Kingdom of Elvashir — 22 Years Since the Veilfire War
The sky glowed with warm orange and fading gold, casting long shadows across the cobbled streets of Dawnhold, a modest town nestled between hills and quiet woods. Lanterns swung gently on braided ropes, painted with emblems of doves and swords symbols of peace. Today marked twenty-two years since the end of the Veilfire War, and though the edges of the kingdom still whispered of danger, here in the heartlands, joy took center stage.
Children dashed between stalls with sweetbread in their hands, and old soldiers watched with faint, bittersweet smiles. Musicians played lilting tunes, pipes and drums echoing off the stone walls.
"Don't let your father catch you sneaking another pastry,"chuckled a stout woman to a freckled boy,"He'll say peace doesn't mean a war on sugar."
"Let him try and stop me,"the boy laughed,"I'm faster than he was at my age!"
The square was alive. Alive, and unprepared.
The earth gave a faint tremor—too subtle for alarm, more a whisper than a shout. A flock of birds took flight from the rooftops, spiraling toward the dying sun. Then, the tremor grew.
A wind howled, sudden and unnatural. From the northern path, beyond the treeline, a soundless rupture tore through the sky. Smoke, black and pulsing with heat, billowed outward.
From within it, he emerged.
Kael'Ryn. Tall as a nightmare, silent as death. A cloak the color of dried blood dragged behind him, its edges curling in the ash stirred wind. His hair was raven-black, falling past his shoulders in ragged strands, and his eyes - impossibly purple, glowing faintly cut through the smoke like twin shards of dusklight.
He walked slowly, deliberately, each step echoing like a drumbeat of fate. Thud…Thud…
In his hand, he gripped a sword.
Not jagged or cruel as one might expect of a Demon Lord, but beautiful—almost reverent. A long blade of radiant design, yet it pulsed with dark and violent energy. Purple light flared along its edge in rhythm with Kael'Ryn's breath, as if resisting him with each moment it stayed in his grip.
None in Veldenreach had seen such a weapon before. None could name it. And so they called it nothing - only feared the weight it carried.
Earlier… In a forgotten glade veiled in fog, Kael'Ryn had stood before a black stone altar. There, buried in silence, the sword had waited.
When he pulled it free, just for a breath, it had resisted.A shimmer, a shiver—subtle enough to pass unnoticed.
But he had felt it.
"Still not mine… even now,"he had whispered, eyes narrowing.
Now, in the heart of celebration, the Demon Lord halted.
The crowd froze. Children gripped their mothers' arms. Vendors ducked behind carts. Yet Kael'Ryn said nothing. The blade in his hand flickered—then surged with sudden brilliance.
A storm of purple flame and dark wind exploded around him. Flags tore from their poles. Stone cracked beneath his boots. The ground itself seemed to tremble in submission.
Then - a scream.
A trinket stall shattered, sending a wooden beam tumbling toward a small girl frozen in place.
But before it struck - he was there.
A figure cloaked in dusk-gray, hood drawn, moved faster than any mortal eye could follow. He caught the falling timber with a single hand, set it aside, and stood between the girl and the Demon Lord.
Gasps echoed.
"Who… was that?"
"Did you see that? That speed—"
"The Wanderer! It's him… the Wanderer of Dusk."
He didn't speak. His hood masked his face, his presence ghostlike, unnatural. But as Kael'Ryn raised the sword again, the Wanderer's eyes locked not on the demon—but on the blade.
Something about it stirred memory. A flicker. A name, lost in time. But nothing came.
And then — he was gone. Vanished into the alleyways like a breath of wind, leaving only silence behind.
Kael'Ryn stepped forward once more. His gaze swept over the trembling townsfolk.
He lifted the sword.
"It begins again,"he said, calm as the grave.
And the sky darkened with a second, deeper dusk.
—
To be continued…