Before the continent of Elyria
Before the Kingdoms of Iliryo.
Before the desert kingdom.
Before Roan.
There was the sea.
And there were chains.
The winds over the western ocean had turned cruel that season.
Black waves battered the hull of The Dagger of the Deep, a massive slaver vessel owned by the vampire nobles of Eliryo ancient aristocrats who traded not only in flesh, but in magic itself.
To them, powerful sorcerers were more valuable alive than dead.
Mages became weapons.
Immortals became trophies.
And creatures touched by ancient bloodlines became prisoners to be studied, dissected, or enslaved.
Deep within the ship’s iron belly sat Azhar ibn Sahir.
Or as his captors mockingly called him:
Saruun.
The exile.
The chained desert dog.
The last known Magus of the Ebon Circle.
In the burning wastes of the Empire of Baalania, stories still whispered of the hidden Magi Men of the Desert an ancient secretive order that guarded the Old Magic, powers older than kings, demons, and empires themselves.
Unlike the zealots of Baalania who worshipped the demon-god Baal openly, the Ebon Circle rejected demon worship entirely. They believed magic should remain in balance with the natural world, not chained to monstrous entities.
For that belief, they were hunted nearly to extinction.
Azhar had survived where others had not.
For nearly three centuries.
Forbidden rites and desert sorcery had slowed his aging, preserving him in the appearance of a man barely entering middle age. But immortality had never been a gift.
It was endurance.
A punishment measured in centuries.
Now even that power had been stripped away.
Runed iron chains wrapped around his wrists and throat, suppressing his connection to sand, shadow, and flame. Arcane crystals embedded into the ship hummed constantly with anti-magic frequencies that gnawed at every sorcerer imprisoned below deck.
The ship smelled of blood, saltwater, rust, and despair.
The vampire nobles of Eliryo did not simply conquer enemies.
They collected them.
Rare beings became symbols of status among immortal courts.
And in the belly of The Dagger of the Deep sat five such captives from the farthest corners of the world.
Five monsters.
Five survivors.
Five stolen legends.
The first was Azhar himself:
The desert sorcerer who commanded sandstorms and black magic beneath the burning suns of Baalania.
The second sat suspended within a great silver birdcage hanging from the ceiling rafters.
Yuki Tsukishiro.
雪月白.
“Snow Moon White.”
At first glance, he appeared fragile.
Too beautiful to belong in such darkness.
He sat in complete stillness, dressed in flowing white robes blending ancient kimono and celestial hanfu, untouched by dirt or blood despite weeks aboard the ship. Long black hair flowed down his back like liquid night, contrasting impossibly against pale skin luminous as moonlit snow.
His silver-dark eyes remained calm.
Almost distant.
The sailors feared him more than the others.
Azhar did not understand why.
Not yet.
The third prisoner was Azariel the Cinderborn.
Even chained, he radiated heat.
An iron mask covered the lower half of his face to suppress the elemental fire bound inside him, yet faint orange cracks still pulsed beneath bronze skin like molten stone beneath ash. His long gray hair flickered occasionally at the tips like dying embers.
Every breath from him smelled of smoke.
The crew kept holy water nearby whenever entering his cell.
Azariel spent most nights laughing bitterly to himself.
“All kingdoms burn eventually,” he would mutter through the mask.
“Some simply take longer.”
The fourth prisoner was Korrun the Stone-Blooded.
A giant mountain warrior whose skin resembled cracked granite layered over muscle and scars. Iron spikes had been driven directly through parts of his body to anchor him against the ship’s floor.
He barely moved.
Barely spoke.
Yet whenever the ship shook during storms, the wood around his chains splintered slightly—as though the earth itself strained against his captivity.
The fifth was Vorstag the Iron-Eater.
A frost giant from northern wastelands beyond mortal maps.
Twice the size of ordinary men, pale blue skin covered in scars and ritual markings. Massive iron restraints locked his jaws partially shut because of the stories surrounding him:
That he could consume metal itself.
And forge weapons from the frozen furnace inside his stomach.
The crew fed him scraps of rusted iron instead of food.
Vorstag endured silently.
Watching.
Waiting.
Together they formed a collection of nightmares.
And the vampire nobles adored it.
Above deck, nobles often descended below simply to observe them like exotic beasts.
They discussed prices.
Uses.
Experiments.
Azhar sat silently among dozens of broken captives.
Waiting.
Watching.
Enduring.
Because the desert did not raise cowards.
Then he saw the cage.
It hung suspended from the rafters like some grotesque ornament crafted for royalty.
A giant birdcage forged from silver and moonsteel.
Inside sat a pale figure dressed entirely in white.
