The Age of Humans and Demons
6. Shadows of the Past
Centuries had passed over the cursed lands of Elthaea. The death that once shook the heavens—the shattering of trust, the betrayal of blood, the storm of lightning and wrath—had not truly ended. It had only shifted, hidden beneath the layers of time, mutating into new forms of cruelty, ambition, and deceit. Kingdoms rose and fell like tides, leaving the earth soaked in blood, their walls scarred with fire, their streets echoing with cries of the lost. Each ruler was consumed by the same insatiable hunger for power that had first poisoned the hearts of men.
In the deep forests of the world, the demons remained, cloaked in shadow and silence. They did not trespass into human lands, did not challenge the crown or sword. Their lives were bound to the pulse of nature itself—the wind in the treetops, the rivers curling over stone, the fires that danced in the heart of the earth. But even in their seclusion, humanity’s hatred festered. With each passing generation, the stories of demon cruelty grew more monstrous, exaggerated by fear and envy. Men hunted the creatures relentlessly, calling them monsters, even as the true monsters often gazed back at them from mirrors of ambition, greed, and cruelty.
The forests whispered of old wars, of kingdoms consumed by fire and rivers running red with blood. Some said the trees themselves remembered Ezrion’s wings, his laughter, the betrayal that had sundered the bonds between gods and mortals. The rivers held the echo of Elthaea’s rage, still whispering through the leaves: a warning to all who dared disturb the balance.
But among the echoes of sorrow, a promise lingered: one day a boy would rise, carrying the weight of gods and people alike. He would guide the world into an age where fear no longer reigned, and rule with a peace long forgotten. Under his hand, kingdoms would bow not in terror but in trust, and even the most broken would find rest and safety.
7. The Gotras
A thousand years after the first blade was stained, the world no longer knew peace. Kingdoms rose and crumbled beneath names carried like curses, bloodlines splintered into Gotras—each with its own shadow, each carving its mark upon the earth. None spoke of them openly, yet their echoes haunted taverns, temples, and war camps alike.
In the north, where black towers clawed at the sky, men whispered of kings who ruled with iron crowns and fire in their veins. Their thrones were built from the bones of rivals, and their reigns ended only when blood spilled thicker than wine.
Further east, children were hushed when the sound of steel rang across the valleys. Blades that glimmered too brightly, as though alive, were said to drink the souls of the fallen. Villages that once thrived on laughter now stood hollow, their hearths cold, their silence broken only by the wailing of unseen ghosts.
In the wild rivers and hidden groves, some swore they glimpsed figures moving like mist—never fully seen, never truly caught. Their touch was the wind, their silence more dangerous than a roar. Soldiers who chased them returned empty-handed, if they returned at all.
And then there were the shadows.
Not the kind cast by firelight or moon, but shadows that breathed, that clung, that watched. Some were faint, drifting like stains on the ground, silent companions to those they chose. Others pressed deeper, wrapping themselves around a soul until man and shadow could no longer be told apart.
It was said a lucky few were guarded by them, protected from blades and curses alike, their shadows moving before danger could strike. But most were not so fortunate. The Noctyra were hunger given form, slipping into flesh, whispering doubts, twisting loyalty until brother turned upon brother.
To see your own shadow hesitate, or stretch when you did not move—that was the first sign. To hear a voice in your head, darker than your own thoughts—that was the last. And when the Noctyra fully claimed a host, there was nothing left but a shell that smiled with your face, while the true self drowned forever in the dark.
They were not men, nor demons, but something in between. To name them was to wonder if your own shadow listened.
Yet not all bloodlines thrived. By the riverlands, a gentler people endured, crafting wonders that shimmered with the breath of storms. They wove art from thunder and light, but when war came, their beauty offered no shield. Hunters came for their blood, for their souls, for the very essence that could be hammered into weapons of impossible cruelty. Their songs were the first to fade, leaving only broken relics and the echo of rain on empty stone.
The Gotras were not spoken of as families. They were storms, shadows, and scars—woven into the marrow of history. To name them was to summon them, and few who had seen their true faces lived to tell the tale.
8. The Kingdom And The Kings
The Kingdom of Veyrath
At the heart of mankind’s lands, towering above rivers and valleys, rose the fortress-city of Veyrath. Its walls were carved from black stone mined from the mountains themselves, and its battlements stretched like the spines of some great iron beast, defiant against both time and sky. Every tower, every parapet, bore witness to centuries of ambition, bloodshed, and conquest. Within those walls, the drums of war never ceased; banners flapped violently in the wind, each bearing the sigil of the ruling Dravemir bloodline.
At the city’s heart, seated upon a throne of cold steel and gold, sat King Morthain Dravemir. Ruthless, cunning, and unyielding, he ruled with fire in his fist and ice in his gaze. Peace was an alien concept to him; he sought conquest as others sought breath. His name alone could summon fear in distant villages, and his enemies whispered it in trembling voices, certain that the shadow of his wrath would fall upon them.
Guarding his throne were the Seven Orryss of Veyrath, legendary warriors whose names were etched in dread across the kingdoms. Each bore a weapon forged from stolen power, a blade and spear imbued with the essence of lives taken and spirits enslaved. Wherever their banners appeared, villages surrendered before a single arrow could fly; their presence alone turned friends to flight and hope to despair. These Orryss were not mere soldiers—they were instruments of cruelty, living reminders that humanity itself could wield thunder blades as skillfully as demons could wield fire.
The Demon King and His Six
Far beyond the reach of human ambition, in forests untouched by greed, the demons clung to a fragile peace. They were not beasts of chaos, as men imagined, but guardians of balance, each born with mastery over the elements—fire, water, smoke, or wind Their powers were ancient, flowing through them like rivers of living energy, a birthright older than kingdoms, older than the memory of man’s first war.
