Prologue
He got to a point where he could see and hear everything. He knew the past, the present, and the possibilities of what was to come. He confessed that he remembered our lives better than we did. Even the lives of his enemies. He told us that he was the one who had to tell this story, because it was his duty and because no one could tell it like he could.
Prologue
Two of them were going to die. But none of them suspected it. Not yet. Not until later.
The three al-sinn children reached the top of a rocky hill, from where the Land of Eternal Day stretched endlessly to the horizon. Above it, there was a massive red star loomed in the sky.
It was a breathtaking sight, without a doubt—unlike anything one could find here on Earth. Reaching this place had taken effort, an exhausting trek that felt endless. And that was without mentioning that all three had done it without their parents’ permission.
But the view was worth it.
It was just a shame that, for two of them, this would be the last beautiful thing they ever saw.
Only, none of them knew it yet.
Not even a hint of suspicion.
“The sun doesn’t burn,” said Zyfar, the tallest of the three, raising his hand toward the sky.
“Of course it doesn’t,” Daelis, the only girl in the group, replied, shielding her eyes with her hand. “We’re still far from the Lands of Eternal Day. I dare you to ho a little closer, and you’ll see how fast you turn to ash.”
“No, thanks.” Zyfar swallowed hard. “I’m good right here.”
To the east, a vast and barren desert stretched all the way to where the sky met the land. To the west, the Golden Arbor shimmered—a line of immense trees glowing with golden light, running across the horizon. And beyond that, the perpetual darkness of the Lands of Eternal Night.
“So… now what?” asked Borya, the smallest of the three.
Daelis pointed past a cluster of jagged rocks. “If I remember correctly… the cave should be over there, southeast.”
“What are we waiting for, then?” Zyfar sprinted down the hill, kicking up dust as loose stones tumbled in his wake.
“Hey, wait for us!” Borya shouted, struggling to keep up.
Though they were still far from the Lands of Eternal Day, the terrain had already turned dry, rocky, gray—devoid of any plant life. A stark contrast to the Perpetual Twilight, where they had come from. That part of the planet was neither too hot nor too cold. The perfect place for life to flourish.
Zyfar had longer legs, so it was easy for him to leave the other two behind. Borya, on the other hand, had to push himself—being the smallest meant shorter legs.
Daelis glanced back and noticed he was falling behind. So she slowed down and stopped to wait.
“Were you waiting for me?” Borya raised an eyebrow as he caught up.
“Yeah, well, it’d be a problem if we went back to the village without you.” Daelis gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. “Who’d deal with the scolding I’d get for losing you?”
“If you say so…”
“Come on!” Daelis grabbed his hand and pulled him forward, forcing him to run with her. She didn’t let go.
Borya felt a pleasant warmth in his stomach at the touch of his best friend’s skin. He squeezed her hand tighter, just to feel her closer as they ran. She did the same.
Lately, Borya had started noticing that Daelis was… pretty. In fact, many in the village said she was the prettiest girl around, and whoever married her would be lucky. She had a beautiful ochre-colored mane that cascaded down her back, matching her olive skin. Her face was soft, framed by round cheeks and large, kind eyes.
Her horns were still small, but that didn’t matter. They would grow in time.
Borya, on the other hand, was… well, ordinary. Dull even. A common face, a common height, common gray skin, common brown hair. He wasn’t handsome, but he wasn’t ugly either. And if Daelis ever took notice of him, then yes—he’d be incredibly lucky.
Not like Zyfar, with his pinkish skin and silver hair—now that was exotic. And the al-sinn loved the exotic.
After a long run, the three finally sat on a rock to catch their breath, overlooking the reddish landscape of the horizon.
“Are we close?” Zyfar asked.
“I think so,” Daelis replied, glancing around.
“You better not have gotten us lost,” Zyfar grumbled. “You said you remembered the way.”
Daelis didn’t answer.
She scanned the area, searching for something familiar in the endless sea of rocks. A clue, a sign to guide them. Everything looked the same out here—anyone would have trouble navigating.
Borya looked up at the red star in the sky. He wondered what it would feel like to live beneath the sun’s light—to feel its warmth on your skin without turning to ash.
“Do you guys really think humans come from the sun?” he asked, eyes fixed on the glowing star, mesmerized.
