin spirals now—every slash decayed the air itself. He parried three witches at once, stabbed two, then vaulted to the last and kicked her head off her shoulders with a spiked heel.
"Witches down!"
The tide ended in seconds. The last witch screeched, clawing her own throat as shadow magic burned through her veins. A final red crest flared in defiance—until Vaerlin's umbrella snapped shut with a soft click, and the sigil folded in on itself, imploding in silence.
The air fell still. Blood stained the grass in rivers. The only sound was the crackling of dying fire and the hiss of fading enchantments. Not a single knight had fallen.
They all looked at one another, breathless, unsure. No one said it—but they all felt it. Something was wrong.
Then Ellira, leaning into Alistair's arms, clutched his collar with pale hands.
"T-They're here," she whispered, her voice thin with awe and terror.
But there were no more witches left to kill.
Alistair smirked, blood streaking his face, and Arinelle cracked her neck beside him.
"Then it's about time," Arinelle growled. "I was getting bored."
Vaerlin stepped forward, umbrella over his shoulder, brushing soot from his collar. He looked around once, then nodded.
"This mission," he said calmly, "was a success."
And in the silence that followed, the soldiers—bloody, victorious, exhausted—readied themselves to return home.
Vaerlin asked, "No casualties..anybody seriously hurt?"
No one was really hurt, some were wounded but not fatally.
….
The gates of the palace loomed ahead, veined with golden filigree and adorned with banners whispering in the dusk breeze. Blood clung to armor and cloth like rusted silk, and every step toward the courtyard left crimson footprints in their wake. Arinelle flicked gore from her claws, wings draped behind her like a living shadow. Thrain walked like a walking mountain, obsidian cracks still glowing on his gauntlets. Alistair's sword rested across his shoulders, the destruction still humming within its edges. Vaerlin led the group at a calm, casual pace—elegant, but deadly.
They didn't expect her to be waiting.
Queen Silas stood just beyond the gates, flanked by Councilor Jethro and two ceremonial guards. The Queen's eyes widened the moment she saw the state of them, and without hesitation, she sprinted toward the blood-soaked captains. Her voice cracked slightly, "Were you wounded? I should've sent the medical knights—"
"We're fine," Arinelle said, smirking. "Just needed a bit of exercise."
Alistair wiped blood off his cheek with the back of his glove. "We've had worse."
Even Thrain gave a silent nod.
But Silas's concern faded the moment her eyes fell on the older woman trailing behind them—wrapped in a torn cloak, her glowing white hair now a matted halo of dirt and time. Ellira Varn clung to Alistair's arm like a lifeline, her eyes darting around the palace walls as if waking from a dream.
"I really need your help," Silas whispered to her.
Then Arinelle snorted, pointing. "Look at this—naked old woman still stuck on Alistair like a leech! Hah!"
Alistair flushed deep red. "Arinelle, shut it—" he hissed, hand shooting up to clamp her mouth shut as she cackled.
Jethro, still by the gates, gave Vaerlin a sharp look. "Was there any witch resistance?"
Vaerlin stepped forward, his tone clear and quiet. "Yes. Coordinated. Organized. Not wild. Stronger than expected. But… no casualties."
Jethro's smile was thin. "Then you're lucky. Every one of you." He turned to Ellira. "There's no time. The summoning of a hero must begin. Now."
They moved quickly, led through the palace corridors—past marble columns laced with silver veins, stained-glass windows casting the hallway in hues of violet and amber, and flickering braziers that hissed softly with celestial fire. The air grew dense with expectation.
Silas walked at the rear, her thoughts quiet but sharp.
'That hair, she thought. Too white. Too flawless. Too… untouched. For someone who claims to be trapped underground for months. And why does she keep locking eyes with Jethro like they've already spoken? She came along with the knights too easily. No fear. No hesitation.'
She glanced at Jethro.
'He usually has his scale. He always carries it. Always weighs those he meets. But today… nothing. No test. No measurement. Just trust. But Jethro's been with me since my parents ruled. He wouldn't—'
She swallowed the doubt.
'I trust him. I do… right?'