At the helm of this hidden realm stood King Vaelthar, a ruler of wisdom, honor, and quiet power. Around him were the Six Fangs, warriors of unmatched skill. Each bore mastery over two elements: fire entwined with smoke, wind bound to water, flame twinned with storm. Together, they formed a shield against mankind’s insatiable greed, a living bulwark that defended the forests, the rivers, and the sacred groves where demons still walked free
Between Kingdom and Forest
Between the black-stoned walls of Veyrath and the shadowed, whispering demon forests lay the riverlands, a fragile zone of peace and peril. Here, the Eryndra Gotra endured—the Elthaea’s bloodline of all. They lived in palace-isles scattered across the winding rivers, their halls shimmering with light reflected from glass and water, surrounded by gardens and sanctuaries of living art.
At the helm of this lineage was Lady Serenya Elthaea, a woman of quiet strength and unshakable resolve. Her people were blessed with powers that could heal, nurture, and craft wonders beyond imagination, yet they knew nothing of the arts of war. When battle came, their gifts could not protect them—they fell easily, victims to both human cruelty and demon wrath alike.
Yet neither god nor man could claim dominion over them. Coveted by both, they remained untouchable in a strange limbo, living as prey yet untamed, as their blood flowed with power both sacred and terrible. Their survival was a quiet rebellion against history, a testament to endurance in a world where the strong devoured the weak, and the greedy reached for everything that could not be owned.
The real story begins
Ezra: The Bearer of Destiny
9. The Child from the Flow
In an age where the drums of war never ceased, where kingdoms rose and fell under a sky streaked with fire and shadow, a quieter story began—one that the world would only notice when the time was right.
Far along the winding riverbanks, where the waters whispered secrets to the moon and mist curled like delicate fingers over the Bulrushes(a specific type of wetland reed, commonly seen near rivers or lakes), there lived a blind man named Silas. His eyes had been bound for as long as anyone could remember, yet he moved through the world as if the earth itself whispered its paths to him. Every stone, every ripple, every rustle of leaves was a guide. To those who saw him from afar, he seemed less a man and more a part of the river itself, flowing with silent certainty.
One night, as the moon spilled silver across the waters like molten light, a cry pierced the stillness—a cry not of this world. Silas stiffened, listening with every fiber of his being. Far down the river, carried on the current, floated a wooden box, simple and unassuming, yet heavy with something unseen.
He waded into the water, feeling its cool fingers brush against his arms, and lifted the box into his calloused hands. Inside, wrapped in swaddling cloth, lay a boy. Even in his blindness, the man felt it: the boy was extraordinary. Around the child’s neck hung a locket, carved from a stone unlike any the man had known—white as diamond, yet alive with a faint pulse, as though it carried the heartbeat of the stars themselves.
Silas lifted the child to his chest, cradling him gently. Though he could not see the locket’s light, he felt its warmth sink into his palms, seeping into his very soul. A silent certainty washed over him: the river had delivered something precious, something that could not be lost.He named him Ezra
Years passed. The boy grew under Silas's care, nurtured by gentle hands and stories whispered beneath the moonlight. He ran through the riverbanks, felt the wind in his hair, laughed with the birds, and listened to the songs of the forest. Kind, curious, full of light and warmth, he carried himself with a quiet grace. Yet shadows clung to him, subtle and persistent, whispering of a fate larger than his understanding.
He was no ordinary child. In his veins flowed the echoes of an ancient world, in his heart the promise of change. The rivers, the forests, and even the stars watched him, waiting for the day he would rise.
10. Ashes of Peace
Ezra sat by the riverbank, the rasp of his knife whispering against the wood as he shaped a practice sword. Beside him, Thor—the great grey wolf—rested with his muzzle on his paws, ears flicking at unseen sounds, eyes never sleeping.
The world felt still. Safe.
Until the knock came.
It struck the cottage door like a hammer. Ezra flinched, the wooden blade slipping from his hand.
Inside, Silas rose. The old man moved with unhurried grace, his blind eyes pale yet steady. He opened the door.
Three figures loomed on the threshold, their armor blackened and carved with cruel, burning runes—the mark of the Kaelthorn Gotra. Their eyes gleamed with hunger, though it was not hunger for food.
Drevan smirked, his teeth sharp in the gloom.
“Blind old man,” he drawled. “We’re looking for Elthaea blood. Anyone here?”
Silas’s voice came soft, even gentle.
“No, sir. I live alone.”
Morik stepped forward, his voice a blade.
“We’ll search.”
Silas lifted a hand in quiet protest, but they shoved him hard to the floor and stormed inside. Their boots thudded across the planks, rattling the cottage. One stopped, lifting a folded set of children’s clothes from a shelf.
“Whose are these?” Drevan demanded.
Silas raised his head from the floor. His face was calm, carved of stone.
“My nephew’s. He passed away years ago. I… keep them for memory.”
The Kaelthorns exchanged looks, suspicion clouding their eyes. Then Drevan leaned close, his voice a growl.
“If you’ve lied, old man, we’ll be back. And you’ll pay.”
Silas inclined his head.
“I do not lie.”
They left, shadows fading into the trees. The house grew quiet again. Too quiet.
And then fate betrayed him.
Ezra returned from the river, wooden sword under his arm, white eyes bright as pale fire. The Kaelthorns froze when they saw him. The necklace at his throat glimmered with the mark of the Elthaea Gotra.
“He lied,” one hissed.
