The First Thread of the End

The world is ending.

In one year’s time, the sky will split, the earth will shudder, and Vorath-Astra, the ancient god of ruin, will descend to cast all of creation into oblivion. No kingdom, no coin, no whispered prayer will be enough to halt the inevitable. The towers of the mighty will crumble as easily as a child’s sandcastle against the tide, and all that mankind has built will be swept into the void of forgotten time.

Or so the world believed.

But in the depths of despair, where shadows stretched long and hope dwindled to embers, a single spark refused to die. The Celestial Oaths. A promise woven in divinity—a key to the next world, Eterna, branded into the flesh of those who dare defy their fates. A mark that glows like the light of dawn upon a chosen palm, whispering of salvation to those willing to grasp it.

Yet such mercy is never given freely.

The gods, cruel and ancient, forged three trials to test the worth of those who seek passage beyond the end. A trial of strength, where the body is pushed beyond its limits. A trial of mind, where wit and wisdom stand against forces unseen. And a trial of soul, where one’s very essence is laid bare before the divine. Triumph in all three, and the Oath is completed—your life carried beyond the unraveling of time itself. But fail, and the price is yours to pay. And the gods, as the stories go, have never been known for their kindness.

Thus, the land of Castovia stands on the edge of fate, caught in a storm of desperation and defiance. Some chase the Oaths with reckless abandon, clinging to their last sliver of hope. Others resign themselves to oblivion, seeking meaning in what time remains. And then, there are those who walk their own path, untethered by hope or despair.

One such soul is River Crowe—a lone swordsman who does not seek eternity, nor fear the end. For him, the world has already ended once before, long ago, in blood and betrayal.

The young man walked through the dense forest, violet eyes sharp as they scanned his surroundings. His jet-black hair was swept back, though a few stray strands fell loose at the sides, a subtle testament to his restless nature. His black cloak sucked in the fleeting rays of light breaking through the canopy as it swayed behind him. The sword at his back shifted with each step, worn from use but well-kept.

River wasn’t chasing an Oath. He wasn’t running from the end, either. He walked because it was the only thing left to do. Revenge still simmered beneath the surface, and now with the world’s collapse it even felt more justified to chase.

Just as the forest began to settle into its usual quiet, a feminine scream tore through the stillness.

“HELP!”

River stopped.

The sound echoed, sharp and distant, cutting through the apathy he’d wrapped around himself like armor. He let out a breath, fingers brushing the hilt of his sword.

It wasn’t his problem. He knew that.

But his feet moved anyway.

With a reluctant sigh, River veered off the path, his steps silent as he moved toward the source of the scream.