Chapter 2: The Fall of a Legend and the Winged Promise

  "In the year 281 before the Unification Day, the first of the Ryul clan seized power over the nation of Milderenlet. Two years later, Milderenlet was renamed Mantorias.

  275 B.U.D: Mantorias invades Fectorius.

  273 B.U.D: Sag Yotarg falls to the 'Black Cavalry' of the Ryul clan.

  259 B.U.D: Almarek, Turofencia, and Xereroz surrender simultaneously after a decade-long siege.

  255 B.U.D: Quenltylir becomes a colony of the Mantorian Empire.

  253 B.U.D: Goldensoule attacks Quenltylir. A year later, Quenltylir falls.

  250 B.U.D: Eight hundred and fifty thousand Black Cavalrymen defeat seven hundred thousand Goldensoule war elephants across the borders of the gold-rich territories.

  249 B.U.D: The King of Goldensoule commits suicide; the Queen and courtiers are beheaded. Goldensoule is absorbed into the Mantorian Dynasty. That same year, Horolathorg leads a Western alliance to declare war on Mantorias, sparking the 'Two-Hundred-Year War'—the bloodiest conflict in history.

  50 B.U.D: One point two million soldiers of the Western Alliance are buried alive in the collapsing cliffs of Nes’Ocicini, marking the inevitable fall of all remaining nations on the continent of Orancle.

  Fifty years later, all twenty-four neighboring countries fall under Mantorian control.

  According to the treaty signed on the Unification Day, all nations on Orancle become members of the Great Crestorim Empire, ruled by the Wizarding Council. The descendants of the Ryul bloodline shall forever inherit the mantle of Grand Commander of this Council.

  Horolathorg, Infregterin, and Goldensoule—the fiercest resistors—are forbidden from raising private armies and remain under direct Mantorian occupation. Three of the Empire’s four primary armies are stationed there, turning them into military outposts to extinguish any spark of rebellion.

  Terk’Ohag remains the only non-civilian island, a prison for those who can never be released. For 1,745 years, it has maintained a force of one million Ethorg soldiers and ten thousand high-ranking wizards to guard the Ractiga—the gem that seals the energy of the prison's sole inmate..."

  — Excerpt from "Chronicles of Signers" (Alaris Derenire Garcia)

  Under the fading twilight, as the mountains turned a bruised gold, The’olard was consumed by a cold fury. He commanded the Mountain Spirit to strike Alaris relentlessly. Rage had stripped away his composure, leaving his mind a chaotic blur as he replayed the Great Wizard’s words. The son of the Grand Commander, the heir to the Crestorim throne, was a... Signer. No. It was unacceptable. Casting a sharp, plum-colored gaze at the translucent figure of the old man swirling like a gale against the stone giant, The’olard subtly slid a small, frost-coated dagger into his sleeve.

  Moments later, a series of grinding cracks echoed from the giant’s craggy form. Faint yellow motes of light bled from the fissures in the rock. With a deafening boom that sent birds scattering for miles, the Mountain Spirit collapsed, lifeless beneath Alaris’s staff.

  The swirling mist of Alaris’s form solidified, returning to the shape of a man in a brown cloak snapping in the abyss-winds. He leaned heavily on his staff, gasping for breath. The power of the ancient cedar had been spent on the Forbidden Art and the defeat of Gaia’s child. Deep wrinkles surged across his broad forehead, revealing the true weight of his six hundred and seventy-seven years—an age hidden by magic for centuries.

  "Who else knows of the 'Mark' besides you?" The’olard asked, his voice low and dangerous.

  Alaris looked up, his eyes sunken and shadowed. He burst into a weary laugh.

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  "Do you intend to silence them all? Hahaha..." He suddenly turned grave, pointing a pale, trembling finger at the youth. "Let me tell you this: many others will recognize that sign. Even if you could kill us all, could you kill yourself, Bearer of the Mark? You cannot outrun destiny."

  "Silence!" The’olard bellowed.

  The heir of Ryul lost all restraint. Roaring like a wounded beast, he lunged for the killing blow. Alaris could deflect the magical bolts, but he had no strength left to stop the cruel blade. It plunged into his abdomen, twisting, severing his Mireora thread.

