Prologue
The sky broke first.
It did not crack like glass, nor shatter like a mirror. It tore as though the very fabric of the heavens had been rent by an invisible hand, splitting the clouds into jagged rifts of shadow and fire. From those rifts poured creatures no bard had ever dared name, no child had ever imagined, no soldier had ever feared in training. They poured like smoke and flame, their forms writhing and impossible, yet solid enough to crush homes, forests, and men alike.
Villages vanished in the blink of an eye. Rivers blackened as if the water itself had turned to tar. Forests ignited in bursts of unnatural flame, the smoke curling into shapes that whispered of forgotten horrors. Herds fled in madness, scattering in every direction, but death followed. The mountains shivered, the plains shook, and the seas roared as if sensing the chaos above.
At the center of it all stood a single figure: towering, cloaked in fire that licked the air like living tongues, eyes like molten iron piercing the darkness. Wherever he went, the world burned. Wherever he paused, life fled or died. Those who glimpsed him whispered his name in terror: Dragna.
No one knew where he had come from, nor why the portals had opened. Some said he was punishment for mankind’s arrogance. Others whispered he was a herald of the end, an incarnation of fire itself. Scholars, priests, and kings debated from safe halls and burning courts alike, but none could stop what was happening. None could even hope to predict it. The portals had no rhythm, no mercy. They were like wounds torn into the sky, and the creatures that emerged cared nothing for kingdoms, for families, for trade or treaty.
Across the fractured lands, chaos spread. In northern valleys, villagers huddled in caves, clutching one another as the winds carried the stench of smoke and death. In the southern plains, armies abandoned strategy, fleeing blindly as firestorms advanced in waves. Entire cities vanished, leaving only ash and silence in their wake. Survivors told stories of nightmarish monsters with scales like obsidian, jaws filled with jagged teeth, wings spanning the width of houses, and eyes that burned with intelligence and hunger. Some claimed to have seen Dragna himself, moving through the portals as if they were mere doorways to his will.
Yet amidst the panic, one place remained untouched: Eldrath.
Perched atop a sacred hill and encircled by high walls of stone, Eldrath had not felt the burn of portals, nor the creeping black of corrupted rivers. Its streets were spared the chaos, its markets still thrummed with life, and its people moved with a fragile sense of order. Many called it a miracle. Others whispered it was protection, ancient and deliberate, from forces older than even the tallest temples. At the city’s heart, carved into the mountain itself, was the Oracle: a colossal stone face whose expression was as inscrutable as the sky. The priests told the citizens that Eldrath was safe only so long as the Oracle watched. The scholars argued that the mountain’s veins held some ancient magic, forgotten by the world but preserved here in stone and silence.
The truth, however, was far more dangerous.
The Oracle did not shield Eldrath out of mercy. It observed. It waited. And when it spoke, the words it offered were never simple, never safe, and never without consequence.
In distant halls of power, rulers who had survived the portals’ first attacks gathered, their faces lined with grief and fear. Many had lost entire provinces; some had lost kingdoms. Messages arrived, carried by desperate riders and shivering couriers, speaking of rivers that burned, forests that vanished overnight, villages swallowed by shadows that moved of their own accord. And yet all of them, from the smallest lord to the king of Eldrath himself, knew the same terrible truth: there was no defense, no army, no strategy that could repel what was coming. The world was breaking, and only Eldrath remained unbroken.
King Vitor of Eldrath paced the walls of his palace, staring down at the streets below. The citizens went about their business with a careful, tense rhythm—traders moving their wares, children darting between carts, priests ringing bells in ritual procession—but the air was thick with fear. Not of immediate danger, for Eldrath had none. No, this was the fear of watching the rest of the world burn and knowing that one day, the fire would come here too.
“The Oracle must answer,” Vitor muttered, his voice low and harsh. “It must tell us how to end this.”
No one in the council chamber replied. Some dared not speak, fearing the king’s temper. Others simply understood that the Oracle’s words were as rare as rain in a drought, and often as bitter. They remembered the stories: of a farmer who had prayed for his dying son, only to find his crops blighted; of a knight who had asked for strength, only to return broken, his companions slaughtered. The Oracle gave, yes—but it always asked something in return. And that cost was rarely known in advance.
Beyond the walls of Eldrath, the land writhed in agony. Fires swallowed forests in moments that felt like heartbeats. Wolves fled with tongues scorched, their howls joining the screams of villagers trapped in that unholy conflagration. Winds carried embers far beyond their source, igniting the fields, the woodlands, the thatched roofs of remote settlements. And from every portal, Dragna’s minions emerged: beasts of claw and horn, of fire and shadow, of hunger unending. They ravaged without pattern, without pause. Where they passed, the ground blackened, rivers boiled, and the air thickened with the stench of death.
Some who survived these first waves of terror became seekers, driven by desperation or ambition. Rumors spread of a tree in the Scorching Mountains, deep within caverns of blackened rock, its glowing fruit said to grant protection against fire. Others whispered of a blade, dark and terrible, hidden alongside the tree. Legends told that it could strike down creatures no ordinary weapon could harm. Those who sought it, however, risked far more than the perils of fire or monsters. The blade bore a curse, they said: the wielder who killed Dragna would inherit something of him, a fragment of his being that could twist and consume the soul.
Even as whispers spread, the world fell into further ruin. Traders found their routes obliterated by impassable flames. Messengers returned with charred scrolls or missing limbs. Entire villages were replaced by fields of ash. The landscape itself had become unrecognizable. Mountains shifted in shape, rivers ran with unnatural colors, and shadows stretched unnaturally, as if time itself were contorting under the pressure of something unseen.
Yet Eldrath remained, a solitary island of order in a sea of chaos. Its walls, ancient and impossibly strong, held firm. Its citizens, disciplined and obedient, did what they could to maintain semblances of normality: farming terraces atop the hill, aqueducts that still carried fresh water, markets that remained organized despite the anxiety weighing on every heart. And in the very center, the Oracle waited, stone features unyielding, silent, and eternal.
But it would not remain silent forever.
One night, when the fires on the horizon had begun to resemble a second sun and the sky itself was streaked with rifts of red and black, King Vitor ascended the hill alone. He walked past the chanting priests, past the silent guards, to stand before the Oracle’s immense face. He raised his voice, demanding answers, demanding guidance. And the face stirred.
Its eyes glowed faintly, a pale light at first, then brighter, until the entire mountain seemed alive with their gaze. And then, the voice came—not gentle, not cruel, but absolute:
“The one who slays Dragna shall have their wish fulfilled.”
No hint of price. No map, no direction, no reassurance. Just the truth, bare and simple, and the weight of the promise: the fate of the world balanced on the edge of a sword, and the knowledge that desire alone would not suffice.
Beyond the walls, the land continued to burn. Far to the north, valleys were swallowed by ash; to the south, rivers boiled, villages crumbled, and the screams of the dying rose like a chorus across the land. The world was breaking, and the only sanctuary, the only safe place, was Eldrath.
And yet even in safety, the people felt it: a trembling in the air, a stirring in the stone, a whisper that the price of hope would come sooner than any could imagine.
The portals would open again. The monsters would return. And the one who sought the Oracle’s promise would have to step into the fire, alone or accompanied, carrying courage, cunning, and the weight of a world already scorched.
Because desire, even for salvation, has its cost.
And the Oracle waits.
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