“Take the boy!”
They lunged. From the doorway, Silas’s voice rang out like thunder.
“Ezra! Run!”
Ezra’s chest constricted as panic clawed through him. He tore into the forest, branches lashing at his arms, tearing his clothes as the three armored hunters thundered behind him. His lungs burned, each breath a ragged hiss. The wooden sword at his side clattered violently against his hip. Terror coiled around him like a living thing—tight, suffocating—until he stumbled into a clearing. Trapped.
The Kaelthorns circled him, blades raised, runes along the steel burning with a stolen, malevolent fire. One of them lifted his sword, the air vibrating with lethal intent.
Then—
An axe whistled through the air, slicing the shadows. It cleaved into the nearest hunter’s skull with a grisly crack. He crumpled, silence following him like a shroud.
The others froze, eyes widening in disbelief.
From the treeline came a roar that split the night. Silas burst forth, twin blades flashing like lightning, each strike precise, savage. Thor lunged beside him, a growl rumbling through the leaves, shaking the very forest. Silas moved with inhuman speed, each movement a storm of fury and control, every strike guided by senses unseen.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. Blood spattered the undergrowth. One Kaelthorn screamed as his lifeblood painted the earth; the last, terror-stricken, fled into the trees.
But victory was not without cost. Silas staggered, a deep slash across his side bleeding through his robes.
“Grandpa!” Ezra cried, rushing forward, clutching the wound, his pale eyes brimming with tears. “Who… who were they? Why are they hunting us?”
Silas’s trembling hand rested on Ezra’s shoulder, firm despite the pain.
“I’ll tell you,” he rasped. “But not here. We must move—now.”
Together, they vanished into the shadowed forest, Thor pacing close, muscles coiled, senses alert. Silence fell like a heavy shroud, broken only by the ragged whispers of their retreat.
Silas’s blind eyes flicked to the treeline, a chill crawling through his bones.
They would return.
And when they did… the real war would ignite.
11. The Shadows Hunt
The forest swallowed them whole. Thor padded silently at Ezra’s side, his fur streaked with ash and blood. Silas staggered, one hand pressed against the wound at his ribs, the other clutching the hilt of his twin swords. His breath was shallow, yet his steps never faltered.
They burst back into their cottage, the faint glow of dying embers still smoldering in the hearth. Ezra rushed to Silas, panic twisting his voice.
“Grandpa, your wound—”
Silas waved him off, binding the gash with steady hands. Blood seeped through the cloth, but his face was carved from stone. At last, he lifted his blind eyes to Ezra.
“We have to go. Pack what you need. Now.”
Ezra froze, still trembling, questions crashing through him like a storm.
“Why? Who were they? Why are they hunting us? What’s happening?” His voice cracked with fear.
Silas did not answer. His silence was heavier than steel. He only said, calm but urgent:
“Quickly, boy. Time is thinner than you know.”
Ezra snatched up his small bundle of belongings and clutched his wooden sword as if it were the last thread tying him to courage. Silas strapped his twin blades across his back, his movements precise despite the blood loss. Together with Thor, they stepped into the night.
They walked beneath the shivering canopy of trees, moonlight cutting silver shards through the branches. Ezra’s breath was sharp in his chest as he trailed behind Silas. Finally, Silas’s voice broke the silence.
“Listen, child. In this world, we are never alone. There are men of honor, and there are men of hunger. Some will save you, some will destroy you. The strong prey on the weak, the rich on the poor, the ruthless on the kind. And the hardest truth of all—” he paused, his blind gaze fixed ahead— “it is almost impossible to know whom you can trust.”
Ezra shivered, his young mind turning the words into knots.
Not long after, the forest thinned into a ruined village. Ezra’s feet slowed. His wide, pale eyes swept across the devastation.
Homes were cinders. Ash drifted like dying snow. Pools of blood gleamed under the firelight, black and silent. A broken toy—just a wooden cart with one wheel missing—lay in the dust beside a shattered doorway.
“Grandpa…” Ezra’s voice trembled, hollow with sorrow. “Who… who could do this?”
Silas’s jaw tightened. His answer was a blade.
“The same men who came to our door. Kaelthorn. And they are not few—they are many. Perhaps already hunting us.”
Ezra’s chest ached. His throat burned with words he could not speak. Why? Why do they kill? How can men burn what children laugh in, where mothers sing?
He clenched his wooden sword until his knuckles turned white, his mind whispering a promise he did not yet understand: I will not let this happen again. Not while I can still breathe.
Then—
A sound pierced the silence.
A baby’s cry. Thin, desperate, alive.
Ezra spun, searching through the wreckage. The wail echoed between collapsed walls until the muzzle.3 shoved into a toppled pot. The great wolf pawed it aside, and inside—trembling, smeared with soot—was a tiny boy, no more than two.
Ezra’s heart cracked. He lifted the child, cradling him close. The baby clutched his tunic, sobbing into his chest.
“Shh… it’s all right,” Ezra whispered, rocking gently. “I’ll protect you. I promise.”
Silas’s face turned toward him, unreadable in the gloom, but he did not stop him. Only nodded once.
They pressed forward, faster now, carrying the boy between them.
Then came the voices.
Distant at first, then nearer—shouts, the ring of steel, the crunch of armored boots. Shapes moved in the dark, torches flaring like hungry stars.
Kaelthorn.
Ezra’s breath hitched. The flames revealed the gardens of Lunewood, once radiant with silver willows and glasslike ponds, now trampled and smeared with blood. The invaders moved like a swarm of locusts, scouring every corner, hunting.
“Where is the boy?” one barked.
“Find the old men. Bring me his head.”
