The air tasted like iron and impending rain.
For three days and nights, thunder rolled over Eldren Citadel. Lightning darkened the clouds to the color of fresh bruises. People huddled in their homes, doors locked tight, children pressed against their mothers' legs. Outside the great walls, the ground shook with heavy footsteps.
Then the sky tore open.
A tear of purple-black darkness split the heavens above the plains. From it poured a storm of ash and screams. From the center of that tear stepped Vorath the Unmaker, an Emperor-class titan, taller than the oldest watchtowers, its body covered in plates of living shadow. Each step cracked the earth. Its single eye burned cold and bright, like a star fallen into hatred.
Inside the citadel, hope arrived in the form of a young man.
Kael Draven was only nineteen, his black hair wild in the wind, his silver eyes calm and confident. He carried Tempest Reaver on his back, a great sword that sang with lightning and whispered with darkness. His two bloodlines, Storm and Void, danced around him like living things, blue sparks flickering on his armor, soft shadows curling at his feet.
The people cheered when they saw him climb the outer wall. Children waved little flags stitched with lightning bolts. Old men who had fought countless battles felt their spirits lift. Kael raised one hand in greeting, and the roar that answered him shook the stones.
He made them a hero's promise.
From the highest point of the wall, Kael jumped.
He fell through the storm like a shooting star, his sword blazing. When he struck the titan's shoulder, lightning exploded outward in a perfect ring. The lesser beasts around it turned to ash. Again and again he struck, moving faster than the eye could track, carving deep wounds that bled black rain.
The soldiers watched with mouths agape. This was the story they would tell their grandchildren: the day the Tempest Blade danced on the back of a god of destruction.
Kael sensed the titan weaken. He glimpsed the glowing core inside its chest—bright, pulsing, waiting. One more leap. One perfect strike. He gathered every drop of power within him, Storm and Void twisting together into a single edge of pure night.
He smiled. Victory tasted sweet.
He drove the sword down.
And the world ended in silence.
A wave of darkness burst outward, round and perfect, swallowing everything it touched. Thousands of soldiers at the front line disappeared without a sound. Walls older than memory cracked and fell like dry leaves. The cheers on the citadel walls turned to screams.
When the darkness receded, Kael lay in a crater of broken stone. His great sword lay in pieces beside him. Blood ran from his mouth and ears. His bloodlines, once strong and proud, felt torn and empty.
Worst of all was the still body he saw through smoke and dust: Elara Voss, his oldest friend, her silver hair spread on the ground like spilled moonlight.
The city survived. The wounded titan crawled back into its tear in the sky.
But three days later, in the great hall of the High Court, there was no mercy.
The chamber was cold and tall, lit only by pale blue crystals along the walls. Hundreds of people filled the seats: survivors, relatives of the dead, lords from every stronghold. Their eyes were hardened. Many wept quietly.
Kael stood in the center, chained at the wrists and ankles. His armor was gone. His wounds were wrapped in rough cloth. Guards held him up because he could barely stand. His once-bright silver eyes were dull with pain and loss.
The High Arbiter, an old woman with a voice like stone, spoke from her raised seat.
"Kael Draven, you are charged with reckless pride and the deaths of four thousand eight hundred thirty-seven warriors of the Crimson Legion. How do you respond?"
The hall fell silent. Even the wind outside seemed to pause.
Kael lifted his head slowly. His voice was rough and low.
"I thought I could end it alone. I was wrong. I am guilty."
Gasps moved through the crowd. Some shouted in anger. Others turned away, unable to look at the boy they had once hailed as a hero.
A man in the front row stood—Captain Thorne, who had lost his entire family in the blast. His face was red with grief.
"He killed my wife! My sons! He played with lives like toys!"
More voices joined in. The hall filled with cries of pain and rage.
The Arbiter raised her hand for silence. When it came, she spoke again.
"Your skill was a gift to humanity. Your pride turned it into a curse. The sentence is exile—forever. No stronghold will open its gates to you. Your name will be removed from all records. Your sword will be broken before the people."
Kael closed his eyes. He did not argue.
They dragged him to the central square that evening. A crowd waited in the rain. Guards held the broken pieces of Tempest Reaver high, then smashed them against stone until only scraps remained.
Finally, they pressed a burning brand against his chest. The mark of the exile—a black circle of void—burned deep into his skin. He did not cry out.
When it was done, the great gates opened just long enough for the guards to push him through.
He fell to his knees in the mud outside the walls. Behind him, the gates closed with a heavy, final thud.
Rain washed the blood from his face. The night echoed with distant monster howls.
People whispered that the darkness had taken Kael Draven.
They did not know the truth.
The darkness had only begun to shape him into something far worse.