Nightmares

In the twilight years of the Fifth Cycle of Gods, when the Kingdom of Numeria still stood tall against the winds of time, a darkness unseen and unspoken began to stir beyond the western edge of the world.

It came first in dreams – strange and recurring visions that plagued the nights of King Alaric of House Werner, the ruler of Numeria. The monarch, once unshaken by war and wisdom, now awoke each night in dread, his breath shallow, his forehead covered with cold sweat.

He spoke little of the visions at first. But soon the dreams grew strength, returning each night without mercy. In them, he saw clouds black as pitch, moving in the western sky, concealing the stars. Beneath those clouds moved shadows – vast legion marching in the perfect silence across scorched earth.

And then, the sky would weep blood.

Thick, crimson rain, falling in sheets. Wherever it touched – stone, soil, tree, or flesh – it rotted. Flowers blackened and withered. Steel rusted to dust. The earth itself cracked and screamed. Even in dreams, the stench was unbearable – a reek of decay, wet iron, and death. This rain did not cleanse. It defiled.

And always, at the dream's end, a single soundless scream of a woman, swallowed by the void.

The royal seers could offer no interpretation. The priests called it a trial of the Gods. The court scholars scoured their scrolls and archives – but no answer came.

It was only when historian Maelen, the kingdom's ancient chronicler, delved into tomes older than the throne itself that the truth surfaced: the last king to share such dreams reigned centuries ago at the end of the First Cycle of Gods, during Numeria's darkest war. A war against the Demon Lord and his army.

None alive know from whence the demons first came. The scribes of old wrote of them as a curse upon the world – yet said nothing of who first uttered it.

And his dreams, too, had foretold the fall of a kingdom.

Troubled, Alaric acted. He summoned his Council of Blades, the realm's elite circle of adventurers, warriors, and scouts. With no time to waste, he ordered a small but formidable convoy to journey west – toward the Wastes of Agartha. A land where the cursed blood of demons once soaked the earth and poisoned the sky in his repeating nightmare.

Weeks passed.

Then word returned. What they had seen chilled the court to silence.

The western skies were indeed blackening – not with storm, but with smoke, and banners, and marching feet. Armies of demons had gathered in vast numbers, not seen in any of kingdom's previous wars. Hideous, malformed beasts of war and worse, an air of purpose hung over them.

The convoy had dared to infiltrate their encampment. Hidden beneath enchanted cloaks and covered by shadow, they crept into the heart of the horde. For three days they watched, unseen. On the fourth, a ceremony began.

From their vantage, the adventurers saw a tall, muscular demon, a warlord among monsters, kneel within a glowing ritual circle, while thousands of lesser fiends chanted around him in low, guttural tones. A spell older than memory filled the air.

At the outside of the circle stood a figure – cloaked in a heavy black robe that dragged across the dirt, untouched by the wind or dust.

Its hands, long and skeletal, slipped from its sleeves like bleached branches, skin stretched pale and thin as parchment.

The hood concealed its face, but from within the darkness, two eyes burned – not with fire, but with terrible red glow, like the setting sun at dusk. It did not chant like the others. It commanded and the world around it seemed to obey.

One tent, empty during the ritual, held two things: a round stone relic etched in symbols… and a torn parchment written in the jagged, curling script of Demon Tongue.

They stole both, and fled with haste.

When the ritual was done, a moment of silence fell across the horde. And then, as if bound by instinct or fear, every demon other than the cloaked figure dropped to their knees, pressing their heads to the scorched earth.

Not a word spoken. He had become their lord.

By the time they returned to Numeria, more pieces of the puzzle had surfaced. Deep within the archives, Maelen and the kingdom's High Mage, Alvis, uncovered lost records of a past alliance: one between Numeria and a hero from another world. A being summoned in ancient times, who wielded light-born power and cast back the darkness. Sent by the Gods themselves.

At last, the torn parchment was examined. With time and Alvis's vast knowledge of old demonic dialects, the writing began to yield its meaning. One word stood clearly at the top:

"…… Summoning"

But the words before it had been burned away.

The symbols found on the relic mirrored the very sigils carved into the demon's summoning circle.

Warnings rose among the mage circles. Alvis cautioned the court: This knowledge came from the enemy. Their magic is not meant for mortal hands. It corrupts.

And yet, the king stood before his people, resolute.

"We have no champion. No more time. And no other choice."

So, it was decided.

The air in the chamber was still. The weight of fate hung heavy over those present, as though the very stones of the keep were holding their breath.

For the ritual to succeed, a sacrifice was required—not of blood or bone, but of soul. One life must be given to make way for the one summoned. The relic was to be placed upon the heart of the chosen. If the summoning succeeded, the relic would fuse to the body, binding the new soul within it.

The question remained:

Who would give themselves to the unknown?

Whispers stirred among the gathered. Even the king remained silent, the weight of the decision pressing into his crown like thorns.

Then a voice rang out.

"I will," said Kael.

The room fell to stillness. Dozens of eyes turned toward the golden-haired warrior standing tall among the Council of Blades.

King Alaric narrowed his gaze. "You?" he asked, slowly. "Is this your answer to my refusal of granting my daughter’s hand to you?"

Kael did not flinch. His voice was steady, eyes unwavering.

"No, Your Majesty. I do this because I am the only one in this kingdom without magic. The only one with no family to grieve for my loss. I have comrades I cherish, and a kingdom I love. That is enough."

He glanced briefly at the princess, his voice softening, though his stance never did.

"I have people I would protect—at any cost."

The room was silent save for the crackling torches along the wall.

Princess Zephyr stood frozen, her lips parted in disbelief.

"You're joking… right?" she said with a thin voice. "Is this one of your stupid jokes? Kael, this isn't funny. This isn't the time…"

But Kael did not smile. He did not speak. He only bowed his head and waited.

The king looked away, burdened by silence. He turned to the royal mage, to his generals, to the ones he trusted most—and for long moments, no one spoke.

Then finally, he gave his answer.

"…So be it."

Zephyr turned, her face pale. Without another word while holding back her tears, she fled the chamber, her footsteps vanishing into the halls of stone.

The following day, Kael walked the torchlit corridor with calm steps. The castle's passageways had never felt heavier.

He bid farewell to his companions—his party, the ones he'd fought beside through blood and frost and fire. Each goodbye came with a clasp of hands, a quiet look, and words unspoken.

In the hall outside the ritual chamber, he found Master Ardent, his old sword master and the closest thing he had to a father.

The old man said nothing at first. He simply looked at the boy he had trained, and slowly embraced him.

"You were always more than just a blade," Ardent said.

Kael bowed low, took Ardent's calloused hand in both of his own, and pressed a reverent kiss to the back of it. his voice quiet. "I never would've gotten this far without you."

At last, he entered the ritual hall.

There, waiting beneath the pale light of enchanted crystals, was Zephyr.

She did not speak at first. Her hands were clenched at her sides, her eyes red with what she had not allowed anyone to see.

"I hated how loud you were," she whispered. "And how much you smiled. And how you always got under my skin."

She looked up at him, trembling. "And I hate that you're leaving."

Kael smiled gently. "You'll forget me, Zephy."

"I won't." Her voice cracked. "I'll remember your attitude. Your stupid jokes. Your easygoing attitude. Your heart."

Then, she leaned forward and kissed him—softly, tearfully.

"I'll never forget you, Kael."

He laid onto the ritual circle and placed the relic on his heart.

As the mages with the lead of Alvis began to chant, Kael closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, calmly, and for the first time, perhaps in his entire life, he wished for nothing grand.

Not glory.

Not power.

Only this:

"A quiet life. Somewhere I don't have to fight anymore."