Ezra tightened his arms around the baby, his whole body trembling.
“Grandpa,” he whispered. “They’re too many….”
Silas turned to him. His blind eyes reflected the firelight, and for the first time, Ezra saw something in them—not fear, not weakness, but a quiet storm.
He laid a hand on Ezra’s shoulder and gave him a smile. A strange smile. Calm. Knowing.
“Hide, Ezra. Take the child and hide. This is my burden.”
Ezra shook his head, desperate.
“No! You’ll die, Grandpa—there are too many!”
But Silas’s grip tightened. His voice was low, steady as the river.
“Do as I say. Remember this night. And remember me not as a man who ran… but as a man who stood.”
He drew his twin swords. The steel sang in the firelight, whispering of storms yet to break. Thor growled beside him, fangs bared, eyes burning like embers.
The hunters closed in.
And the blind old man walked into the fire.
12. The Stormx
The Kaelthorn soldiers fanned out in a half-circle, fifty blades glinting in the light. Their armor clattered like a swarm of locusts, their breath steaming in the night air. Thor prowled at Silas’s side, lips peeled back, fangs wet with hunger.
From the mob, a scarred warrior—Morik—stumbled forward, his face twisted with rage.
“There! That’s him! He butchered my brothers! Kill him! Tear him apart!”
The Kaelthorn roared, raising swords as their boots thundered the earth.
But before they could surge—
A voice split the night.
“STOP, you worms.”
The air itself seemed to shiver. The mob froze. Out of their ranks stepped a tall figure clad in blackened armor, his jagged helm catching the firelight. A glaive of obsidian rested in his grip, its edge burning faintly with violet fire. Each breath that escaped his helm steamed like smoke from a furnace.
Gasps rippled through the soldiers.
“It’s him…”
“One of the Seven Orryss…”
“Impossible… he wouldn’t come here…”
The figure tilted his head, lips curving beneath the helm into a cruel smirk.
“At last,” he said, voice cutting like steel. “After all these years… we meet again, Silas Stormbane.”
At that name, whispers erupted.
“Stormbane? No… he’s dead.”
“They say he slaughtered a hundred men in one night…”
“A ghost… we face a ghost.”
But Silas only stood, calm as still water. His smile—a quiet, unsettling curve—made even killers shiver.
The Orryss warrior lifted his glaive, violet fire flaring.
“Enough whispers. I am Veynar, the Ashen Glaive. Tonight, ghost, I will send you to the grave for good.”
Silas exhaled slowly. His hand rose, loosening the cloth around his eyes. The rag slipped free.
Ezra, clutching the baby in the shadows, felt his blood turn to ice.
For beneath that blindfold—there were no mortal eyes. Only storms. White and milky, yes—but arcs of lightning crackled faintly across them, as though a thunderhead had been caged within his skull.
Silas drew both blades. Steel hissed, hungry for blood. Lightning traced along their edges, whispering. The air grew heavy, trembling.
Thor’s growl rolled low, like a drum summoning war.
Veynar lunged first, giving a screaming fire. Silas moved—faster than sight. The clash rang like a thunderclap, sparks spraying as steel and obsidian met.
The forest ignited with fury.
The glaive carved trenches into the earth, violet flame gouging stone, but Silas flowed around every strike, his blades a silver storm. Each movement was too fast, too precise—guided not by sight, but by the storm burning within him. With every strike, lightning licked across his swords, leaving afterimages of white fire in the dark.
The Kaelthorn watched, their cheers dying into silence. Awe swallowed them whole.
Ezra’s heart pounded. What is he? What kind of man wields the storm?
Veynar roared, his glaive crashing down like a falling mountain. Earth split beneath the blow. Silas slid beneath it, turning, his swords crossing in a blinding arc—
A sharp crack.
The glaive split in two.
Veynar staggered, eyes wide behind the helm.
“Impossible…”
Silas’s twin blades sang, carving white fire through the night.
One stroke.
Veynar’s head tumbled from his shoulders. His body crumpled, armored mass hitting the dirt with a thunderous crash.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Fifty hardened killers stood frozen, unable to breathe.
Then chaos. Some dropped their weapons and fled screaming into the forest. Others—desperate, proud, doomed—charged with broken cries.
They never reached him.
Silas moved, and the storm moved with him. His swords spun arcs of light, each step followed by the crack of thunder. Men fell in heaps, torn apart before they even felt the pain. Thor was furious, unchained, leaping into their midst, jaws snapping bone, dragging armored bodies to the dirt.The clearing became a slaughter. Blood hissed on the ground where lightning struck.When silence returned, only Silas stood—calm, untouched, the stormlight in his eyes dimming at last. He sheathed his blades with slow precision, tying the cloth once more across his blind gaze.
Ezra stepped out, pale, clutching the baby tight. His voice trembled.
“Grandpa… who are you? Really?”
Silas only gave that same quiet smile, the one that unnerved even demons.
He did not answer. He never did.
13. Statues in the Dark
The night deepened, black and restless. The forest swallowed the last threads of moonlight, and every breath carried the chill of unseen eyes. Ezra trudged beside Silas, weary and dazed, his wooden sword dragging faintly at his side. Thor padded ahead, silent and watchful, ears twitching at every stir of shadow.
At last Silas halted.
“We will rest here,” he murmured, his voice low and certain.
They had stumbled into a ruined courtyard, half-buried in moss and shattered stone. Dozens of statues loomed in the clearing, worn by centuries yet eerily lifelike—warriors in eternal stance, kings with crowns eroded to stubs, women whose beauty seemed carved from dreams. Their stone gazes followed the intruders like silent sentinels.
