The smoke still curled in blue ribbons across the dusk-lit sky when Vaelith first saw the brand of the Underworld. Charred bodies—once human, now burned husks—lay strewn before a collapsed stone portal. Symbols of Hades, carved in obsidian, winked with malice under the last rays of sunset.
He knelt beside a fallen farmer, ash still smoldering on his tunic. The man's eyes were open in torment—life seared out by unholy fire. Vaelith closed the farmer's lids and whispered a vow:
"Not another soul shall perish while I hold the flame."
Behind him came a roar of thunder. A crack split the sky, and Cyron stepped through the swirling wind, spear crackling with static. Rainwater dripped from his cloak, though no raindrop fell. He surveyed the devastation with storm-gray eyes.
"The harvest roads," Cyron said grimly. "These demons cut their path through every village north of Cairnwood. I followed their trail—thought I might be too late."
Vaelith rose, ember-grain still glowing faintly in his palm. "You're just in time."
Before Cyron could reply, the ground trembled. From the broken portal slithered a host of Hellhounds, their jaws dripping with black ichor. Beyond them, Charred Shades—wraiths wreathed in cold flame—wailed as they dragged the spirits of the fallen back to the pit.
The two heroes drew weapons in tandem. Vaelith's blade, infused with the first flame-grain's spark, glowed like dawn's first ember. Cyron's spear hummed with ancient storm-lore.
I. Trial by Hades' Minions
Vaelith leaped forward, flames dancing along his blade. He cleaved through the nearest Hellhound, the creature dissolving into sparks that fanned out like dying fireflies. Beside him, Cyron thrust his spear into a Shade, sending a ripple of lightning through its translucent form—shattering it into shards of icy mist.
"Their strength grows by feeding on death," Cyron warned, hooking another Shade with his spear and electrifying it until it crumbled into a shower of frost.
Vaelith nodded, face set. He channeled the ember-grain's power through his blade: the air around him shimmered as if the world glowed from within. He swung, and every strike sent arcs of molten light across the battlefield. The Hellhounds whined, backs arching as they tried to retreat—only to be caught in Cyron's roaring vortex, hurled skyward and dashed against the leaning portal stones.
But more emerged: twisted Catacomb Imps—leering, bat-winged demons that whispered blasphemous riddles. Their claws dripped venom that bubbled on contact with earth. As Vaelith carved a swath through the hounds, an Imp swooped at Cyron's back.
Cyron spun, summoning a bolt of lightning from his spear-tip that reduced the Imp to smoldering ash. Then he closed ranks with Vaelith, thunder and flame swirling in a deadly dance. They fought back-to-back, two echoes of prophecy working in terrifying harmony.
II. The Calm Before the Sky Rain
When the last Shade collapsed, the ground quivered beneath them. Vaelith's flame faded to a dull glow; Cyron's storm-cloud cloak drifted apart, rain ceasing in midair. They paused, breathing heavily, scanning the twilight for further threats.
Suddenly, the wind changed—no longer a howl, but a whisper. Stars blinked into visibility overhead, though night would not come for hours. Constellations rearranged themselves with uncanny intention, forming glyphs older than any mortal language.
A hush fell. The portal's shattered runes pulsed in response, as if drawing power from the heavens. Vaelith and Cyron exchanged a glance. Neither spoke; both knew they faced something beyond a mere demon raid.
III. Emergence of the Unspoken Hero
From the portal's depths rose a third figure, stepping into the clearing with unmatched calm. Clad in armor that rippled like midnight sky, he carried no visible weapon—only a cloak of woven starlight. His hair fell in silver waves; his eyes gleamed with constellations yet unnamed.
Vaelith tightened his grip on his sword. Cyron readied his spear. They watched as the newcomer raised both hands to the heavens, palms open.
"Your test concludes," he said, voice echoing like distant cosmic wind. "And so you shall witness true providence."
In that moment, the sky peeled open. Constellations streaked downwards like arrows of pure fire. Not meteors, but intentionally aimed weapons—javelins of starlight, blades of cosmic flame, and spears of comet ice. Each one found its mark in the remaining demons, streaking through the air with thunderous impact.
The Hellhounds yelped as they were pierced by constellation javelins; Imps caught fire in mid-flight; Shades were torn apart by lines of brilliant ice. Pellets of starlit energy rained from the sky—a Sky Rain—clearing the battlefield within heartbeats.
When the last demon dissolved, the three heroes remained in the sudden silence, the air crackling with residual power. Vaelith's blade fizzed as molten light drained away. Cyron lowered his spear, thunder fading in the distance.
The stranger floated gently to the ground, cloak settling like spilled ink. He tilted his head, watching the two with an unreadable expression.
"You wield flame and storm well," he said. "But the heavens themselves are mine to command." He beckoned—one finger of starlight. "Come."
IV. A Promise of Destiny
Vaelith hesitated, but Cyron strode forward, curiosity overtaking caution. Vaelith followed.
The stranger led them to the portal's runic edge, now crackling with residual infernal energy. He gently pressed his hand against the black stone. It hummed, then reshaped itself into a single glyph: the sign of prophecy.
"This portal once served only the dead," he explained. "But I have sealed it anew—woven with star-metal and fate-light. It will stand as a beacon for our quest."
He turned, drawing an invisible circle in the air. The glyph lifted from the portal and hovered, radiating soft starlight.
"I am called Astraion, though my true name lies hidden in constellations yet to be charted," he revealed. "I have watched your journeys—Vaelith, flame-bearer; Cyron, storm-walker—and deemed you worthy of this counsel."
Vaelith's heart pounded. "If you know our names… who are you, truly? And why help us?"
Astraion's gaze lifted to the night sky. "I serve a higher stage." His eyes glinted with both warmth and distance. "The Loom spins ever onward. Soon, all five of you must stand together, or the very fabric of reality will unravel. I have come now to bring you into alignment—before darker forces conspire."
Cyron studied the glyph. "What do we do next?"
Astraion's cloak billowed as he glanced back at the charred portal. "We step through." He beckoned. "For beyond lies the Path of Constellations—and the truth of my origins."
Vaelith swallowed. "We face demons of Hades to prove our worth… but what awaits us within?"
Astraion's lips curved into a solemn smile. "A trial of starlight. And, at its end, the revelation of destiny. Prepare yourselves."
As the portal's starry glyph pulsed, Vaelith and Cyron exchanged a determined nod. They stepped forward—flame and storm in hand—into the new light.
Astraion lingered at the threshold, raising his arms to the constellations above.
"Let the Sky Rain mark the beginning," he intoned. "And let the next chapter unveil the heart of the hidden champion."
Behind them, the ruin sighed, its echo carrying across realms.
Before them lay the Path of Constellations—an ornate stairway of shimmering starstone, spiraling into the unknown.
And far away, in his throne-room beyond time, Azrael stirred. He leaned forward, invisible eyes tracking their passage.
"Now the game truly begins," he whispered. "Let us see how the stars play upon mortal hands."