Wings of the Abyss

The sky roared as the Sky Reavers descended, a wave of shrieking wings and shimmering black feathers. Their bodies glowed faintly with ancient runes, their claws sharp enough to cleave steel, their presence oppressive enough to bend the aura of the land itself.

Caelum and Lyria stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes scanning the darkened heavens.

“They’re hunting,” Caelum said, drawing his blade.

Lyria’s breath hitched. “Us?”

“No.” He pointed to the horizon. “They’re not just here for us. They’re after something… or someone.”

A flash of memory struck him—Lyrielle’s warning, the Oracle in the Twilight Dunes.

“They’re trying to stop us from reaching the Oracle.”

The first wave struck.

A deafening shriek tore through the air as five Reavers dive-bombed the outpost. Caelum leapt forward, his sword gleaming in the moonlight, cutting down the lead creature mid-air. Its corpse dissolved into a mist of shadow.

Lyria rolled beneath another, slashing upward with her curved blade. Her movements were fluid, precise—refined through their days of training together.

But for every one they cut down, three more took its place.

“We can’t win this here,” Caelum shouted. “We have to run!”

“Where?”

He pointed toward the cliffs. “There’s a shadow gate carved by the ancients—a fast path to the edge of the Dunes. We take it!”

They sprinted.

The Reavers gave chase, claws raking through stone, their screeches splitting the night like thunder. Lyria fired glyphbolts behind them, explosive shots of light that burst like miniature suns, momentarily slowing the swarm.

Caelum reached the edge of the cliff and pulled a shard of onyx from his pouch. He stabbed it into the ground.

The earth shook.

Lines of old magic spread across the rocks, forming a black archway.

The Shadow Gate opened.

They dove through.

They emerged in a whirlwind of wind and sand.

The Twilight Dunes.

A realm where day and night were eternally intertwined, where the sun hovered just above the horizon but never set, casting long, haunting shadows.

Lyria staggered to her feet. “That was too close.”

Caelum nodded. “We’ll rest once we reach the Oracle. She’s said to dwell near the Mirror Oasis.”

They marched.

But the desert wasn’t kind.

Winds howled like banshees, sand burned their boots, and illusions danced at the corners of their eyes. Sometimes Caelum saw his father. Other times, the girl he once couldn’t save.

Lyria saw children—laughing, running. Her siblings, long dead.

“It’s the Twilight Curse,” Caelum explained. “The dunes feed off memories. Use them to test your will.”

“How do we stop it?”

“You don’t. You endure it.”

Hours passed.

Finally, they reached the edge of a reflective lake surrounded by obsidian pillars—twisted spires that shimmered with ghostly faces.

The Mirror Oasis.

“She’s here,” Caelum said. “I can feel her aura.”

A ripple danced across the water.

And then she rose.

Not from the lake.

From the shadows of the obsidian.

A woman cloaked in flowing silks, her eyes silver like moonlight, her hair suspended in the air as if the laws of gravity bent for her.

“The blade and the fire,” she whispered. “Two hearts entwined in fate.”

Lyria instinctively moved in front of Caelum.

The woman smiled. “Relax, child. I am not your enemy. I am Selendris—the Oracle of the Dunes.”

Caelum stepped forward. “You knew we were coming?”

“I saw it in the Threads of Time. And I know why you’ve come.”

She turned and waved a hand over the lake. The surface shifted, becoming a window.

Within it, a scene formed.

A memory.

The Obsidian War.

Caelum stood in the middle of a battlefield, screaming, holding a dying soldier in his arms. Behind him—Generals, cloaked in darkness, chanting. A massive gate opening. A world devoured in flame.

“This is the truth,” Selendris said. “The war was never about conquest. It was a ritual. A sacrifice. To awaken Him.”

Caelum’s fists clenched. “Who?”

Selendris met his eyes.

“The first Forsworn. The God beneath the Black Sun. The true ruler of the void.”

The scene changed again.

This time, a throne of bones.

And on it, a man cloaked in shadow. His face invisible. His eyes glowing red.

Aura.

Unholy. Titanic.

Lyria fell to her knees. “That… that’s not possible.”

Selendris’ voice was calm. “He sleeps now. But the Sky Reavers herald his return. And those generals? They were his disciples.”

Caelum stared. “Then we’re too late.”

“No,” Selendris said. “There’s still a way. A weapon. Forged before time. Hidden in the ruins of Aetherion.”

“And where’s that?”

She turned to him, placing a hand on his chest.

“Closer than you think.”

A pulse of energy hit Caelum like a thunderstrike. Visions flooded his mind—ancient halls, burning skies, a blade singing with the cries of fallen gods.

And at the center of it all—him.

He was the key.

Selendris staggered.

“What happened?” Lyria asked.

“The link… someone’s interfering. I must sever it—”

But it was too late.

The lake shattered.

The obsidian spires cracked.

And through the storm of shadows, a new figure appeared.

Cloaked in rags. Surrounded by floating skulls aflame with black fire.

His voice was like a dirge.

“You should not have come here, Caelum.”

Caelum drew his sword. “Who are you?”

“I am a whisper. A herald. A curse upon your name. I am Mal’Rakar.”

Selendris paled. “He’s one of the Seven Forsworn.”

The aura around him was so heavy it made the air quake.

Lyria tried to speak—but blood poured from her nose.

Caelum’s knees buckled.

But he didn’t fall.

He roared.

Aura exploded from him, golden-blue fire spiraling around his body like a storm. His eyes burned with the memory of every comrade lost, every betrayal, every war.

“Then come, Mal’Rakar!” he shouted. “I’ll show you what a rebel’s heart can do!”