Ezra lowered himself to the ground, but the fragile stillness was broken by the baby’s sudden wail. The child’s cry pierced the night like an arrow, wild and unstoppable. Ezra rocked him awkwardly, whispering frantic comforts, but the sound only sharpened.
Silas reached out. His weathered hands, calloused by war, took the boy with surprising gentleness. He looked long at the child’s face, and then—voice roughened by age but softened with something rare—he began to sing:
“In this ruthless world, in this shameless land,
Where war devours both stone and sand,
One day, a child will rise, my son—
To heal the wounds the blade has done.
Sleep, little soul, let sorrow cease,
Perhaps you are the one to bring us peace.”
The baby quieted, his sobs fading to soft breaths. His fists unclenched, and soon he slept against Silas’s chest as though the storm of the world had been banished by that song.
Ezra stared. That melody—faintly familiar, as though from the edge of memory. Did he once sing this to me? Who is my Grandpa truly, that he carries such words?
But hunger gnawed too harshly at his belly, and the questions scattered.
“Grandpa” he whispered. “I’m hungry.”
Silas nodded once. “Then we will eat.”
He returned the child to Ezra and gestured to Thor. The wolf lowered himself beside the baby, curling protectively around him like a living shield. Ezra blinked at the sight—beast and infant resting together, fragile peace born in the ruins of war.
“Stay,” Silas said softly. “Guard them.”
Then, like a shadow dissolving into deeper dark, he vanished into the trees.
Time crept by. Ezra’s eyes wandered among the statues. One in particular seized him: a woman taller than the rest, her robes flowing in stone, her face so flawless it seemed almost alive. The firelight caught her features, and for a moment her eyes seemed to shimmer faintly.
Drawn as though by a thread, Ezra reached up, trembling, brushing his small hand against her cold fingers—
“Ezra!”
He flinched. Silas strode from the trees, a rabbit dangling in one hand. His expression was unreadable, but his tone carried a faint edge of amusement.
“What are you doing, boy?”
Ezra pointed at the statue. “Who is she? Who made her?”
Silas knelt by the fire, cleaning the rabbit with swift, practiced strokes.
“She was said to be one of the most beautiful creations of the gods—an Eryndra Gotra woman, too pure, too powerful. Yet her heart was claimed by a Demon King. Fearing their bond, the villagers whispered of ruin and calamity. Shunned and condemned, she chose exile, leaving behind the only home she had ever known.”
Ezra’s eyes widened, the tale wrapping around his mind like chains. But sleep soon dragged him down, and he curled beside the baby and the wolf, his eyelids too heavy to resist.
Silas kept watch a while longer, silent beneath the gazes of stone kings, before closing his eyes.
Dawn bled gently into the forest. Sunlight spilled through the canopy in golden strands, painting the statues with fire. The baby stirred first, a thin cry escaping. Ezra jolted awake, panic seizing him, before scooping the child into his arms.
“Shh, little one… it’s all right.”
But his gaze darted quickly around the clearing.
“Grandpa?”
No answer. Fear lanced through him.
“Grandpa!”
A rustle of branches, and relief flooded him. Silas stepped into view with Thor at his side, carrying fresh meat and a skin of milk.
“Peace, boy. I am here.”
They ate together, simple food beneath the forgotten gods. Yet Ezra’s mind returned to the tale of the night before.
“Grandpa… that woman—the one who loved the Demon King. Who was he?”
Silas’s lips curved faintly.
“He was the King of Demons. Feared by men, but beloved by his own. Young, strong, and just. Ten years ago, I saw him fight two hundred men alone. He was a tempest of flesh and steel. None stood.”
Ezra leaned forward, hungry for more.
“Why was there war? Who are demons, who are men? Why do they fight?”
Silas’s eyes darkened, his voice turning distant.
“That is a longer tale. One of gods, of betrayal, of bloodlines cursed. You will learn… in time.”
But then he stopped.
From the forest drifted a sound—soft, delicate. A woman’s voice, singing. The very same lullaby Silas had sung, woven through the mist of morning.
They followed the melody.
The trees parted, revealing a waterfall spilling like liquid crystal into a pool of glass. Mist curled in rainbows where the sun touched it.
And at the water’s edge—stood a woman.
She turned slightly, her lips still shaping the lullaby. The air itself seemed to hush, the world pausing in reverence.
Ezra’s breath caught. His heart thundered.
14. Lunewood
The sound drew them closer—a woman’s voice, soft yet carrying, a lullaby woven into the rush of falling water. The forest opened, and there before them, the waterfall spilled like liquid glass into a clear pool. Mist hung in the air, kissed by sunlight until it broke into fragile rainbows. Moss and ferns draped the stones, their green shimmering with droplets. Birds hushed mid-song, as though even they knew this was no ordinary place.
At the water’s edge stood a woman. Her hair fell in silver waves down her back, glinting like threads of moonlight. Her gown was pale blue, flowing like a second cascade from the falls. Her skin glowed faintly, and her eyes—luminescent, almost translucent—bore the unmistakable light of the Eryndra Gotra. She was beautiful in a way that did not seem earthly, like a vision carved from dream and sorrow both.
The song stopped. She froze.
The soft crunch of footsteps had betrayed them.
Her head snapped around, voice rising, sharp and commanding:
“Who is there? Show me your face!”
Ezra flinched, the child squirming on his back. Silas stepped forward from behind the trees, Thor padding at his heel. Ezra followed hesitantly, clutching the baby close.
The woman’s gaze locked on Silas. Her breath caught, her eyes widened—then suddenly she ran, skirts brushing the stones as she threw herself into his arms.