“No, they don’t come from the sun,” Daelis said firmly. “But they do come from a world where it’s sometimes day and sometimes dark.”
“What?” Borya frowned. “How does that even work?”
“For a few hours, it’s day,” Daelis explained, still scanning the landscape. “Then for a few hours, it’s night. Apparently, humans are active during the day and sleep at night.”
Borya and Zyfar exchanged skeptical looks.
“That sounds ridiculous,” Borya scoffed. “Like you just made it up.”
“I didn’t!” Daelis shot back. “An elder told me. Many al-sinn have traveled to the human world and documented everything.”
“The al-sinn wouldn’t survive there,” Borya argued. “They’d burn the moment the sun came out.”
“Obviously, the ones who go there only come out at night.”
“And during the sunlit hours?”
Daelis shrugged. “They stay underground. Or hidden inside buildings, obviously.”
Borya couldn’t even imagine what it meant to live on a world where the sun rose and set in cycles. A world where sometimes it was bright, and sometimes it was dark. His own world made far more sense. One half shrouded in eternal night, the other bathed in endless day. And in between—the perfect balance. The only habitable place. The home of the al-sinn.
“So how does a planet just… switch between day and night?” Zyfar crossed his arms.
“It spins,” Daelis answered matter-of-factly, taking exaggerated steps as if measuring something.
“What?” Borya shook his head. “A planet that spins? That’s impossible! How do humans not just fly off?”
Daelis shrugged again as she reached a large black rock. “No idea.”
“Because you’re making it all up.”
“I am not.” She looked around again, her eyes lighting up. “I think I remember the way now! Come on!”
Borya and Zyfar followed her into a canyon of towering rock walls, full of deep, dark cracks like gateways to nothingness.
Then, they found it.
The corpse was slumped against the dry stone wall inside a cavern. Nothing but bones now. No flesh left. But the silver armor still clung to the skeleton.
“There it is!” Daelis cheered, bouncing on her feet. “I told you! I told you!”
“Whoa… You were right, Daelis!” Zyfar crouched beside the skeleton, studying it with wide eyes. “A real human’s bones… but… they look just like ours.”
“Except no horns.” Daelis nodded, stepping closer.
As if on instinct, Borya touched his own small horns.
“That’s true.” Zyfar ran his fingers over his own, which were the largest of the three. “Weird… I can’t imagine not having them.”
“Me neither,” Daelis murmured, staring at the skeleton.
“But you don’t even have horns,” Borya muttered.
“What?” Daelis turned, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me, I’m still growing! My horns will be bigger soon!”
“Yeah, sure.”
She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “I’d be worried if I were you. You’re twelve seasons old, and your horns are still tiny. Not like Zyfar—look at him.” She pointed. “He’s the same age as you, and he already has real horns.”
“At least I have some,” Borya shot back. “Unlike you.”
“Alright, enough!” Zyfar exclaimed. “Neither of you has horns as impressive as mine, so stop fighting and focus on the human corpse.”
And so, the three of them did.
Borya found it strange that so many people feared these creatures. They were almost the same as them—same arms, same legs, nearly the same height.
“Do you think this one was the Heritor?” Zyfar asked.
Daelis snorted. “Of course not. The Heritor is the strongest of all humans. He wouldn’t fall so easily. This one was just a soldier.”
“You know,” Zyfar stood up, puffing out his chest. “One day, I’ll become a great warrior of the War Star. I’ll travel to Earth and kill the Heritor.”
Daelis rolled her eyes. “You’re delusional. Even if you could kill him, which I doubt, it wouldn’t matter. The moment a Heritor dies, another is born. It’s an endless curse.”
Borya swallowed hard.
In his village, they spoke in hushed voices about the feared Heritor—a human warrior unlike any other. A single man capable of slaughtering hundreds of al-sinn, alone, without aid. An army in himself. And the most terrifying thing of all… he could absorb the souls of their kind.
A chill ran down Borya’s spine. He shook his head, trying to banish the thought.
“So then,” Zyfar lowered his head. “How do we end the Heritor? How do we stop our slaughter?”
“We can’t,” Daelis answered. “That’s our curse. Our punishment. We will always be hunted. For all eternity.”
The three children fell silent, staring at the corpse.
Weighing the weight of their existence.
What it meant to always be prey.
To always live in fear.
