Past
As the Aspect carved his way through the battlefield, the radiant light from his golden armor shone like a beacon in the darkness beneath the ashen sky. Each strike was guided by an unshakeable purpose - the will of the Unyielding Hand. Every swing of his blade was a prayer to the Lord of Duty, whose divine strength fortified his own.
His fight was not for glory, but for the promise of peace. He fought for the innocents of this world, the ones hiding behind the crumbling walls left by this war, the ones whispering prayers to the gods. His duty was to protect the ones ravaged by this war of the higher beings.
He did not question the pain in his limbs or the weight of his armor. Each scar was a story of duty fulfilled. Every comrade lost was a reminder of the price of loyalty - a price he paid willingly. In the quiet moments between battles, he would kneel in prayer. In his prayers, he seeked neither reward nor recognition.
Only the strength to rise again.
Villages sang of his deeds, temples carved his likeness into their walls, and kings bent the knee in recognition of his service. Still, none of it touched him as deeply as the simple gratitude of a saved life, the thanks of a child spared from war.
To falter was unthinkable. He was the sword of the light - unyielding and resolute. Even in the darkest moments, when hope seemed a distant star, he held fast. Duty above all, he would tell himself. Justice above all.
And yet, darkness is patient.
It began as a whisper - so faint he mistook it for his own breath in the cold.
Why must you fight endlessly? Does the world deserve your sacrifice?
He dismissed it without thought. The world was flawed, yes, but it was worth saving. He had seen too many innocents suffer, too many lives shattered by cruelty. He would not falter.
I understand your pain. You deserve rest.
The voice was softer now, almost kind. He hesitated for the briefest moment but forced it away. He had no need for comfort.
How many times have you bled for them? Will they even remember your name?
Still, he paid it no mind. His name did not matter. Only the work did. Only the cause. But the voice did not leave. It lingered, a shadow at the edge of thought, patient and quiet.
Does your cause even matter? Or is it all futility? The gods say they’re saving the world, but how many have died in their wake? They send you to die for nothing.
The Aspect tightened his grip on his sword. He shook his head, but the words lingered.
The voice grew louder, more familiar. It echoed his thoughts. Was it his own voice? Or something else?
He sought counsel, but every answer seemed hollow. He uttered prayers, but they didn’t calm his mind. His calls to the heavens were met with silence. Once, in the heart of battle, he cried out for strength - and nothing answered. His once bright eyes dimmed under the weight of all his questions, all without answer.
Days blurred into nights. Each battle he fought felt more pointless, every victory hollow. And the voice - the voice became a companion, always near.
Your comrades and the gods cheer for you now, but how long before they betray you? Before they forget you?
The Aspect clenched his fists. “They would not… they are good.”
Are they? It isn’t loyalty that keeps your comrades by your side. They do not appreciate your scars, they are scared of the stories they tell. The gods call you an Aspect, but they would cast you aside if it suited them. You are a sword to be wielded, nothing more.
He began to notice the fear in the eyes of his comrades - not of their enemies, but of him. Whispers in the dark. Glances exchanged when they thought he wasn’t watching. The Aspect, once a savior, now felt like a destroyer.
Why protect those who do not understand your sacrifice?
One sleepless night, he stood at the edge of a cliff, looking out over a sleeping nation. The stars above seemed distant, cold.
“Why must I always be the one to bleed?” he whispered into the wind.
Because he bids it. You are not a savior. You are a tool. An instrument of his order, serving his will. And you obey. Like a puppet on strings.
The words struck deeper than any blade.
But you could cut those strings. You could end the cycle. No more waiting, no more wars. Peace - true peace. If only you had the strength to take it.
Deeper into the night and his thoughts, sleep finally found him. And in the darkness behind his lids, he saw a throne of fire and iron, a crown forged in bones, and the world - silent, still, obedient.
He opened his eyes with a shudder. “No… I will not betray him.”
He has already betrayed you. He asks for sacrifice, but gives nothing in return. You are strong, but he keeps you weak. Why?
Silence.
Because he fears you.
The Aspect staggered back, as if struck.
“He… fears me? No. No, he cannot. He is the light.”
And even light casts shadows.
That night, the Aspect did not sleep. He stared into the dark sky until dawn, and even the rising sun could not chase away the growing shadow within him.
“Why must I bleed for a world that will one day forget my name?”
“Why must I fight wars that bring no peace?”
“Why am I abandoned when I need you most?”
There were no answers that could soothe the storm within the man. Only silence.
And in that silence, his blade found its mark. Steel met flesh, and the world seemed to shatter.
