In a world where gods walk among mortals and celestial beings influence the fate of civilizations, the boundaries between divinity and humanity blur. This is a tale of power, prophecy, and the eternal struggle between forces beyond comprehension.

The land of Elyndor was once a paradise where mortals and gods coexisted in harmony. The divine pantheon, known as the Eternals, governed the balance of existence, ensuring that no force—light or dark—tipped the scales too far. Yet, peace was never meant to last.

Millennia ago, a schism fractured the divine order. One god, Xaltheon, the Fallen, sought dominion over all realms. He whispered forbidden truths to mortals, granting them power no human was meant to wield. The Gods' War erupted, a cataclysm that shattered the sky, tore apart the heavens, and left the world scarred.

The gods, unable to directly intervene after the war, left their influence through relics, prophecies, and chosen champions. The most important of these was the Prophecy of the Eternal Realm, which foretold the rise of a mortal destined to either restore the divine order—or destroy it completely.

Now, in an age where kingdoms rise and fall under the weight of celestial wills, a single individual unknowingly carries the fate of all existence. Eryndor Valis, a mere wanderer with no claim to power, is thrust into a conflict greater than he could ever imagine. With gods vying for control, forgotten magics reawakening, and an ancient enemy stirring in the void, the time of reckoning has come.

Will he embrace his destiny and ascend to divinity, or will the world be consumed by the shadows of a forgotten past?

The journey begins now.

The crisp air of the dawn clung to the valley of Eldoria, where the mist curled around the towering oak trees like whispers of an ancient secret. The land here was untouched by war, a rare sanctuary in a world where divine struggles often left scars upon the earth.

Eryndor Valis had always been an outsider in his own village. A simple hunter, he lived alone at the edge of the woodland, avoiding the politics and superstitions that ruled the people of Eldoria. But even he could not ignore the recent omens—flaming stars streaking across the night sky, rivers turning a shade too crimson, whispers in the wind calling an unknown name.

That morning, as he stepped outside his modest wooden cabin, a feeling of unease settled over him. The usual song of the birds had fallen silent. The wind carried an unfamiliar scent, something old and powerful.

Then, he saw it.

A golden sigil burned into the ground just beyond the tree line—a mark that pulsed with energy beyond mortal comprehension. The moment his eyes met the symbol, a searing pain shot through his mind, and visions overwhelmed him.

A throne of stars.

A sword wreathed in flame.

A shadow stretching across the sky, devouring the light.

He fell to his knees, gasping for breath as a voice—both foreign and familiar—echoed through his soul.

"The time has come. You are the key to the prophecy. Rise, and embrace your fate."

Eryndor knew, in that moment, that his life as a mere hunter was over. He had been chosen—by whom or what, he did not yet understand. But one thing was clear: something ancient had awakened, and it would stop at nothing to claim him.

Thus, the journey began.

The visions left Eryndor breathless, his heart pounding as the golden sigil pulsed with an otherworldly energy. The voice that had spoken to him still echoed in his mind, carrying a weight that felt heavier than the mountains themselves.

As he struggled to regain control of his thoughts, the sigil began to fade, its glow sinking into the earth until only the burnt imprint remained. The forest was silent again, but it was no longer the comforting quiet he had known his whole life. It was the hush before a storm, the breath the world held before something momentous arrived.

He had no time to process what had happened before the sound of approaching footsteps sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through him. Instinct took over, and he ducked behind a fallen tree, his hunter’s training allowing him to move soundlessly. From the shadows, he watched as three figures emerged from the woods.

They were cloaked in deep blue robes embroidered with silver runes, their faces hidden beneath hoods. The air around them shimmered faintly as if reality itself recoiled from their presence. Magisters, Eryndor realized, members of the Order of the Eternal Eye—a secretive sect of scholars and mystics who studied the old prophecies. Their arrival could not be a coincidence.

One of them knelt beside the fading sigil, running gloved fingers over the charred ground. "It has begun," she murmured, her voice sharp yet reverent.

