Chapter 4: The Kingdom Between Light and Darkness

The world around Eryndor shifted as if reality itself was unraveling. The ruins of Azalthir , replaced by an endless void of swirling shadows and light. Stars flickered like dying embers, suspended in an abyss with no beginning or end.

Before him, the shadowed figure remained seated upon its throne of stone, its form shifting between substance and smoke. Eryndor could not see its face, but he could feel its gaze upon him—a presence that seemed both ancient and eternal.

"You stand at the precipice of understanding," the being said, its voice resonating through the empty void. "You seek the truth of what you are. But know this—truth is not always a gift. Sometimes, it is a curse."

Eryndor took a slow breath, steeling himself. "I don’t care about curses. I need to understand why I have this power. Why me?"

The figure leaned forward slightly. "Because you are neither god nor mortal. You are something in between."

The words sent a chill through Eryndor's soul. "That’s impossible."

"Is it?" The figure raised a hand, and the darkness around them parted, revealing a vision—a great city bathed in twilight, caught between two warring forces. One side burned with golden radiance, its towers gleaming like molten sunlight. The other was cloaked in shadows, its spires stretching toward a sky of swirling darkness. Between them, a vast battlefield stretched into the distance, filled with warriors who bore both the sigils of the gods and the marks of the forsaken.

"This is Vael’Thorin, the kingdom between light and darkness," the figure continued. "The last kingdom to stand before the heavens fell. It was a realm where gods and mortals once ruled together, where magic flowed freely, untouched by the restraints of divinity."

Eryndor’s pulse quickened as the vision shifted. He saw warriors wielding weapons forged from celestial flame, battling creatures wreathed in shadows so deep they seemed to consume the very light around them.

"This kingdom was born of balance," the figure said. "But when the Gods’ War began, it became the first to fall."

Eryndor watched as the city burned. Towers crumbled, streets were consumed by golden and black flames alike, and the sky split apart with a deafening roar. He felt something stir deep inside him—recognition.

"You were there," he whispered, his gaze snapping back to the figure on the throne.

A pause. And then—"Yes."

The weight of that single word settled upon Eryndor like an avalanche. "Then you know what really happened during the war. You know why the gods left us."

The figure exhaled slowly, and for the first time, there was something almost… human in its voice. "They did not leave, young one. They were banished."

The words sent a bolt of shock through him. "Banished? By who?"

The figure stood, and as it did, the void around them shattered like fragile glass. The vision of Vael’Thorin faded, and suddenly, Eryndor was no longer standing in the abyss. He was in the heart of a ruined temple, golden inscriptions glowing faintly along the walls. The air was thick with magic—old, powerful, and forbidden.

The figure now stood before him, no longer a formless shadow, but a being clad in armor of black and gold, a crown of fractured metal resting upon its brow.

"I was once Sol’Rathis, the Keeper of the Veil, the last ruler of Vael’Thorin," the figure said, its voice steady. "And I was the one who led the rebellion against the gods."

Eryndor’s breath caught in his throat. "You… you fought against them?"

Sol’Rathis nodded. "Because they sought to break the balance. The gods were not always benevolent, Eryndor. They grew greedy, demanding absolute obedience from both mortals and lesser deities alike. They sought to erase the existence of those who defied their will."

Eryndor felt a pit open in his stomach. "Then… Xaltheon wasn’t the only one who rebelled?"

"No," Sol’Rathis said. "But his rebellion was different. While we fought to preserve balance, he fought to replace the gods with himself. And for that, he was cast into the abyss."

Eryndor’s thoughts raced. Everything he had been told—about the war, about the gods—had been only part of the truth. "If the gods were banished… then what happened to their power?"

Sol’Rathis took a slow step forward, his golden eyes burning like dying stars. "Some of it lingers in this world. In the ruins of the old kingdoms. In the remnants of magic that still pulse beneath the earth." His gaze locked onto Eryndor. "And some of it—was passed into a mortal bloodline."

The realization struck him like a thunderbolt. "You’re saying… that power is in me?"

"You are its inheritor," Sol’Rathis confirmed. "A descendant of those who once ruled Vael’Thorin. A child of both light and darkness. That is why the prophecy speaks of you."

Eryndor clenched his fists, his mind reeling. If what Sol’Rathis was saying was true, then he was not just some chosen warrior. He was the last link to an ancient kingdom, a living remnant of a war that had reshaped the heavens.

And the gods—wherever they were—would not ignore his existence.

"What do I do now?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Sol’Rathis studied him for a long moment before responding. "The world is not yet ready for the return of the gods. And Xaltheon’s followers will stop at nothing to see him rise again."

His voice turned grave. "There are those who would use your power to restore balance. And those who would seek to claim it for themselves. You must learn to wield your magic—not just for yourself, but for the fate of all realms."

Eryndor nodded, the weight of his destiny settling fully upon him. "Then teach me."

Sol’Rathis’s lips curled into a knowing smile. "Very well. But be warned, child of prophecy… once you walk this path, there is no turning back."

The golden light of the temple flared, and in that moment, Eryndor knew—his journey had only just begun.

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