Chapter 0042: March to the Temple
The capital stirred before sunrise. Fog curled across the stone streets as armored boots marched in unison. Raiden stood at the head of the chosen force—only fifty warriors, but each handpicked: elite knights, seasoned trackers, arcane users, and those who had faced darkness and didn't flinch.
Vaeryx stood beside him, dressed in silver-plated armor woven with phoenix sigils. Her twin blades rested across her back. Roran, now the commander of the northern watch, approached with his warbow slung across his shoulder.
"You sure about this, King?" Roran asked. "The people need you here."
"They need hope," Raiden replied, tightening the straps on his gauntlets. "And right now, that hope rides north."
The journey began under grey skies, the sun hiding behind clouds that thickened the closer they got to the north. The Forgotten Forest lived up to its name—overgrown, silent, unnatural.
Trees twisted in odd shapes, and whispers filled the air, though no wind stirred. One of the scouts, Daryn, fell behind after a break. When he returned, his eyes were wide with terror.
"There was something… in the trees," he whispered. "It watched me… not like a beast… like it knew me."
Raiden gave the order: "Stay together. No one separates again."
Midway through the forest, they reached the Guardian Stones—three ancient monoliths etched with forgotten runes. As the party passed between them, the air changed. Heavier. Charged.
Vaeryx's fingers twitched. "There's power here. Seals. Old magic."
Suddenly, a rumble shook the earth. From beneath the moss-covered stones, massive figures emerged—sentinels, forged of rock and enchanted bone. Their hollow eyes glowed blue.
"None shall pass into the land of the Sleeper," one bellowed.
Raiden stepped forward. "We don't serve him. We're here to end him."
The sentinel's head tilted. "Then prove your strength."
The battle erupted—steel against stone, spell against ancient warding. Roran loosed arrows enchanted with dragon bone. Vaeryx danced between giant limbs, striking with blinding precision.
Raiden charged the tallest sentinel, sword blazing with arcane fire. With a roar, he sliced through its leg, bringing it crashing down before plunging his blade through its runic heart.
As the last sentinel fell, the blue light faded.
And a whisper echoed in the silence: "The path to Na'therion lies open."
That night, they camped at the edge of the Whispering Vale. Vaeryx sat near the fire, sharpening her blades. Raiden joined her, silent for a long moment.
"You saw something at the Guardian Stones," he finally said.
She nodded slowly. "A vision. Of a man crowned in fire. Falling from the sky. And… you standing in his shadow."
Raiden frowned. "You think it's me?"
"I don't know. But the stones… they knew you."
He didn't answer. Instead, he looked up at the northern sky—stars blotted out by swirling black clouds.
"We march into the storm tomorrow," he said. "But I need to know: if I fall, will you finish this?"
Vaeryx met his gaze, her voice steady. "If you fall… I'll burn the world before I let him rise."
As Raiden's company moved deeper into the north, the air turned colder—not the chill of winter, but something ancient, unnatural. They entered the Vale of Echoes, a sunken valley once home to the first arcane civilization, now lost beneath curses and time.
Mist clung low to the ground. Every footstep sounded like it echoed a hundred times too loud. And worse… the echoes began replying.
First softly.
Then clearly.
"Raiden… Raiden, you've failed them all…"
"Vaeryx… you let your sister burn…"
"Roran… your arrow missed."
The warriors froze.
"They're in our heads," muttered a soldier, clutching his temple. "They're using our own thoughts against us!"
"No," Vaeryx said sharply. "They're using our guilt."
Raiden pressed on, but something in the mist tugged at him. A shape appeared—shadowy at first, then clearer: a woman in silver robes… his mother.
She reached out. "Why did you abandon the old ways, my son? Why did you run from your bloodline?"
Raiden stood frozen.
"She's not real," Vaeryx hissed, grabbing his arm.
"But she's saying things I never told anyone."
The illusion smiled—cracked lips curling. "Because truth clings to blood, Raiden. And yours… is not mortal."
