Blood of the First Age Chapter 32

 

Chapter 32  The Legend Forgotten

Time buried the First Age beneath snow and dust.

The kingdoms of old disappeared slowly.

Not with great final battles.
Not with glorious endings.

But through silence.

The shattered continents healed around ancient scars left by storms, infernos, and celestial fire. Forests reclaimed dead battlefields. Oceans swallowed ruined cities. Sand buried entire empires beneath endless dunes.

And humanity

moved on.

Because humanity always moved on.

Centuries passed.

Then more.

The surviving descendants of the apocalypse no longer remembered the truth of the First Age.

The names once feared across the world became fragments: broken myths, half-burned scriptures and stories whispered beside campfires during winter storms.

Most no longer believed the old world had ever truly existed.

The Black Veil became religion.

The Wardens became superstition.

And the kings who shattered continents became legends distorted beyond recognition.

Especially Dragun.

In some lands, he was remembered as: a demon king who drank oceans of blood, a tyrant who commanded storms and a vampire god that devoured entire armies beneath black skies.

In others he became humanity’s last protector.

A cursed king who fought heaven itself to preserve mankind.

The truth had long since vanished somewhere between fear and worship.

Only fragments remained.

Across the frozen north, wandering tribes still carved ancient moon sigils into bone charms to ward away evil spirits.

Mothers whispered prayers to the Storm King during blizzards.

Old soldiers swore black thunder sometimes appeared before impossible battles were won.

No one remembered why.

In the western deserts where Baalania once stood, entire civilizations rose and fell atop buried ruins without realizing what slept beneath them.

Ancient obsidian towers occasionally emerged from the sands during violent storms before vanishing once more beneath the dunes.

Caravans spoke of cursed regions where: shadows moved unnaturally, black lightning appeared beneath clear skies and travelers vanished beside ancient stone doors buried in the desert.

Most avoided those places.

The wise feared old things.

The world itself had changed.

The age of massive kingdoms ended after the apocalypse.

Humanity became fractured: isolated city-states, wandering tribes and fortress nations hidden behind mountains or frozen walls.

Technology slowly returned in strange forms.

Ancient relics from the First Age were rediscovered among ruins: black steel weapons, forgotten engines and celestial machinery no one understood.

The old and new world began merging together into something unfamiliar.

A civilization built atop the corpse of another.

And still

winter worsened.

Every generation grew colder than the last.

The oceans froze farther each century.
Snow buried entire forests.
Creatures from the wastelands multiplied endlessly.

The world was slowly dying.

Again.

Many blamed the heavens.

Others blamed ancient sins.

A few whispered the Frost King was coming.

Far in the northern wastes beyond civilization stood the ruins of Vahsravia.

Or what remained of it.

The once-glorious Moonlit Kingdom of -old East Elyria had become little more than frozen black towers protruding from endless snowfields beneath permanent storm clouds.

No birds flew there.
No sunlight touched the ruins.

Only wind.

Only silence.

Most believed the city cursed.

Some believed ghosts still wandered its streets.

Both were true.

Occasionally explorers searching for ancient relics entered the frozen ruins hoping to uncover treasures from the First Age.

Very few returned.

Those who did often spoke of impossible things: black crows watching from broken cathedral towers, giant footprints appearing beside frozen roads and distant bells echoing beneath the snow.

And sometimes

a pale child walking alone through blizzards.

No one believed them.

Deep beneath the ruined kingdom, ancient halls remained untouched by time.

The catacombs of Vahsravia still slept beneath layers of eternal frost while forgotten moon sigils glowed faintly in the darkness.

And at the center of the buried ruins

the coffin remained sealed.

Einar slept silently beneath ice.

Unchanged.

Waiting.

Not far from him, something else still wandered the frozen depths of the dead kingdom.

Something ancient.
Something loyal.

Mordecai.

The Death Reaper had endured centuries alone within the ruins guarding the final remnants of Vahsravia.

Time had transformed him further: larger, more monstrous less human. 

Black shadow armor fused permanently to his body now while crimson light burned endlessly within the hollow pits of his eyes.

He no longer remembered his own voice.

Only duty.

Yet even after centuries

he remained beside the Frost Heir.

Waiting.

Protecting.

Enduring.

And high above the dead world

Tenji watched.

The Fairy wandered the skies of the new age alone beneath moonlight and storm clouds while shadow crows followed endlessly behind him.

Civilizations rose beneath him.
Collapsed beneath him.
Forgotten beneath him.

He witnessed all of it silently.

Because he remembered everything.

Sometimes he walked among humans disguised as a traveler dressed in white robes.

Other times he stood atop ruined towers staring toward the heavens where faint scars from the Black Veil still lingered beyond the stars.

Watching.

Waiting.

Fearing.

Because Tenji knew something humanity had forgotten.

The Wardens were not dead.

The heavens had not forgiven the world.

And the ancient powers buried beneath the wastes were beginning to awaken once more.

The signs had already begun: black suns appearing briefly during eclipses, entire settlements freezing overnight, ancient creatures emerging beneath glaciers and voices heard beneath the earth.

The cycle was returning.

One winter night, centuries after the fall of the First Age, Tenji finally returned to the ruins of Vahsravia.

Snowstorms engulfed the dead kingdom while moonlight illuminated the shattered cathedral towers beneath the frozen sky.

The Fairy walked silently through streets buried beneath ice.

Past broken statues.
Past forgotten graves.
Past the remains of a civilization that once challenged heaven.

Eventually

he reached the ancient catacombs below the Moon Cathedral.

The silver seals remained intact.

Barely.

Tenji stood before the frozen coffin deep beneath the ruins while shadow crows gathered silently around him in the darkness.

Inside the ice

Einar slept peacefully.

Unaware of the centuries that had passed.

Unaware the world above had become a wasteland.

For the first time in hundreds of years

Tenji smiled sadly.

Then he whispered softly into the frozen darkness:

“The world is dying again.”

The crows stirred violently.

Far above the ruins, thunder echoed across the frozen north.

And deep beneath the ice

the Frost Heir slowly opened his eyes.