Chapter 2: The Gods’ War and the Shattered Sky

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.

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