A gust of wind blew the mist apart.
And in its place stood an altar—long buried under moss and ruin, now pulsing faintly with red light.
Roran stepped cautiously toward it. "This isn't Remnant magic."
Vaeryx ran her fingers across the glyphs. "No… this is older. Pre-cataclysm. Dragonkin runes."
Raiden approached slowly. A hum filled the air, and the altar lit up brighter the closer he came.
Then, a beam of red-gold light shot into the sky—and in an instant, a memory was forced into all their minds:
A throne of obsidian.
A newborn, wailing in fire.
A shadowed figure placing a crown beside the child.
And the words:
"The heir of storm and flame shall wake in the time of reckoning…"
Raiden staggered back.
Vaeryx stared at him, stunned. "You… you're not just a king. You're one of the Bloodborn."
"What does that mean?" Roran asked.
Raiden's voice was quiet.
"It means I wasn't meant to build a kingdom."
He looked toward the cursed mountains ahead.
"I was meant to conquer."
High above the vale, far beyond the mist, Na'therion stirred.
His essence, still trapped in the veil, felt the pulse of the altar.
A deep, cold smile echoed through the darkness.
"He awakens… my final piece. The king of storm. The one who will open the last gate…"
The camp was quiet that night, unnaturally so. Even the wind dared not whisper.
Raiden sat alone near the altar, the faint red glow still pulsing beneath his feet like a heartbeat synced with his own. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but from awakening.
Across the fire, Roran paced restlessly while Vaeryx kept sharpening her blades, though her gaze never left Raiden.
Finally, Roran spoke.
"Why didn't you tell us?"
Raiden didn't look up. "Because I didn't know. Not truly."
"You bled on that altar and it glowed like it had been waiting centuries just for you," Vaeryx said coldly. "That's not something you miss by accident."
Raiden stood slowly, the red light painting him in a hue of fire.
"I was told I was born during a storm... that my mother died birthing me, struck down by a bolt that split the heavens. I thought it was fate."
He looked toward the mountains.
"But now I know it was design."
The mist shifted, parting with unnatural force. A hunched figure approached the camp—draped in veils of starlight and ash. Her staff clicked against the rocks, echoing louder than it should.
Vaeryx leapt to her feet, blades drawn.
The woman raised a hand. "Peace, child. I am the Seer of Thalara."
"The Thalara were wiped out centuries ago," Roran said.
She smiled. "Then I must be very old."
Raiden stepped forward. "You know who I am."
The Seer nodded. "You are the Last Bloodborn—descendant of flame and storm. You were not made to rule, Raiden. You were forged to choose between two endings: salvation or extinction."
The Seer cast her staff into the flames. The fire flared, and images danced in the embers:
A city in the sky, falling in flames.
Raiden, standing over a shattered crown.
Vaeryx bleeding under a moonless sky.
And the Sleeper… smiling.
"The Sleeper waits not to destroy you, but to unleash you," the Seer said. "You are his key. His final door."
Raiden's breath caught. "So I'm destined to doom us all?"
"No. You are destined to choose. But make no mistake—the Bloodborn were not heroes. They were weapons. And your blood remembers."
Vaeryx looked at Raiden, her eyes shadowed with something unreadable.
"If we can't trust your blood… can we trust you?"
That night, some soldiers tried to flee. Three were found screaming in the woods—mad, clawing at their faces. The echoes had consumed them.
The rest of the army began to falter.
Raiden stood before them, no crown on his head, only fire in his voice.
"You followed me this far because you believed I would rebuild a kingdom. But kingdoms don't rise in peace. They rise in fire."
He drew his sword, the blade now laced with glowing runes that hadn't been there before.
"I will finish this. I will bury Na'therion in the bones of the past. But I won't do it alone. You are not soldiers anymore. You are stormwalkers. And this is our reckoning."
Silence. Then slowly—one by one—the warriors knelt.
And behind them, the sky cracked with the first thunder of the coming war.
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(To be Continue...)