The tallest of the trio turned his head toward Eryndor’s hiding place. "We are not alone."

Eryndor knew he had been spotted. There was no point in hiding anymore. He rose to his feet, muscles tense, his mind racing for an escape. But before he could move, the lead Magister raised a hand, palm outward, in a gesture of peace.

"Fear not, hunter. We mean you no harm."

Eryndor did not lower his guard. "Then why are you here?"

The Magister took a slow step forward, allowing the hood to fall back and revealing a face lined with wisdom and age. His silver eyes gleamed in the early morning light. "Because the stars have spoken your name, Eryndor Valis."

Hearing his full name from a stranger sent a chill down his spine. "How do you know who I am?"

The female Magister, still kneeling by the sigil, responded. "Because you are marked by the Prophecy of the Eternal Realm. You have seen the visions, have you not?"

Eryndor hesitated. He had no reason to trust them, but something told him they were not lying. "What do you know of the prophecy?"

The third Magister finally spoke, his voice deep and resonant. "It is said that when the gods abandoned the mortal world, they left behind a final decree—a prophecy that would foretell the rise of one who could either restore the balance of the heavens or break it forever. That prophecy speaks of a mortal who bears the mark of the divine, a soul touched by both light and darkness."

The lead Magister gestured toward Eryndor. "You are that mortal."

Eryndor felt the weight of their words settle on him like a shroud. It was impossible. He was no hero, no warrior. He was just a hunter. "You must be mistaken," he said. "I am no one."

The female Magister shook her head. "The prophecy does not lie. You carry the essence of the gods within you. And soon, others will come seeking you—those who would see the prophecy fulfilled, and those who would see you destroyed before it can come to pass."

Eryndor clenched his fists, frustration boiling beneath his skin. "And what if I want no part in this?"

The lead Magister smiled, though there was sorrow in his expression. "Fate does not wait for permission. Whether you accept it or not, the path has already begun."

Before Eryndor could respond, a sudden shift in the air made all three Magisters stiffen. A new presence stirred in the forest, something dark and cold. The birds that had returned to the trees fell silent once more.

The deep-voiced Magister turned sharply toward the trees. "They are here."

Eryndor followed his gaze, his instincts screaming at him to move. Shadows flickered between the trees, moving unnaturally fast. Then, from the darkness, they emerged.

Hooded figures cloaked in black, their faces hidden behind masks of polished obsidian. Their very presence seemed to distort the light around them. The Veilborn, assassins of the Godless Order, a cult that had long sought to erase any remnants of divine influence from the world.

Their leader stepped forward, his voice smooth as silk but sharp as a dagger. "Step aside, Magisters. The boy comes with us."

The lead Magister moved protectively in front of Eryndor. "You serve the fallen god, Xaltheon. You would see the world burn before allowing the prophecy to be fulfilled."

The Veilborn leader tilted his head. "We would see the world free from the chains of gods and destiny." His eyes, black as the void, locked onto Eryndor. "Come willingly, hunter, and your death will be swift."

Eryndor felt the cold touch of fear, but beneath it, something stirred—a spark of defiance, of strength that did not belong to him alone. The visions returned in flashes. The throne of stars. The sword of flame. The shadow devouring the sky.

He did not understand them yet. But he knew one thing: he was not ready to die.

The Magisters drew their weapons—elegant blades humming with runic power. The Veilborn reached for their curved daggers, dark energy crackling around them.

The battle for Eryndor had begun.

The clearing erupted into chaos as steel clashed against steel, and the air crackled with raw energy. The Magisters, armed with blades imbued with celestial runes, fought with graceful precision, their strikes illuminating the darkness with bursts of silver light. The Veilborn, cloaked in shadows, moved unnaturally fast, their obsidian daggers slicing through the air like whispers of death.

Eryndor had no weapon, no training for such a battle. He could only watch as the forces of destiny and destruction clashed around him, his heart pounding like a war drum. He knew he should run. Every instinct screamed at him to flee into the depths of the forest, to disappear before the fight consumed him.

But something held him in place.

A pull deep within his soul.