To never know peace.
Why? Why did things have to be this way?
What had the al-sinn done to deserve this endless persecution?
“Do you know what they call us?” Daelis asked, her gaze fixed on the dead man.
“What?” Borya looked at her.
She swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. “Demons.”
Demons.
The word felt wrong. Borya didn’t see himself as a demon. To him, the real demons were the humans—cruel, bloodthirsty monsters.
Zyfar stepped forward and kicked the skeleton with all his strength, sending the skull flying across the cavern. “I hate them!” He spat at the bones. “I hate all humans!”
Borya said nothing.
For a second, he imagined the corpse rising. Standing. Striking back. Driven by vengeance, by human cruelty, by their insatiable thirst for al-sinn blood.
He shook his head again, chasing the thought away.
Zyfar turned to them, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Hey, what if we became the guardians of our village?”
“What?” Daelis frowned. “How are three al-sinn children supposed to guard anything?”
“Not now, obviously,” Zyfar rushed his words, his enthusiasm tripping over itself. “But we’ll train. We’ll grow strong and fight. Daelis with her weaving magic, me with my strength, and Borya… well, Borya can be Borya.”
“But Daelis can’t weave,” Borya pointed out.
“I sure can!” Daelis protested. “I’ve been practicing a lot!”
“Then prove it.” Borya crossed his arms.
Daelis took a step back, hesitating. She bit her lip, avoiding her friend’s challenging gaze.
Could she really weave? Or had she just been boasting?
“Well?” Borya pressed.
Taking a shaky breath, Daelis raised her hand. She pinched the air with her index finger and thumb, then pulled.
A thread of green light shimmered into existence between her fingertips. Holding onto the glowing strand, she twisted it, looped it, knotted it—again and again—until a rune took form in the air. As if the thin string were ink made of light, writing upon the void itself.
Then, tiny droplets of water floated around her. They gathered above her palm, drawn toward a single point, as if gravity had shifted to obey her will.
The cluster of water grew larger, taking shape.
A flower.
The liquid solidified, transforming into ice.
“Whoa!” Zyfar rushed forward, eyes wide with awe. “That’s amazing! You really can weave!”
Daelis turned to Borya, smug. Her expression said it all—See? I told you so!
Borya cleared his throat. “Alright… so you can weave. Now we just have to figure out how frozen flowers will help us fight humans.”
“Oh, come on!” Zyfar grinned. “This is just the beginning. You’ll see—Daelis will learn stronger patterns that’ll help us in battle.”
“If you say so…”
“What if we make a promise right here?” Zyfar suggested. “The three of us will train and grow strong. So strong that we’ll bring peace to our people.”
“Mmm… that sounds impossible,” Daelis said, her voice tinged with sadness. “I don’t know if we can defeat the Heritor.”
“But we can try!” Zyfar countered. “What do you say? Are you with me?”
He extended his fist, waiting.
Daelis hesitated for a moment. But Zyfar’s optimism was infectious. With a small smile, she bumped her fist against his.
“You too, Borya,” she said, turning to him.
Borya wasn’t sure. Fighting terrified him. Blood terrified him. He saw himself as a coward—someone who would rather hide while real warriors fought.
To be a warrior among the al-sinn was a curse. A death sentence. A guarantee that one would die on the battlefield and never be reborn.
Warriors were hailed as martyrs. Heroes who sacrificed themselves for the survival of their kind.
But it was the worst fate imaginable.
Still, with Daelis and Zyfar looking at him expectantly, he felt obligated.
“Fine,” he muttered, half-heartedly bumping his fist against theirs.
“Wait!” Daelis suddenly pulled her hand back. “We have to do this properly.”
“What do you mean?” Borya asked, a hint of frustration in his voice. “Let’s just make the promise and be done with it.”
Daelis tore a few strips from the long sleeve of her shirt. Then, raising her hand, she pinched the air between her thumb and index finger, pulling at the unseen threads of reality. Strands of green light shimmered into existence, swirling into a floating pattern above her head.
The scraps of cloth were soon enveloped in an opaque green glow, and within seconds, they transformed—no longer fabric, but thin, short roots.
Daelis took the roots, snapped them apart with her fingers, unrolled them, twisted them, and shaped them into bracelets. Three in total. One for each of them.