“Brother!” Her voice cracked. “Where have you been all this long? I thought you were lost to the dark forever!”
Her tears fell freely, wetting his shoulder. She clung to him with all the strength of years gone.
Ezra stared, stunned. Brother? His Grandpa, the silent storm, had never spoken of family.
“Brother?” Ezra whispered, wide-eyed. “Grandpa… who is she?”
Silas’s arms tightened around the woman. His voice was steady, but heavy with memory.
“It is a long story, boy.”
The woman pulled back at last, her gaze softening. She looked at Ezra as though measuring his soul. “And who is this child?”
Ezra swallowed, stepping forward. “My name is Ezra. I am… the student of Grandpa Silas.”
Her lips curved into a gentle smile. She reached down, her hand resting lightly upon his head. Her touch was cool yet warm, like spring water after fire. “My name is Serenya.”
Her eyes shifted then to the infant upon Ezra’s back. “And this little one?What is his name..”
Silas answered for him. “A child we found in a ruined village. Alone, but alive.We don't know his name”
Without hesitation, Serenya took the baby into her arms, cradling him with the tenderness of a mother. “So we need to give him a name. I will call him Kaelthas Windfang .Now he is mine now,” she whispered. “And I will guard him as my own.”
They followed her deeper into the valley until the forest broke open into a village hidden in green. Lunewood.
The place seemed almost too perfect to be real—cottages of pale timber roofed with moss, winding bridges over narrow streams, lanterns strung from trees like trapped stars. Children laughed as they played, flowers bloomed wild along every path, and the air carried the scent of pine and honey.
But beneath the beauty, Ezra sensed something else. The people smiled, but their eyes flickered with fear—quickly hidden whenever they looked at Serenya, or at Silas.
The moment Serenya stepped into the village, a cry rose.
“She has returned!”
Villagers ran toward her, some weeping openly, others shouting her name. Old men bowed low, women pressed their hands over their hearts, children gazed at her as though she were a goddess and came to walk among them.And then they saw Silas.
The air shifted. Gasps spread. Some dropped to their knees. A few cried his name as though it were a prayer long abandoned. Others only stared, their eyes wide with awe and terror both.
Ezra’s confusion grew with every step. Why do they look at him this way? Why do they weep for him? Who is my Grandpa truly?
That night they ate in Serenya’s house. The fire burned warm, the table heavy with food—herbs and roots roasted until sweet, loaves of golden bread, fruits soaked in honey, meats tender and spiced. Ezra devoured it like a starving wolf, hunger long held breaking loose. Silas and Serenya only watched him, smiling faintly, as though reminded of someone else from long ago.
Later, when Ezra wandered the village streets, Serenya turned to Silas, voice low.
“That boy… who is he to you?”
Silas’s blind eyes fixed upon the fire. “I found him by a river. Lost, nameless, alone. But he is more than that. He is the child who will bring peace to this broken world.”
Serenya stiffened. “Peace? From a boy like that? How can you say so?”
Silas’s voice softened, almost a whisper, as if speaking to himself as much as to her. “Do you remember the old words? The ones written long before our time?”
Serenya’s eyes widened, heart skipping. She remembered them vividly—the lines etched in the ancient tome she had read as a child, words of warning and hope, carried across generations:
"One day, a child will rise, a light in the shadow of the world. His hands shall heal what swords have broken, and the land shall know peace once more."
She had heard the words sung softly in legend, but never imagined them alive before her eyes. And now… here he was, the boy in Ezra’s arms.
“I thought it was just a story,” she breathed, voice trembling. “A dream written long ago. But this… this is him. It is him.”
Silas nodded, the firelight casting shadows across his weathered face. “Even he does not yet understand. But the prophecy… the hope of the past has walked into the present. He carries it—whether he knows or not.”
Serenya’s hands unconsciously reached for the baby, cradling him gently, as though sensing the weight of what he was meant to do. “The boy… will he bring peace?” she asked, barely daring to speak the words aloud.
Silas’s eyes, though blind, seemed to pierce through time itself. “Yes. And we must protect him, guide him… for the world is not yet ready to meet its future.”
The room grew quiet, save for the crackle of the fire. Outside, the village slept peacefully, unaware that destiny had returned to their midst, carried in the fragile body of a boy who had once been lost
Meanwhile, Ezra walked alone through Lunewood. The village at night was quiet, almost too quiet. Lanterns swayed in the breeze. Children slept in hammocks by windows. The air smelled of woodsmoke and flowers. For a moment, he felt safe, as though he had found the home he had never known.
And then—
A prickle ran up his neck.
Someone is following me.
He quickened his pace, the sound of his steps mingling with another’s—too faint, too careful. His heart hammered. He turned sharply down a narrow path that wound to the river’s edge, the water gleaming black beneath the moonlight.
There he stopped, chest heaving, forcing himself to turn.
The shadows behind him shifted.
And what he saw made his blood run cold.
15.The Rival Appears
The air shifted. Smoke seeped along the path, curling low and heavy. From within it came the sound of footsteps—measured, deliberate.
A shape emerged. A boy, no older than Ezra, strode from the smoke. His face was hidden behind a pale carnival mask, painted with sharp edges of red and black. In his hand gleamed a sword of lightning-blue steel, long and curved like a Tachi, its edge humming faintly in the still air.
He stopped in front of Ezra, his voice loud, brash, almost wild.
“I am Kael Varros! And I challenge you!”
Ezra froze, heart hammering. “W–what? Challenge me? Why? I don’t even know you.”
