Year 12 – Sagewick Kingdom
A grand hall bathed in golden light echoed with music and laughter.
A meeting was held between kings, nobles, and wise mages—presided over by Leon Sagewick, once a fabled hero, now king. Fifty-four winters had passed through his life, but his eyes still burned with the fire of a warrior.
"Tonight, we shall feast!" King Leon declared, lifting his goblet high. "Though we have attained peace—and held it for a decade—tonight we raise our cups for the fallen! For those whose names were lost in war, and for the loved ones we shall never see again… This is for them!"
The crowd erupted in cheer, goblets clashing, laughter blooming beneath the melody of bards.
But as the night deepened, and the air thickened with wine and memory, the king's voice fell. He called forth the nobles and archmagi within the capital.
"The time has come," Leon said gravely. "The Abyss of Macau stirs again. I fear the peace we enjoy was merely a breath before the storm—a time to prepare for something far worse."
A hush fell over the chamber.
Deus Reu Erinnyes, the King of the Arcane Realm—barely thirty-seven, yet already a legend among mages—stepped forward. His cloak shimmered like stardust.
"But my king," Deus began, "you struck the demon lord through the heart. I was there—his body burned, and the sky wept black. He is dead. Why, then, does the darkness awaken?"
All fell silent. For a brief moment, only the crackle of the hearth dared speak.
The memories of the war—one that raged for tens of thousands of years—stirred in each heart. So many lifetimes lost, so many realms burned.
Then a young noble, bold beyond his years, stepped forward.
Fred Traster, heir to House Traster and one of the most promising minds of the age, spoke calmly.
"That is true, Your Majesty. But our strength now is nothing like what you commanded in the Great War. Even if all of humanity united once more... we would stand at the edge of a blade."
King Leon nodded solemnly, his eyes clouded with age and wisdom.
"That is what troubles me," he admitted. "One of us... is lost. And I beseech your guidance, my friends. A light is dimming—and I fear what may rise in its place."
The king's heavy words hung in the air.
Then, Deus Reu Erinnyes stepped forward once more, his staff gently tapping the marble floor. His tone, once composed, now trembled with the weight of revelation.
"My king," he began, voice steady but low, "we have found something… in the ruins of the demon lord's citadel."
A stir rippled through the hall.
"Beneath the throne chamber, hidden behind a seal of abyssal language, we uncovered a chamber—untouched by time. There, among scorched relics and forbidden runes… was a book."
Deus drew a worn, black-bound tome from beneath his robes. Its cover shimmered faintly, as if written in starlight and shadow.
"A Book of Origins. Older than language. Older than the war. It speaks of a god—the first god—who forged this world not with fire, but with thought. A god unlike any other, one who did not walk among the heavens... but within the soul."
Whispers swept through the chamber. Leon's gaze narrowed.
"And what does it say?" the king asked.
Deus opened the book slowly, its pages almost turning on their own—as though the words ached to be read.
"It tells of betrayal," Deus said. "Of gods who once knelt before this Creator, only to rise against him in jealousy and fear. They tore his name from memory, split his essence across the realms, and chained what remained within the folds of reality... so that he could never awaken."
A silence deeper than death followed.
"And now," Deus continued, voice heavy with dread, "this world shifts once more. The Abyss stirs. The stars realign. And the book's final prophecy reads:
'When the Moon weeps, and the Sun roars in agony,
The true god shall awaken—not to rule... but to remember.'"
Leon rose from his throne.
"And what does that mean?"
Deus closed the book, his eyes dark and distant.
"I do not know," he said. "But I fear this world no longer belongs to kings... or demons... or even gods. Something older stirs. And if it wakes—our war will seem like whispers in a storm."
The king trembled as he sank back into his throne. His wine now forgotten, his hands clenched with the weight of old truths.
"I fear..." he began slowly, "...that this is no ordinary prophecy. It aligns—too perfectly—with the sacred texts passed down by my bloodline. A Bible... not of our gods, but of hers."
All eyes turned to him.
"My ancestors once followed a god unlike any spoken of in the modern tongue. They worshiped her not out of fear, nor for favor... but for her grace. Her beauty, they said, was not merely in form, but in spirit. A light that could outshine even the cruelest night."