“These will be our promise bracelets,” Daelis said, fastening one around Borya’s wrist. “Like the legend of the warriors who made their vow beneath the Aedra tree.”
The tradition of using these bracelets as a symbol of a promise came from an ancient al-sinn tale. It was said that during the time of the Calamity, when worlds were at war and chaos reigned, three leaders of different bloodlines—one Koinar, one Foteinar, and one Thalasar—gathered beneath the Aedra tree.
Desperate to save their people, the three swore to unite their forces against destruction, despite the rivalries that had divided them for generations. To seal their pact, each cut a root from the Aedra, braided them into bracelets, and wore them as proof of their vow.
The Aedra, according to legend, heard their promise and blessed the bracelets, declaring that as long as the roots remained intact, their bond would never break. But it also warned: If one of you breaks the vow, the root will break first.
Since then, these bracelets had symbolized loyalty, sacrifice, and the gravity of unbreakable oaths.
And so, the three children sealed their promise with the bracelets. A vow made more from innocence than from any real understanding of what lay ahead. They were too young to grasp the weight of their words.
And yet, two of them would never have the chance to keep their promise. Because by the end of that day, they would be dead.
Minutes later, they left the cave, heading back toward the village.
“That was amazing!” Zyfar exclaimed as they emerged into the weak sunlight, still admiring the bracelet made of roots. “Good thing Daelis went with the village elders to recover the bodies of our fallen al-sinn after the last battle with the humans.”
Borya felt ice crawl through his veins. That battle had taken place nearly thirty days ago. What if the humans were still nearby? What if the Heritor was with them? That would mean the end of the village.
Not for everyone, though. One would survive. And two of those three children would die.
As they reached the crest of a hill, they saw it—a massive cloud of dust rising in the distance. Borya squinted toward the horizon, his breath catching in his throat.
Horses.
A legion of them, galloping fast, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. But these were not wild horses.
Each one bore a rider clad in armor.
His head spun. He knew what this meant.
“Humans!” Daelis shrieked, her wide eyes brimming with terror.
And that wasn’t the worst of it.
One of the riders carried a banner, its fabric whipping in the wind. A symbol was emblazoned on it—two interlocking Hs.
Borya had heard of that symbol before.
It belonged to the Heritor.
“Hurry!” Zyfar shouted, already sprinting toward the village. “Maybe we can get there before them and warn everyone!”
Daelis nodded, and the three children ran.
They ran as fast as they could. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was the knowledge that if they didn’t make it in time, dozens would die.
That was a certainty.
Borya tried to keep up, but no matter how hard he pushed himself, he fell behind. Zyfar and Daelis were faster, leaving him in their dust.
“Guys!” he panted, struggling to keep his pace steady. “Guys! Don’t leave me behind!”
But his legs were too short.
And eventually… he was alone.
This time, Daelis didn’t wait for him.
By the time he reached the village, it was already too late. A column of smoke rose into the sky.
Every house—every single one—was burning. And they were made of wood and straw, so they burned fast.
Screams of agony and desperation filled the air, mixing with the thick, suffocating smoke.
The stench of burning flesh struck his nose, making him dizzy. Borya stumbled through the flames, searching for his mother—
And nearly tripped over what he thought was a rock.
But it wasn’t a rock.
It was a head. A severed head.
He recognized the face twisted in pain.
Molake. The man who brought life to the village festivals with his songs. The man with the sweetest voice.
Borya’s stomach churned, but he forced himself not to vomit. He shook his head, tearing his gaze away, and kept running, trying to find his way home through the chaos, the flames, and the thick smoke.
Then—strong arms grabbed him from behind.
His first thought was that a human had caught him, that he was being taken captive.
He kicked, he thrashed, he bit—
“Bory!” a voice roared. “It’s me!”
His father.
Borya stopped struggling and clung to the man with all his strength.
“Bory… I need you to be brave.” His father’s hands gripped the boy’s shoulders tightly.
“Dad?”
“You need to run! Hide! Don’t come out until it’s safe. I have to find your mother.”
“But—Mom—”
“Go, Bory! Now!”
His father’s voice left no room for argument.
Borya hesitated, then turned and ran.
He sprinted toward the forest, his mind too frantic to think about Daelis or Zyfar. Only when he was hidden beneath the thick underbrush did he remember them.