The throne room opened before them like the heart of a cathedral. The throne of the gods stood at the back—elevated on three crescent steps, its silver frame wound with roots of emerald and lunar iron. The floor beneath it was pure obsidian, etched with starlight runes. Celestial banners draped the columns, embroidered with the symbols of the kingdom. Chandelier crystals hung like frozen teardrops from the ceiling, and the stained glass behind the throne cast the room in kaleidoscopic fragments of dusk and dawn.
Everyone stood in a wide circle. Silent. Watching.
Ellira stepped into the center. Her expression was vacant, gentle, reverent.
"This must be done in silence," she whispered. "So the world may hear me."
She raised her arms. The blood on her cloak shimmered, reacting to the circle inscribed into the marble floor—devoid of color, but shifting like oil. Her hums began low and guttural, then escalated into ancient cadence, her hands dancing, body moving with inhuman fluidity—each motion unnatural, sharp, entrancing. The ritual felt more like possession than invocation.
She cut her palm, letting the blood drip onto the circle. The blood hissed, was absorbed.
Everyone watched—tension blooming.
Thrain's thoughts churned like stone grinding bone.
'That's no summoner's stance from what I've seen from other wizards before. That's a predator preparing a kill.'
Arinelle's grin faded.
'Old woman's acting too slick. That smell… it ain't right.'
Alistair clenched his jaw.
'This doesn't feel like a call for help. It feels like a trap opening.'
Vaerlin narrowed his eyes.
'Too rehearsed. Too precise. And she's hiding something in her voice.'
Then—her hand touched the ground.
And a red crest bloomed beneath her.
The exact shape the witches used. The exact crimson. The exact hum of dark resonance that echoed through the battlefield before.
Jethro smiled.
And so did Ellira—as black blood poured from her eyes in slow, beautiful trails.
Silas's heart stopped.
Before her breath returned, Thrain, Arinelle, and Alistair were already moving—exploding forward.
Time slowed.
Thrain lunged like a meteor, stone and muscle fused, his armor splitting to reveal glowing seams of power. Arinelle's wings exploded outward as she twisted between shadows, her primal horns igniting with black flame. Alistair, sword in hand, moved like a star collapsing inward, his feet slamming the marble with such force the circle itself fractured underfoot.
Three titans of will, fury, and fire hurtling toward one target.
Vaerlin didn't move forward. He turned back.
He grabbed Silas by the waist, pulled her in, and flipped the umbrella open as a translucent starshield covered them in light. "Get down," he whispered.
A silent boom pulsed outward.
Ellira smiled wider. The blood dripped faster.
The palace floor beneath her shuddered.
The red crest at Ellira's feet erupted in a column of roaring red astral fire. The blast cracked the marble floor like eggshells, sending shockwaves that threw back shards of light and stone across the chamber. The smell of burnt ozone mixed with blood hung in the air.
And then—
A boy stood in the center of the inferno.
Naked. Barefoot. Shaking. His name was Kaelis.
He was around twenty years old, his body marked with glowing red runes that shimmered like celestial scarring across his arms, chest, back, and throat. His short, disheveled crimson hair flicked with embers as if every strand remembered fire. A burn mark stretched jaggedly down his right eye, and his eyes—
Those dark red eyes glowed, then narrowed in panic.
Kaelis gasped. "What the hell—?!"
Everything slowed.
Not just around him. Within him.
'I was just in the shower.'
'I was getting ready to go to the store—eggs, ramen, maybe a soda.'
'What the hell is this? Where the hell am I?!'
'Is this a dream? No—it feels too real. I can taste the air. I can smell the smoke. I can hear my heartbeat hammering in my ears.'
'Did I die? Did I die in the goddamn shower? Did I slip and break my neck?'
'Is this hell? Is this what hell looks like—red fire, glowing cult symbols, and medieval warlords staring me down?'
Kaelis turned, trying to cover himself instinctively, hyperventilating.
Then—
His eyes met hers.
Queen Silas stood among the chaos. Pale skin flushed with panic. Royal dress torn slightly from the earlier blast. A small trickle of blood from her temple. But her eyes were fixed on him. Unmoving. Unblinking.
And Kaelis—froze.
He didn't know her.
It was as if everything else slowed around them—frozen banners, floating ash, cracked glass glinting midair, and only the two of them existed in that moment.
He whispered in his mind:
'She's gorgeous…'
But before either could speak—
BOOM.
Another blast detonated from the broken crest. Smoke billowed, darker than before, like bloodied ink spilling into water.