And then—a voice.

"Remember."

The word thundered through his mind, and suddenly, the battlefield faded from view. A vision overtook him, more powerful than the ones before. He was no longer in Eldoria. He stood upon the remnants of a world torn asunder, a place where the sky had been shattered.

Above him, the heavens were fractured like broken glass, massive celestial shards drifting through a void of swirling colors. The stars themselves flickered uncertainly, as if unsure whether they should burn or fade. Beneath his feet, the ruins of a great kingdom stretched endlessly, its once-magnificent towers now reduced to skeletal remains.

A voice—not the one that had called him before, but a new one—echoed across the ruins. Deep, resonant, filled with both sorrow and fury.

"You see now what has been lost."

Eryndor turned and saw a towering figure standing upon a crumbling throne. A god.

Or what was left of one.

The being was draped in tattered robes of gold and white, its form flickering between reality and shadow. What had once been a face was now a void, a shifting swirl of cosmic energy where eyes should have been. A broken crown, cracked down the center, rested upon its brow.

"I was once called Solmara, the Keeper of Balance."

Eryndor felt the weight of the name, ancient and powerful. "What happened here?"

The god lifted a hand, and images flickered through the shattered sky. Visions of war.

The Gods' War.

It had begun as all wars do—with a betrayal.

Xaltheon, the Fallen, had once been the greatest of the Eternals, the god of knowledge and destiny. But he had looked beyond the divine order, beyond the laws that governed gods and mortals alike. He had sought something forbidden. Power that even the gods feared.

And so, he had broken the sky.

In his pursuit of absolute dominion, Xaltheon had shattered the boundaries between realms, unleashing chaos upon the world. The divine pantheon had turned against him, but by then, it was too late. The heavens burned. The earth fractured. The Eternals, once untouchable, fell from their thrones.

Solmara had fought alongside the gods who wished to preserve balance. But they had failed.

"The war ended with no victor. Only ruin." The god’s voice was heavy with sorrow. "The pantheon was sundered. Some of us perished, others faded, and a few… a few still linger in the shadows, waiting for their time to rise again."

Eryndor swallowed hard, the weight of the vision pressing down on him. "And Xaltheon?"

Solmara’s form flickered, his voice laced with rage. "Banished. Sealed within the abyss beyond the stars. But his followers remain. They have never stopped searching for a way to bring him back."

The Veilborn.

Everything clicked into place. The cult that had attacked him in the forest, the whispers of the prophecy, the reason why the gods had left behind a mortal with divine essence.

"The prophecy," Eryndor whispered.

Solmara nodded. "You are the first to hear my voice in a thousand years. You are the one who will decide the fate of what remains."

The vision shifted again, faster now. More images flooded his mind.

A great city rising from the ashes.

A sword of fire, wielded by a figure in golden armor.

A monstrous shadow stretching across the sky, devouring the stars.

And then—darkness.

The vision shattered, and Eryndor was yanked back into reality.

The battle was still raging in the clearing. One of the Magisters fell, his chest pierced by a Veilborn dagger. Another was locked in a duel with two assassins, his runeblade barely holding them at bay. The lead Magister—the one who had first spoken to Eryndor—turned toward him, his silver eyes filled with urgency.

"Eryndor!" he shouted. "You must choose!"

Eryndor barely had time to react before the Veilborn leader lunged at him, blade aimed straight for his heart.

And then—it happened.

Time seemed to slow.

That pull within him—the power that had been stirring ever since he saw the sigil—ignited.

A golden light erupted from his hands, and before he could even comprehend what he was doing, a pulse of pure divine energy surged outward.

The Veilborn assassin was thrown back, crashing into a tree with inhuman force. The other assassins recoiled, hissing as if burned by the light. The remaining Magister gasped, staring at Eryndor with something between awe and terror.

The lead Magister took a cautious step forward. "You have awakened."

Eryndor stared down at his hands, the golden energy flickering around them. He could still hear Solmara’s voice in his mind.

"The time has come."

The battle had ended. But his journey had only begun.