Were they okay?
There was no way to know.
Borya’s breath hitched when he saw a human soldier swing his sword.
A head rolled to the ground.
He knew that face. Daelis’s mother. His heart clenched at the horror of it. And Daelis? His best friend—where was she?
More soldiers poured into the village, their blades flashing. Heads fell. Blood splattered.
Borya lost count of the dead.
Slash!
Another head rolled and a crimson tide flooded the ground, staining the earth red.
And then…
There was him.
The one they called the Heritor.
Borya recognized him instantly. His armor gleamed brighter than the others’, adorned with golden ornaments, the double H symbol emblazoned on his chest.
The Heritor raised his sword and more al-sinn fell beneath its edge. More familiar faces. More friends. Gone forever.
More soldiers arrived, their numbers endless.
The hooves of their horses thundered across the village. Their weapons—sharp swords, piercing spears, burning torches—finished what the flames had begun.
The scent of blood mixed with the stench of burning wood.
It wasn’t enough for them to massacre; they had to reduce everything to ash and smoke as well.
Borya watched as the Heritor absorbed the souls of the fallen al-sinn, wisps of ethereal energy floating through the air before being devoured by his body. That was a fate worse than death. When his people perished, when their hearts ceased beating, their souls would reincarnate into new bodies.
In a way, they never truly died. Not entirely. Not really.
But when the Heritor absorbed their souls and imprisoned them within himself, there was no hope of reincarnation.
A group of villagers refused to stand idly by while the humans reduced their home to cinders. Four silhouettes stood atop a burning rooftop, their figures outlined by the raging flames behind them. Each carried a bow, arrows nocked and aimed.
They took their shots, all four arrows streaking through the air toward the Heritor’s exposed nape. Borya’s heart leaped with hope—four arrows to the neck. No human could survive that. Could they?
But the Heritor was no ordinary human.
The moment the arrows were loosed, he turned—a mere flicker of movement, impossibly fast. His palm extended, releasing a gaseous, golden ring of light. The moment the arrows touched its radiance, they froze mid-air, as though time itself had stopped. Suspended. Motionless.
The golden glow swallowed them, and with an indifferent wave of his hand, the Heritor twisted the arrows in place, redirecting them back toward their origin.
Then, in an instant, the arrows shot forward, striking their marks. Four sharp impacts. Four bodies toppled from the rooftop, vanishing into the sea of flames below.
Four souls drifted into the air, glowing, trembling… before being drawn into the Heritor’s chest.
Another villager emerged from the smoke, wielding an axe. He lunged at the Heritor’s unprotected back, bringing the weapon down with all his might.
The blade shattered on impact.
Steel splintered into dozens of fragments, as if it had struck something far harder than mere flesh. The villager staggered back, staring in horror at the broken shaft in his hands. How was this possible? Humans were made of flesh and bone, not… whatever the Heritor was.
The Heritor turned to face him, his expression unreadable. He reached out, his fingers curling around the man’s throat. With effortless ease, he twisted his wrist—
Crack.
The villager crumpled lifelessly to the ground, his head lolling at an unnatural angle.
More villagers emerged from the choking smoke. A dozen or so. Armed with whatever weapons they could find—knives, sickles, hammers, scythes.
They formed a ring around the Heritor, closing in.
Borya wanted to believe it would be enough. That this would be the end of the Heritor. That even he could not stand against so many.
But after what Borya had seen… he knew better.
The inevitable slaughter had only just begun.
Before the villagers could strike, before a single blade could touch his skin, the Heritor’s body ignited with golden light. His hair lifted as if caught in an unseen breeze, glowing like strands of fire. His eyes burned with the same eerie brilliance.
He took his sword in both hands, lowered his stance—
Fshh.
A blink. A flash of gold. And he was gone.
Then—
A sickening slash. A head flew from a body. The Heritor now stood behind one of the villagers.
Fshh.
Another flicker. Another step. Another decapitation.
Fshh. Fshh. Fshh.
Head after head hit the ground, the blood spraying in arcs, splattering across the Heritor’s face and chest. He was no human. He was no warrior.
He was a god.
A lightning bolt in human form, flashing from one side of the battlefield to the other. Too fast to see. Too fast to stop.
One by one, the villagers fell. One by one, their souls were ripped from their bodies, devoured into the Heritor’s chest.