And as it cleared—
Two figures stood at the heart of the chaos.
Jethro.
And beside him, no longer cloaked or frail, stood Ellira—or what she had become.
Naked, unashamed, her long white hair now glowing like spun starlight, floating unnaturally upward like it remembered the heavens. Her body, untouched by time, was laced with silver scars and symbols, her skin radiant like bleached bone. Her eyes were abyssal voids, and her smile was ancient.
Jethro's voice echoed across the throne room.
"Ys'Viruna," he said, addressing her with a reverence none had heard from him before. "The Hollowbride. At last."
The captains stared, dumbfounded. Vaerlin's face turned pale, his grip on Silas tightening.
Thrain snarled, fists clenched so tight his gauntlets cracked. "Of course.."
Arinelle whispered, "What the fuck is this?"
Alistair stepped forward. "Jethro—you've lost your mind. Is this a coup? Are you trying to take the crown?!"
Jethro turned slowly, calmly. His expression neutral, yet thunderous.
"No," he said. "This is a revelation."
He stepped forward, looking at them all, as if unveiling a long-prepared stageplay.
Jethro's Voice Shifted. Smooth. Stern. Sermonic.
"Before time, there was only Aeonhal—the Void Unwhispering."
"It was not light. It was not dark. It was not even absence. It was Silence—unaware of itself.
And then came the First Breach—a tear in the fabric of silence.
Through that tear came Xal'Zaneth, the Black Sphere—not a god. Not an object. But a thought… dreaming itself awake.
Entropy, given consciousness.
From Xal'Zaneth's dreaming came echoes—divine vibrations shaped by will, fear, and wonder. The first gods were not born—they were sung into being. From its dreaming came fire."
The room dimmed. Jethro's voice darkened.
"The First Choir rose…"
"Viremon, the Forgeheart, god of divine order."
"Seladrine the Pale, memory and snow—keeper of what once was."
"Al'Duranox, the Flame-Tyrant, the first to rebel."
"And Therissha, the Aetherroot, goddess of awe and wonder… and the only one who fell in love with chaos."
"They made Yll'Kaem—a realm of flame and glass. But the gods grew curious. They shaped life. They birthed you mortals—humans, elves, beasts."
He glanced at Silas now.
"Therissha gave the divine spark—The Heart of God—to her mortal bloodline."
Silas.
"You. You are the spark they fear."
He stepped forward again, arms spread.
Jethro's voice turned cold now. Sharp. "And beneath all of this, your kingdom was built atop the one place where divinity still sleeps: Escharon—the Shatter-Point."
He looked to the others now.
"You've all stood before the Statue of He Who Waits—the petrified form of Viremon, the original King of Creation. Locked in stone after his final rebellion. Place the Crown upon him… and the breach will open again. The Sphere will awake. This world will be remade, cleansed of mortality, returned to divinity."
Silence.
Then a whisper from Vaerlin: "You've been planning this."
Jethro nodded. "For decades. I earned your trust. I served her parents. I fed you lies."
He looked at Silas.
"You wanted to summon a man with no royal ties—someone the gods couldn't possess. I gave you that option."
"I killed your parents. To make sure you would become alone and desperate."
Silas's legs gave out.
She fell to her knees, tears flowing down her cheeks in silence, her own crown nearly toppling off. "I trusted you…"
Jethro continued.
"I made sure Silas would be alone, afraid, surrounded by whispers of fate and war. I gave her the illusion of agency. And now, she's brought me the final piece. The Crown in which she's hiding within this castle."
Kaelis was still standing, wide-eyed, trembling, lips parted.
His mind screamed:
'What is really happening…?'
'Why am I here?'
'Why am I naked?'
'Did I die? Am I still dying? Are these people actually real?!'
His heart pounded so fast he could barely hear the rest. The glowing crest beneath him still pulsed faintly.
He wanted to scream—but he couldn't.
Not yet.
Silas stared forward, blank, shattered. No words. Just betrayal. Just grief.
The throne room, once the holiest chamber in all of the kingdom, now burned with red light and ancient truths.
And before them all stood Jethro and Ys'Viruna, the Hollowbride.
The Witch Queen.
Silas' voice cracked as she choked out, "How could you… Jethro…? My father trusted you. My mother sang to you."