Kael tilted his head, the mask grinning with painted fangs. “Because you said it yourself—you’re the student of Master Silas Stormbane. If you learned from him, then you must be strong. Strong enough to fight me!”
Ezra stammered, shaking his head. “I… I train with him, yes, but I’m not like that. I don’t want to fight.”
But Kael didn’t wait. With a roar, he lunged, blade flashing. Ezra scrambled back, pulling the only weapon he had—his battered wooden sword. The clash rang hollow, wood against steel.
Kael laughed through the mask, mocking. “A wooden toy? Against me? Pathetic!”
“I told you—I’ve never fought before! I’ve never even held a real sword!” Ezra shouted, barely parrying strike after strike. His arms ached, his grip slipping.
Kael pressed harder, relentlessly. “Then beat me! Take my sword, if you can!”
The wooden blade cracked. Shards splintered in Ezra’s hands. Kael shoved him down into the dirt, blade raised high.
But something surged in Ezra. A fire from nowhere, a strength that wasn’t taught. He sprang up and, without thinking, drove his fist into Kael’s stomach.
The air thundered with the impact. Kael flew back, tumbling hard across the ground, his sword clattering from his grip.
Ezra stood frozen, trembling, staring at his own fist. “What… what was that…?”
He rushed to the boy, panic in his voice. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you!”
Kael lay gasping, then slowly began to laugh. A wild, delighted sound behind the mask. “Hah… you are strong. Stronger than you know. Good. From today on, I’ll fight you every day. I’ll grow stronger than you, stronger even than Silas himself!”
Ezra blinked, confused, then offered his hand. “Why are you so desperate to fight? Why all this anger? And… tell me—who is Master Silas, really?”
Kael gripped his hand, pulling himself up. The mask tilted, voice lowering almost to a whisper.
“You mean… he’s never told you?”
Ezra shook his head. “No. We’ve never spoken of his past.”
Kael’s laugh was bitter, sharp. “Then you know nothing at all. Silas Stormbane wasn’t just a master. He was our Gotra leader…”
The words hung in the night, heavy as a storm about to break.
16. Stormbane, the Lost Guardian
The night was still. Only the river sang, its waters whispering like a lullaby to the stones. Ezra sat close to the fire, leaning forward, his pale eyes fixed on Kael. The mask was tilted back, shadows flickering across his face. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of memory.
“I only ever heard of him from the villagers,” Kael began, his tone low. “Ten years ago, I was just a child—three years old. But even then… Everyone knows Silas Stormbane.”
He looked out across the darkened trees, as though searching for the ghost of that time.
“He wasn’t just strong. He was… our protector. Our leader. People felt safe when he walked among us. He trained men to fight—my father, my brother. And still, he was gentle. He helped the old, carried food for the hungry, played with the children. I remember… he’d lift me onto his shoulders so I could reach the high fruit from the trees. He’d laugh when we chased fireflies at dusk. And when the village gathered at night, he’d sing with his children beside him.”
Kael’s voice faltered, caught between admiration and grief.
“He had a family. A wife… warm as spring sunlight. A son named Rynar—bold, always laughing. And a daughter named Lyenne—quiet, with eyes like the river after rain. The village wasn’t just alive when he was there—it was happy.”
Ezra’s chest tightened, already sensing the storm that was coming.
Kael’s gaze dropped, his hands curling into fists. “Until they came.”
The fire snapped sharply, throwing sparks into the night.
“The humans. They attacked like wolves in the dark. Houses burned. Screams filled the air. Blood was everywhere. My parents try to protect me and the village people . So did my brother. Many died that day. And Silas… Silas wasn’t there.”
Ezra swallowed, the weight of the silence pressing on him.
“When he returned…” Kael’s voice broke into a whisper. “He found his children’s bodies. His wife lying still, Lady Serenya weeping over them. And something inside him… shattered.”
Kael’s eyes shone with the reflection of the fire.
“His eyes—those blind eyes—lit up with storms. I swear the air itself trembled. He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry. He just… moved. He slaughtered the humans that remained. No mercy. No restraint. He tore them apart, one by one, like a storm devouring a forest. Serenya said it wasn’t Silas anymore—it was something else. Something terrifying. She trembled to see him drenched in blood, eyes blazing white with lightning. That day, he carried the bodies of his wife and children into the woods… and vanished. No one knew where he went. No one dared follow.”
The fire burned low. For a moment, neither boy spoke.
Then Kael added, his voice hushed: “The villagers whisper he forged his swords from the souls of his children. That’s why he fights like no other. That’s why his blades scream like thunder when they strike.”
Ezra shuddered, the thought piercing him with both horror and awe. His heart ached for Silas, for the man who had raised him so gently, and yet carried so much pain.
“And when the war came later…” Kael’s voice grew bitter, sharp. “My parents died fighting. My brother ran—coward. He left me. The others mocked me, spat at me, called me the coward’s kin. But Lady Serenya… She defended me. She told them: ‘His parents gave their lives for this village. One day, this boy will stand and protect us too.’”
His fists trembled, his mask shifting slightly as his eyes burned with resolve. “That’s why I train. That’s why I need Silas. I will grow stronger. Strong enough to take revenge on the humans. Strong enough to make them pay.”
Ezra’s breath came heavy, his chest burning with sympathy and anger both. He reached out, grabbing Kael’s hand. His voice was firm, though his heart quivered:
“Then I’ll stand with you. No matter what. We’ll fight together. We’ll learn together. I’ll never leave you.”
Their hands locked, two boys bound not by blood, but by fire and pain.
The moment lingered, carved into the night like a vow.