Borya bit down on his lip until he tasted blood. He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t cry. Any sound could betray his presence, and then—
There would be no hope left.
Zas. Zas. Zas.
The world moved at two speeds—slow, agonizingly slow… and terrifyingly fast. The heads rolled. The blood splashed. The houses burned.
Where was his father? He had no idea.
Where was his mother? He had no idea.
Where were Daelis and Zyfar?
A lump formed in his throat as his gaze flickered through the smoke and fire. Then—
There! He saw them.
Daelis and Zyfar, hand in hand, running for their lives, terror painted across their faces. Desperate to escape.
Borya pushed himself up, ready to call out, to tell them to hide, to stay low.
But then—
Zas.
It didn’t matter how fast they ran.
The Heritor was the fastest thing in existence.
Borya screamed silently, his voice locked in his throat.
Daelis! Zyfar!
He saw their heads fly through the air, eyes still wide, their last expression one of horrifying realization.
Their souls trembled in the smoke, then shot toward the Heritor’s chest, disappearing into his cursed body.
Borya wanted to cry, but he forced himself to stay silent. He pressed his hands over his mouth, dug his fingers into his skin, held his breath.
He could not make a sound.
So his tears fell in silence.
Zas. Zas. Zas.
He clamped his hands over his ears, drowning out the sound of the Heritor’s blade carving through flesh, of the villagers’ screams echoing into the night.
He knew they would find him eventually. That he would meet the same fate as the others.
So he ran.
He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, slipping through the chaos, through the flames and smoke, until—
His foot caught on something. A stone. He stumbled, tumbling down a rocky incline, rolling into the darkness below.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on cold, damp ground.
A cave.
A perfect hiding place.
…
…
…
…
…
…
How long had he been hiding in that cave? It was hard to tell. All he knew was that the humans were gone. And all that remained was absolute silence and the lingering stench of burnt flesh.
Borya stepped out of his hiding place, dragging his feet. He returned to his village—now nothing but ruins—and walked through the charred wreckage. Through the corpses.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He only looked around with an unnatural calm, as if he were detached from reality.
Until he stopped in front of two bodies he knew all too well.
Side by side.
His mother and father. Both with their necks incomplete. Headless.
That was the moment Borya blinked and seemed to truly comprehend what he was seeing. What had happened. A crushing weight pressed down on his chest, and he collapsed to his knees.
He gripped his hair and pulled so hard he nearly tore out long strands.
And then he screamed. A raw, gut-wrenching scream. And he cried, even louder.
Through his tears, he got to his feet and searched for their heads, placing them where they should have been—atop their necks. Of course, it wouldn’t mend what was broken. But at least he could bury them properly.
With his own hands, he dug and dug until the holes in the ground were wide and deep enough. He dragged their bodies inside and covered them with earth.
Kneeling before the makeshift graves, he whispered the traditional prayer for the dead who had been taken by the Heritor:
“Ta Den Astellaz chon ēl Sabidiria, lho era ta naos éfirin,” he recited in his native tongue. “Tah zyrion aryn ton’ivra. Kaïz al’aedra, shira alon anyaz, kyrora va’zetha ton aras. Tha lho alyna tharei che ton naor in’tahrē.” (Oh, Ten Stars and Eternal Wisdom, receive the spirit of our fallen brother. May his journey be light, his memory eternal, and may the flame of his soul shine with you, now and forever.)
Once his parents were finally laid to rest, Borya continued. He found every severed head, every lifeless body, and with great effort, he reunited them and buried each villager. He said the prayer for them all.
Even for his two friends—Daelis and Zyfar.
It was his responsibility as the only survivor of the village.
And when the bodies of his loved ones were safely beneath the earth, Borya looked down at the bracelet of woven roots wrapped around his wrist.
He could still keep his promise. His two best friends were gone. But he could still fight.
The Ten Stars had failed them. Protectors of the al-sinn? Sure. More like frauds. Liars.
If the Ten Monarchs had abandoned them all, then Borya would become the Eleventh.
A guardian, a true one.
So he swore to himself that he would bring peace to his people. That he would fulfill the promise he, Daelis, and Zyfar had made in that cave. He would do it for the memory of his friends. For the memory of all the fallen.
And he would find a way to put an end to the Heritor.
