After the fall of the legendary Guardians, the world plunged into silence and fear. The skies dimmed. The people whispered. No one knew what truly happened—only that the light vanished, and with it, hope.

A year and a half passed.

The silence lingered. But in its shadows, change began to stir.

Ava

The grand ballroom of House Vael shimmered like a dream carved in crystal. Chandeliers cast golden reflections over the marble floor, and polished mirrors lined the curved walls, duplicating every noble gesture and shallow smile. Flutes of glimmering nectar clinked softly while musicians played string harmonies no one truly listened to.

Ava stood near the central fountain, back straight, posture flawless, surrounded by gossip cloaked as conversation. She smiled when necessary. Laughed when expected. Replied with elegance. Her silver gown fit perfectly, and her eyes betrayed nothing.

But deep down, she wasn’t really there.

Beyond the velvet gloves and etiquette drills, Ava was a different person. One who kept a mask hidden beneath her bed, alongside dark clothes and worn boots still stained with dust. When the halls of nobility slept, she walked the streets as a ghost—helping strangers in secret, fending off thugs with techniques her family would find disgraceful.

They would never understand.

Her house held traditions like iron chains. Women did not fight. They married well, raised children, and remained silent in matters of power. Ava had memorized every rule by heart—and chose to ignore most of them.

A servant quietly approached, bowing slightly.

“My lady… urgent news. The Tournament has been officially announced.”

Ava’s fingers tightened around her glass. The smile stayed on her lips, but her heart surged.

Finally… a way to make a difference. In the light.

Miguel

The orphanage creaked with life. Wooden beams above groaned from time and wear, and sunlight filtered through cracked windows. Inside, dozens of children ran between old couches and patched rugs, their laughter bouncing off stone walls.

Miguel sat on a windowsill, wrapping a cloth around a scraped wrist. A younger boy stood nearby, nervously holding a wooden sword with a splintered tip.

“I’m sorry I dropped it,” the boy muttered.

Miguel smiled and tousled the kid’s hair.

“Doesn’t matter. You stood your ground. That’s what counts.”

At sixteen, Miguel was one of the oldest in the orphanage. He had become a kind of big brother to all—part protector, part teacher, part troublemaker. No one asked him to take that role. He just did. When fights broke out, he ended them. When the caregivers were overwhelmed, he stepped in. His life had taught him to be strong—not for himself, but for others.

That afternoon, he helped repair a broken shelf, joked with the cook, and chased off a stray dog from the kitchen.

It was a normal day… until a rider came.

Dust clung to his cloak. He handed over a sealed envelope, looked Miguel in the eyes, and nodded before riding off again without a word.

The letter bore an official sigil.

Miguel opened it with callused fingers.

“You have been selected to participate in the Guardian Tournament. Your strength and spirit are acknowledged.”

No expression crossed his face. He folded the paper slowly, stood up, and walked outside.

He stared at the sky for a long moment, clouds drifting lazily above.

“Guess it’s time to stop playing big brother… and become something more.”

Oliver

Their home was a controlled mess.

Blueprints hung from clotheslines across the ceiling. Wooden models cluttered every table. Gears, pencils, open ink bottles, and tea cups battled for space among towers of rolled parchment.

Oliver wiped sweat from his brow as he held up a large plank while his father drilled with shaking hands.

“If this falls,” his dad muttered, “we’ll blame gravity, right?”

“We always do,” Oliver grinned.

His father was once a renowned architect. Age and illness had stolen much of his strength, but not his humor. Their money was nearly gone. Work had dried up. But they managed. With jokes, with small contracts, and with each other.

Oliver handled deliveries, repaired tools, and helped design support beams with more flair than he admitted. He was quiet, observant. Kind. He didn’t seek greatness—only peace. A safe life for his father. A roof over their heads.

Then came the night of fire.

Explosions tore through the outer city. Screams rang out. Creatures—dark, twisted things—emerged from portals like nightmares turned real.

Oliver ran through smoke and chaos, searching. He found his father half-buried in rubble, unconscious. He dragged him out, coughing, eyes burning, hands blistered.

He stayed at the hospital for days.

But one morning, his father was gone.

Not dead. Taken.

No one saw who did it. No one had answers.

Two weeks later, a package arrived. No sender.

Inside: a black envelope and a message.

“The Tournament awaits. Your path begins.”

Oliver didn’t cry. He packed a bag.

“I’m coming for you, dad. And I’m not coming alone.”

Three Paths Converging

As the end of the second year approached, the Tournament became more than a rumor. Magical sigils shimmered in the sky at dusk, announcing it across cities. Crystals echoed the invitation in every region:

“A challenge awaits the worthy. Power calls to those brave enough to answer.”

Ava sat alone in her room, mask in hand, wondering if she could fight without hiding.

Miguel stood in the orphanage hallway, silent, saying goodbye without words.

Oliver looked at a photo of his father on the wall, then turned away, eyes sharp with purpose.

Three lives. Three stories.

And one destiny, waiting to begin.