Then, together, they rose and walked back to Serenya’s home. At the doorway, Silas sat waiting, his storm-hidden eyes glinting faintly in the firelight, Lady Serenya at his side. The table was set with food, steam curling into the air, waiting for the boys to return.
For the first time, Ezra felt the weight of the man before him—not just his Grandpa, but a storm cloaked in sorrow, carrying scars no blade could ever cut away.
17. Fire Over the Village
Days passed. Ezra and Kael trained tirelessly under Silas, mastering swordplay, strategy, and the subtle arts of combat. Life felt peaceful, almost ordinary, as laughter and sunlight filled the village. But peace, like a fragile flame, was doomed to be tested.
One quiet night, while the village slept, a sudden scream shattered the silence. Yells erupted from every corner, jolting everyone awake. Ezra, Kael, and Silas sprang to their feet, hearts hammering, unsure of the chaos unfolding.
Stepping outside, the scene was horrifying. Flames consumed homes, smoke twisted into the sky like dark, suffocating fingers, and villagers ran screaming for their lives. From the haze, terrifying figures advanced: Kaelthorn Gothra's ruthless Gothra knights, along with other deadly guards, attacking without mercy.
Silas’s gaze hardened. “ Serenya, take the children to safety! Now!”
Ezra and Kael look at Silas . “No! We fight with you,” Ezra said firmly. Kael’s jaw tightened. “We won’t leave you alone.”
Silas knelt, gripping their shoulders. “I know you’re ready to fight… but protecting lives comes first. Don’t repeat the mistakes I made before. Move the villagers to safety first, then we can fight.”
Understanding his words, Serenya took the lead, guiding the frightened villagers through hidden paths. Ezra carried baby Kaelthas on his back, heart pounding as he glanced at the burning village behind them. Every shadow seemed alive with danger, every scream a reminder of what was at stake.
Meanwhile, Kael darted across rooftops and narrow streets, pointing the way for fleeing villagers, ensuring none were left behind. His figure was a fleeting shadow of resolve, moving faster than fear itself.
Silas moved like a storm through the battlefield, blades flashing, cutting down the enemy. His swords sang in the night, striking true and deadly. But then, from the smoke, a Nichirin sword shot toward him like a silver arrow. He blocked with one blade—another came from the opposite side, meeting his other sword.
Before he could recover, a powerful strike from the smoke sent Silas flying, crashing hard into the dirt. The battlefield fell silent for a heartbeat, smoke swirling ominously.
From the shadows, two figures emerged, dark and commanding, their presence chilling the air. Kael, observing from above, narrowed his eyes.
“Who… who are they?” he asked one fleeing villager.
“They… they are Morvath Duskbane and Zerath Duskbane—the Duskbane brothers,” the villager whispered, trembling. “Ruthless generals of the Seven Orryss of Veyrath… no one survives them.”
Kael’s gaze hardened, watching the unfolding chaos below. Every instinct screamed danger. The night was far from over.
18. Clash of Storm and Shadow
Silas struggled to his feet, sweat and blood streaking his face. With a swift motion, he removed the cloth covering his eyes. His eyes blazed with fury, white lightning-like sparks dancing within them. Rage coiled around him like a living storm.
Without a word, he charged forward, swords raised, meeting the Duskbane brothers head-on. Morvath and Zerath were formidable—matching Silas blow for blow, their strikes precise and deadly. The clash of steel echoed like thunder through the burning village.
The fight raged like a dance of demons, blades slicing through smoke and sparks leaping into the night. Silas slashed, spun, and struck with all his skill, but the brothers met every attack with their own ferocity. Sparks flew, smoke swirled, and the air itself seemed to shiver under the force of their blows.
Cuts scored across Silas’s arms and chest, blood mingling with sweat, while the brothers too bore scars from his relentless strikes. Every move tested him, every clash drained him.
Then, Zerath landed a devastating punch, sending Silas crashing to the ground. Pain flared, but rage consumed him—he rose again, teeth gritted, eyes blazing.
Morvath seized the opening, sword raised, aiming to strike Silas down. The blade hovered over Silas’s neck, sharp enough to split life itself. But just as it descended, a new force intervened. A sword met Morvath’s with a screech of metal, halting it inches from Silas’s throat.
Kael.
The boy’s hands shook, his body straining under the weight, but he held the sword with everything he had. sweat soaked his hair, yet he refused to yield.
Morvath’s eyes narrowed. A devilish grin split his face. “Ha! A kid? Who do you think you are, little one?”
With a roar, he struck Kael with a brutal punch, sending him hurtling across the battlefield. Dust and stone erupted as Kael slammed into the ground, blood spilling from his mouth. The sight ignited Silas’s fury.
Silas leaped forward, swords slicing the air with deadly precision, aiming straight for Morvath. But Zerath lunged to intercept him, blade flashing like lightning.
Morvath sneered, twisting his gaze toward Silas. “So this kid means something to you? Very well… I will kill him in front of you, just like I ended your children.”
He advanced toward Kael, holding him in one arm, sword poised for execution.
But Silas’s anger surged to unstoppable heights. His aura erupted like a storm, the air around him warping with sheer power. With a furious roar, he swung both swords, cutting through Zerath’s arm in a single, precise arc. Blood sprayed, screams echoed—but the battle was far from over.
At the same moment, Morvath held Kael in one arm and gripped his sword in the other. But before he could finish his strike, a mysterious force punched Morvath square in the stomach.
The impact hurled him across the battlefield like a ragdoll, his body smashing through walls and debris, leaving a trail of shattered stone and stunned onlookers.
The village fell silent for a heartbeat. Smoke and fire swirled, revealing the figure who had struck him. Every eye widened in shock.