  In this world, every soul is bound by three threads of destiny: the Sireoris of the Signer, the Mireora of the Wizard, and the Eireothim of the Ethorg. At the age of one, the fate of a child is sealed as either the Sireoris or Mireora snaps forever. Without the Sireoris, one can never be a Signer; without the Mireora, the path of the Wizard is closed. And should the Eireothim break, the soul is called back to the Immortal Constellation.

  Alaris trembled as his power was stripped away, his Mireora severed. The hateful blade was withdrawn from the bloodied flesh of what was now a mere, fragile Ethorg.

  "I will not kill you, great and powerful Alaris," The’olard whispered into the ear of the collapsing sage. "I will let you live the life of an Ethorg—a life you have never known. You are exiled forever to the edge of Orancle, to the desolate wilds of the Oritexaz range in Urugan. Enjoy your final years there."

  Alaris let out a jagged gasp. He could feel the withered weakness of old age crashing down as his energy ebbed away.

  "Healathirious," The’olard muttered, placing a hand over the wound.

  His hand glowed, radiating a warmth that soothed the old man. The wound closed and scarred instantly. The Great Wizard fell unconscious, his physical body restored but his spirit broken.

  "This is the final mercy for your years of service to the Council," The’olard said coldly.

  With a chant, the prince summoned a swirl of leaves that hoisted Alaris’s limp body into the air, carrying him away upon the drifting clouds. For the first time, The’olard looked at the mark on his arm not with pride, but with a mixture of helpless resentment and the cold glare of a venomous serpent.

  "I cannot be a Signer!" he cried out, his voice breaking like something burning from within.

  "You must accept it, Your Highness," the young acolyte spoke from the shadows of the landing.

  The’olard flinched; he had almost forgotten the child had witnessed everything.

  "Fate does not give you a choice in how you are born," the young priest continued. "But you can change your own destiny."

  Without hesitation, The’olard’s hand tightened, a spark of light flickering in his palm.

  "Please, do not kill me!" the child knelt quickly. "Let me help you change that destiny."

  "Who are you, truly?" The’olard frowned.

  "I am a Signer, my lord," the boy replied.

  He knelt and pulled back the fabric of his sleeve, revealing a shimmering mark—the same intricate runes of leaves and forest spirits upon his left bicep.

  The’olard stared in surprise, his mind racing. Then, he smiled. With a wave of his hand, he dispelled the dark clouds clinging to Yor’Ikarim, opening a path to the clear blue sky. A flurry of gray-brown mist and white flowers began to fall—an early snow.

  "Winter has passed," The’olard said.

  He grabbed the boy’s shoulder and vanished into a pillar of light piercing through the endless fog.

  Year 1750 after the Unification Day — The Oritexaz Range, Urugan

  In a makeshift thatched hut perched near the Gurania stream, the old Ethorg Alaris sat calmly, writing the final pages of the "Chronicles of Signers." He had spent his life studying it, fueled by a love for a generation he had never truly known. Ironically, the last person he had seen in six years—the prince who had exiled him—was the very heir to both Signer and Wizard blood.

  A recent storm had toppled the ancient cedar near the forest corner where Alaris used to dig for roots. The legendary wizard, whose disappearance had shaken Orancle, knew his time was short. The Great Ones of the Immortal Constellation were ready for his final journey. But Alaris could not leave behind a history shrouded in darkness. He had to pass this chronicle to the right hands.

  Alaris was too old to cross the Oritexaz mountains, his natural prison for six years. But Ogris, his "child"—the miraculous hybrid of lion and eagle—could. The’olard had exiled him, but he never suspected that Alaris kept secrets deeper than the lost magic of Wizards. Secrets like an egg of a mystical creature that had hatched two years ago. Alaris had taught the creature one thing: to recognize the "Mark" and to be loyal to its Bearer.

  Blinking emerald eyes full of life, Ogris followed the old Ethorg to a hidden cave behind the waterfall at the head of the Gurania stream. With trembling hands, Alaris placed the chronicle into a wooden box he had crafted with care, adorned with the Signer's mark.

  "Remember," Alaris smiled, stroking Ogris’s mane. "Only a Signer of great courage, wisdom, and mercy may touch this book. You must protect it in my stead and lead its true master here. You, the most intelligent creature of the four continents—I entrust you with the greatest secret of the Signers. Fly now. Find the Mark that will lead the world!"

  Under the warm spring sun, the eagle wings spread wide. With a thunderous lion’s roar, Ogris took flight. Alaris closed his eyes. The great ancient cedar had finally followed the call of the ancestors back to the Sacred Constellation.