At first Azhar mistook him for a noble.
Then he looked closer.
The figure’s posture was impossibly still.
Not human stillness.
Something older.
Long black hair flowed around him like liquid night, untouched by the filth and salt of the ship. His skin seemed faintly luminous even in darkness, smooth and pale as snowfall beneath moonlight.
His robes were unlike anything Azhar had ever seen.
Layered garments blending the elegance of ancient eastern courts with something almost celestial white silk embroidered with silver patterns resembling feathers, clouds, and stars.
A faint silver crescent shimmered upon his brow.
And though his face appeared young
his eyes did not.
They held the exhaustion of centuries.
The other prisoners avoided looking directly at him.
The slavers feared him most.
That alone interested Azhar.
“Who is he?” Azhar finally asked one of the chained prisoners nearby.
The old prisoner whispered carefully:
“Sky Folk…”
Another muttered fearfully:
“Moonborn.”
Then someone else spoke the true name in almost reverence.
“Tsukishiro.”
The slavers called him a crow sorcerer.
They were wrong.
Tsukishiro belonged to the Tenkūjin the Sky People.
Known in forgotten eastern tongues as the Tiānrén, celestial beings who dwelled in floating domed cities above the clouds. To ordinary humans they resembled immortal elves or divine spirits.
Slender.
Graceful.
Ageless.
The Sky People stopped aging entirely after reaching maturity, allowing some to live hundreds or even thousands of years.
Their society was ancient and collective, functioning with eerie harmony like colonies of bees or ants. Individuality existed, but devotion to balance and order came first.
Many humans worshipped them mistakenly as gods.
Others hunted them.
Because Sky Folk blood carried immense magical value.
Especially to the vampire nobles of Eliryo.
Tsukishiro had been captured months earlier.
Not through strength.
Through betrayal.
Mercenaries armed with anti-magic relics ambushed him while he traveled alone beyond the cloud kingdoms. The vampire lords wanted him alive his celestial essence could supposedly extend vampiric immortality indefinitely and allow the Vampires to walk under the sun. To rule not only the night but the day itself.
So they caged him.
Drugged him.
Bound him with moonsteel restraints.
Even then, something about him unsettled the slavers deeply.
Animals refused to approach his cage.
The ship’s candles dimmed whenever he opened his eyes.
And at night
some prisoners swore they heard wings moving inside the darkness though no birds existed aboard the vessel.
For weeks, Azhar and Tsukishiro barely spoke.
Yet a strange understanding formed between them.
Both were ancient survivors hunted for what they were.
Both carried powers feared by empires.
Both had outlived homes that no longer truly existed.
And both understood something simple:
No one was coming to save them.
One night, as storms battered the ship violently, Azhar finally spoke toward the pale figure within the cage.
“You are not afraid.”
Tsukishiro remained silent for several moments.
Then finally answered softly:
“I have survived worse cages.”
His voice was calm.
Cold.
Beautiful in a way that felt almost inhuman.
Azhar studied him carefully.
“You hide your anger well.”
At that
Tsukishiro slowly lifted his gaze.
And for the first time, Azhar saw it.
Not calmness.
Not serenity.
Rage.
Ancient, immense rage hidden beneath still water.
“Do I?” Tsukishiro asked quietly.
Fate intervened three nights later.
The storm became monstrous.
Black clouds swallowed the moon while waves hammered against the ship hard enough to splinter wood. Then came the screams from above deck.
Something attacked the vessel.
Sky-wraiths.
Shadow creatures descended from the storm itself, slaughtering slavers and guards alike. Chaos erupted across the ship as anti-magic crystals shattered one by one.
The suppression wards flickered.
Azhar felt magic return like breath flooding starving lungs.
And then
the cage opened.
Not physically.
Violently.
Moonlight exploded outward from Tsukishiro’s prison in a blinding eruption of silver-white radiance. The ship trembled.
The slavers began screaming.
Azhar looked upward
and saw wings.
Massive wings formed from intertwining light and shadow spread behind Tsukishiro like an eclipse unfolding across the storm.
Black crows burst from the darkness around him.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
At the same time, radiant white feathers spiraled through the air like snowfall.
The sea itself seemed to recoil.
Tsukishiro floated above the shattered cage, silver eyes glowing like twin moons.
For the first time in centuries
Azhar ibn Sahir felt awe.
Then Tsukishiro looked directly at him.
And spoke his name.
Not Saruun.
Not the insult.
But his true name.
“Azhar.”
The desert mage froze.
Because he had never told him.
The Sky Folk sorcerer extended one pale hand through the chaos of storm, blood, and screaming men.
“Rise,” Tsukishiro said softly....
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