Her sobs echoed faintly beneath the creaking stone silence of the great hall. Even the flames in the sconces seemed to dim at her words.
The knight captains scoffed behind her, eyes hard, blades drawn.
"You disgrace the order of the kingdom," snarled Vaerlin, voice cold as steel. "You were one of us."
Ys'Viruna's voice slithered in, venomous and haunting, her snow-white hair spilling like bloodless flame around her. She raised her hands, careless of her nakedness, speaking with an unsettling calm.
"I..I didn't mean to summon him, Jethro," she said, eyeing Kaelis like an insect under glass. "I meant to summon a beast. A champion of hell. A wolf born of infernal blood. One who would burn your kingdom to ash. It took me a long time to try and connect myself to Hell, where me and my coven's power comes from."
She looked Kaelis up and down with a frown. "Not… this boy. Not this. I don't know what he is."
Jethro stepped forward, solemn yet sharp. "It's alright. He doesn't matter."
Kaelis flinched at that, still covering himself, glowing red runes pulsing softly around his naked body.
"I've come too far," Jethro continued. "Too close. Your family trusted me, Silas. Your parents made me a steward. Gave me access to the chamber's seal. I know how to break it now with Ys'Viruna's power.
He turned to Ys'Viruna and placed a firm hand over her heart. "You'll marry my brother Viremon soon. You won't be left behind. You or your coven."
Gasps and growls erupted in the room.
Jethro spoke louder. "The witches never started with madness. They sought justice. To end the rot of kings and queens who ruled with smiling cruelty and sacred chains. They fought evil with evil. Burned the pure to strike at the corrupt. They didn't want to be left behind to die. So I have promised a place for them in the New World when my brother awakens, for her helping me gather the divine crown."
A hush fell over the room like the breath before a landslide.
Jethro raised a hand, etched with rings shaped like twisting thorns.Silas whispered, voice hoarse and shattering, "You killed my parents…"
"Yes," Jethro said flatly. "Because I had to."
"Okay….What the fuck is going on?!" Kaelis finally screamed.
The room froze. His voice rang out like a blade against a cathedral bell. "Somebody tell me! Where the hell am I?! What is this?! Why am I here?! This can't be a dream…it's all too real, feels to real. It's cold in here..I'm still hungry..I'm still weary..and no one's saying anything.
He was shivering, furious, raw—his eyes wild with primal confusion and fear. He clenched his fists to his chest, trying to hide the glowing runes. "I was in the shower! I was gonna get food! Now I'm—naked, in a throne room, covered in red glowing bullshit, and this freak says I'm supposed to be a demon wolf?"
Arinelle, Thrain, Alistair, Silas, Vaerlin, all were too focused on Jethro, and also trying to figure out what is going on also with Kaelis.
His breath came ragged. He felt like screaming or throwing up or breaking everything around him.
Silas turned to him, tear-streaked and silent. Their eyes locked again. Time slowed. The world blurred around them like smeared paint.
Then—
BOOM.
Red crests ignited around the room like crimson stars falling from above. Cracks in reality tore open. From them, crawled horrors—demonic beasts on flame-wreathed limbs, witches robed in black flesh, shrieking spells in forgotten tongues.
Jethro and Ys'Viruna walked calmly through the chaos, heading for the Crown Chamber.
Vaerlin roared, his blade already flashing. "Knight captains! With me! Protect Her Majesty! Stop the traitor!"
The knight captains did not hesitate. Blades sang. Shields slammed. Arrows hissed. War burst inside the throne room like a thunderclap.
Thrain, towering and unmoving, activated his divine armor—the stone encasing his body in jagged plates of living rock. He stomped forward, grabbed Kaelis with one arm and Silas with the other, and charged through the broken columns.
"No!" Kaelis cried. "Let me go! I'm not—what is this?!"
"Silence," Thrain growled, holding him like a child.
"Who are you?! I didn't ask for this!"
"No one does. Loyalty is not built on desire."
Silas said nothing, tears still running freely down her cheeks as she clung to her crown, her entire body trembling.
The throne room behind them burned with screaming and blood, witches clashing with knights, the stained-glass windows shattering with each infernal blast. Shadows twisted with red lightning, and through it all, Jethro and Ys'Viruna vanished into the depths, toward the crown's resting place.
The war had begun.