The blade drove deep, piercing through armor, through the divine heart that once filled him with purpose. Light burst from the wound like a dying star, searing the air, but it did not stop him. His hands did not falter. The god before him staggered, the weight of betrayal heavier than any mortal wound.
As he stood before his god, his breath was ragged and his muscles trembled - not from battle, but from the enormity of what he had done. He had come seeking answers, driven by the questions that tore at his soul. This had been the only answer that offered him any satisfaction.
The god crumbled to one knee, his white gauntlet clutching the mortal wound, yet no wrath came. No divine retribution. Nothing but a single look - one of profound sorrow.
That single look was enough to almost break the man.
But the voice, his companion in the dark, coiled tighter around his thoughts.
See how easily he falls. See how frail your gods are. He would have let you die forgotten.
His grip on the sword tightened.
Finish it. Let the old order die. You are stronger now.
The light shining from the god dimmed, suffocated by the presence which now loomed behind the man. The shadows on the walls flickered unnaturally, cast by no flame. The air grew cold as the world seemed to shrink to this single moment.
But the god did not rise. He did not fight. He only looked up - not in anger, but in mourning.
“You were my greatest hope,” the god whispered with a voice like the warmth of a dying star. “And now, my greatest failure.”
A flicker of hesitation burned in the man’s chest - but it was smothered.
No, the voice urged, soft and venomous. You are not his failure. You are their reckoning.
The sword twisted.
Light died.
And in the aftermath, silence reigned. But it was not the silence of peace.
It was the suffocating stillness of something broken beyond repair.
And in that stillness, dark wings began to unfurl.
Steel crashed against claws, and the sky trembled. The fallen met the platinum dragon in the heart of the storm, his abyssal blade crashing against its talons. Light and darkness fought, soaring higher as they circled each other.
“You shame the oath you swore!” the dragon’s voice thundered, rage fueling each word. “You killed him! Butchered the hand that raised you!”
The fallen’s laugh was hollow, like a sword dragging across stone. “I was his sword. And he left me to rust. Now, I am the hand that will unmake all he stood for. You will not stop me.”
With a roar that echoed the storm around them, the dragon lunged. Raking against blackened armor, radiant sparks scattering as claws met steel. The fallen retaliated, his blade biting deep, staining platinum scales with blood.
“The gods fought to save this world. Died for it!” the dragon snarled, wings kicking up the winds. “And you spat on that sacrifice!”
“Their sacrifice? No. They sacrificed us. Look around you! They tore the world apart to save it. Cities reduced to rubble, fields scorched to dust. How many lives were a fair price for their victory? And when the war was over, they turned away. Tell me, wyrm—was I a hero or a weapon to be discarded?”
The fallen surged forward, his sword arcing high. The dragon recoiled, but the sword found its mark just the same.
“This world groans beneath their so-called salvation,” the fallen hissed, circling the dragon. “But I will bring it peace. No more war. No more suffering. Only silence. Eternal and pure.”
“You call slaughter peace? You are a fool!” the dragon roared, voice cracking with fury. “There will be nothing left but ash!”
“Ash cannot suffer. Ash cannot betray. And in that stillness, there will finally be peace.”
Blow after blow, the fallen drove the dragon back. With heavy strikes, he sent the dragon falling from the sky, crashing into the ground below.
Around them, the earth quaked as armies clashed - demons howled their abyssal tongue, mortals screamed prayers into the wind. But none dared approach the titans locked in battle.
The fallen stood above the platinum dragon, raising his abyssal blade for the killing strike.
Then, the heavens screamed.
With a roar to match the storm around them, another dragon descended - scales of chromatic obsidian, eyes burning with fury. The sister had come.
She fell upon the fallen with a vengeance. Chromatic fury met the blackened blade, claws and fangs tearing through abyssal armor. The fallen staggered, driven back.
The platinum dragon rose beside her, battered but unyielding. Together, they struck - chromatic and radiant energies intertwined - an onslaught that even the power of the Abyss could not endure.
The fallen staggered beneath their assault. Every strike shattered his defenses, every roar drove him further back. His blade faltered. His armor fractured.
He screamed, his wings flaring with dark power - but it was not enough.
A tail, heavy as judgment, slammed him into the ground. Radiant breath seared his flesh, chromatic fury tore through him.
Yet death did not claim him.
The gods offered no such mercy. They forged a prison and sealed the darkness, the fallen - and all who followed - into the deepest parts of the abyss, beyond mortal reach, beyond time.
Locked in darkness, forgotten by the world he once bled for.
And so, silence returned to the world.
But the Abyss is patient.