He paused, voice cracking slightly.
"They spoke of her with awe... and sorrow. For even as a goddess, she carried pain. An unspoken longing. As if she was searching—not for power or dominion—but for someone."
The king's gaze drifted upward, as if the memory hung in the ceiling beams.
"She wandered endless worlds, crossed realms unimagined, seeking... him. A soul lost even to the divine. And when she set foot upon this world, she whispered, 'This world is him. I can feel it.'"
The fire crackled.
"'Protect it with everything you have,' she said. 'And it shall, in turn, protect you.'"
He reached into a box beside his throne and drew a faded leather-bound scripture, its cover worn with age and reverence.
"This book... this Bible was left behind by her hand. It is said that within its pages is the foundation of our kingdom, the reason Sagewick was born."
He turned to the nobles and mages, his voice growing firmer.
"'Your legacy,' she told my ancestors, 'will be a kingdom built to serve no throne but mine. Not for conquest, but for protection. The evil that festers in this world cannot be destroyed by mortal strength alone. You must call upon those who come from beyond.'"
He let the silence speak for a moment longer, then gently closed the book.
"She gave us a way to summon them. Heroes, not of this realm. Strangers, born in another world, carrying the essence of the one she seeks."
He looked toward Deus with haunted eyes.
"And I believe... that time is now."
Fred Traster, his brow furrowed with unease, stepped forward.
"Your Highness... I have nothing but trust in your wisdom. Your reign has brought peace and stability for more than a decade. But—if I may speak freely—allow me to voice my concern."
The hall quieted again as Fred continued.
"This revelation, this prophecy... without a doubt, it echoes with truth, and I do not question its place in our kingdom's legacy. But I fear the consequences. Summoning a being from another world... we tread uncertain ground. What if we call forth not a hero—but something far more sinister?"
A hush fell over the nobles. Even the flickering candlelight seemed to wait in anticipation.
King Leon met Fred's gaze, not with offense, but with solemn understanding.
"I thank you, Lord Fred," he said, his voice calm and resolute. "You speak as a true noble should—guarding both his heart and his people. Your worries are not misplaced."
He stood, the weight of his years evident in his slow movement, yet his presence still commanded the room.
"But a ruler must not be ruled by fear. And while I may sit on this throne, the fate of the world cannot rest on one man alone—not anymore. That is why I turn to all of you."
He gestured across the hall, to the gathered lords, kings, and mages.
"The time has come for unity. For a decision that echoes beyond our borders and bloodlines. I ask not for blind faith—but for your judgment. Let the future be shaped not by crown alone, but by all of us—as one."
A pause.
Then Fred, humbled and stirred by the king's conviction, gave a small smile and nodded.
"Then let it be so, Your Majesty. I stand with you—and with this kingdom."
For a few moments, the once festive and resounding hall was shrouded in a tense silence. The flicker of torchlight danced across the stone walls as the weight of history settled upon the room. Minds raced. Hearts pounded.
Then, the silence broke.
A tall figure rose from his seat—his bearing noble, his eyes steeled with resolution. He raised his goblet high.
"I stand with the King of Sagewick," declared Emperor William Siegfried III, ruler of the William Empire, 48 years of age. His voice echoed through the chamber, calm but unyielding. "This world shall aid the one who once saved not just a nation, but the world itself. I raise this glass in honor of the courage to act again."
The room stirred.
Moments later, another voice rose—softer, but no less powerful.
"Let this be my will," said Queen Molina Natlan, sovereign of the Natlan Dominion, 39 years old. She lifted her silver chalice, her eyes shining with both grief and determination. "My people know too well the pain of these demons. It was the King of Sagewick who, with his own blade, struck down the demon lord that plagued our land. If he calls for unity, then I shall answer."
A murmur swept across the chamber.
One by one, the rulers stood—some with pride, others with grim acceptance. Lords, mages, generals, and kings. They raised their goblets in solemn unity. A tide of voices began to rise in overlapping declarations:
"For the future of our children—aye!"
"For the goddess who guards us!"
"For the world we all share!"
And then, the hall erupted—not in song or laughter, but in a solemn, echoing toast that resounded like the chime of fate itself.
The vote was cast—not in ink, but in fire and will.