Time: 14 Years Ago – The Night of Anir’s Birth.Location: The Prison of LanzuleDeep within the Blood Trees Forest, a pce where the trees bleed crimson sap and the air is thick with the st of iron, lies Lahe Fae’s most heavily guarded stronghold. This prison is not just a pce of fi but a liviy, its walls imbued with a magic that feeds on despair. Here, the Fae imprison those who defy their rule, breaking them body and soul until nothing remains but hollow shells.

  In the deepest, darkest cell of Lanzule, an old woman stirs. She is her fully human irely Fae, but a hybrid—a relic of a forbidden unioweewo races. Her name is Maelis, and she is the st of her kind, a liviament to a time when humans and Fae walked the same paths. Her one good eye, milky and blind, flickers open, and though she ot see the physical world, her vision pierces the veil of fate itself.

  Maelis is no Oracle iraditional sense. She does not uh False-gods or spirits. Instead, her power es from her bloodline, a lieeped in Faith-mana, a rare and votile form of magic that binds her to the threads of destiny.

  Tonight, that votile essence of power surges within her, violent and untrolble it pulsed in her veins, The tendrils of fate vibrated so fiercely the very air screamed with urgency, as if the universe itself is screaming for her attention.

  The ProphecyMaelis’s back arches as the weight of aral memories crashes into her mind. The a instinct of her lineage, a spell carved into her very blood, took hold. Her lips, dry and cracked, move against her will, and her voice—rasping and filled with otherworldly power—echoes through the prison, carrying words that have been silenced for turies:

  “When the skies fall silent and the stars grow dim,When the forests whisper of dread within,He shall rise from shadow, fire in his stride,A savior borhe hunted hide.

  With steps that quake the earth and sky,He will tear the veil where the Fae lie.s shall shatter, and bonds be torn,By his will, the dawn is reborn.

  Woe to the darkhat thought him prey,For the Treader of Dawn will not obey.With blood, with fme, with earth and air,From svery He shall carve a path none will dare.

  The Pact will break, the masters will fall,And humanity will rise, the rulers of all.The false-god will fall, for

  The Treader of Dawn has e.”

  As the final words leave her lips, Maelis colpses, her frail body trembling violently. Her one good eye clears, now gleaming with a sharphat defies her age. She whispers hoarsely to the shadows that g to the prison walls:

  "The Age of Chaos is upon us," she says, her voice low and filled with grim certainty. "And with chaos es opportunity."

  The prison itself seems to shudder, its a magic reag to the weight of fate in her words. What had been suppressed fes—fotten prophecies, buried truths, hidden fears—spreads like wildfire through the invisible tendrils of fate.

  The Deep-Lands StirFar beyond the prison, in the cursed expanse of the Deep-Lands, the restless darkrembles. This is a pce where light dares not tread, a realm of eternal night ruled by a, unspeakable predators. These creatures, born of primordial chaos, are drawn to the tremor in the world’s fabric.

  Somewhere, far from their reach but close enough to provoke hunger.

  A soul has been born—a soul strong, luminous, and ripe with potential. The creatures of the Deep-Lands do not uand prophecy or fate. They do not o. All they know is the tantalizing st of power, a feast unlike any other.

  An immense, shadowy mass stirs, its formless body shifting as tless eyes blink open within its depths. A low, guttural growl reverberates across the nd, a sound that sends weaker entities scurrying to the safety of darkness.

  The birth of a soul like this is a rare occurreo the entities of the Deep-Lands, it is an opportunity—a ce te on power and despair.

  Maelis’s WrathBa Lanzule’s prison, Maelis slowly pulls herself upright, her body racked with exhaustion from the strain of eling the prophecy. But she is smiling now—a cruel, knowing smile.

  She reaches for a rusted embedded in the prison floor and yanks it free. The sound of metal grinding against stone echoes through the chamber, a harsh reminder of her captivity. Yet, even in s, she has influence.

  Her whisper spreads like a serpent through the currents of magic, seeping into the ears of her kin: “The Treader of Dawn has e. Let the false masters beware. Their rule will burn before it crumbles.”

  Her ugh is soft but filled with malice. "And as for the Deep-Lands... let them chase their feast. Let them ge on their own despair when they fail."

  The Blood Trees Forest rustles ominously, as if in agreement. Somewhere far from this cursed pce, a newborn child cries, oblivious to the storm his very existence has unleashed.

  And the world begins to shift.

  Time: 14 years ter, after the bread and honey feast.For the first time, the tribe slept with something close to joy in the air. It wasn’t the urained happiness of a feast or celebration—no, it was careful, hesitant, like stepping over a frozen stream and hoping it wouldn’t crack beh you. But it was joy heless.

  The smell of honey and bread lingered in the cave, mixing with the warmth of shared bodies and muted versations. For one night, we almost fot the horrors that prowled outside in the darkness. Almost.

  When m came, I woke up feeling… different. Less like a walking ball of paranoia fueled by past-life trauma aential dread. Less like a ered animal ready to sh out at every shadow. It rogress, however small.

  I stretched, staring at the cave ceiling as the faint sounds of the tribe stirring reached my ears. For the first time since I woke up in this world, I didn’t feel like I was about to jump out of my skin. Maybe it was the bread. Maybe it was the honey. Or maybe my brain had finally decided to stop repying my death arayal on an endless loop.

  That st moment of my past life… It wasn’t just unhappy; it ing wound. Fresh, raw, unhealed. When I woke up here, the betrayal felt like it had happened yesterday, not in another lifetime. My mind hadn’t caught up to the fact that I was here now, in a different body, a different pce.

  Looking back, I admit it—I was a little unhinged. Seeirayal in every shadow, imagining enemies where there weren’t any, making pointless decisions like some ered animal shing out at everything. That was me. For a while, at least.

  But now? Now I had time. Time to cool off, to stabilize, to think. And what I realized was… this is another life. A new opportunity.

  Or, if you listen to my paranoia, a brand-new ce for life to screw me over iacur fashion.

  Don’t get me wrong—my paranoia isly wrong. The Fae exist. The forest is full of things that want to eat me. And people? People are always the biggest danger of all. But still, I see it now. My knee-jerk rea to seize trol of the tribe, to make them mine, was just some primal, idiotic reflex.

  Sure, it made se the time. trol means safety, right? If I trol the tribe, I trol the narrative. I trol who lives and who dies. But that’s not living. That’s surviving. And if I’m going to make it in this world, I o do more than just survive.

  its time for short m vacation.

  Shell-shockedI stood and grabbed the iron sword I just crafted the moment before, its weight familiar in my hands. The tribe was waking up, their voices blending with the crackle of the m fire. I slipped out of the cave, the cool air hitting my face as I made my way into the forest.

  The forest was quiet, save for the rhythmic swish of my bde cutting through the air. I wasn’t training for anyone’s eyes but my own, hidden from the curious stares of the tribe. Each swing recise, deliberate, and brutal—aension of my thoughts made physical.

  I adjusted my grip, rolling my shoulders to looseension there. My body moved, following a sequeched deep into my muscle memory. A step forward, a low sweep, a twist of my wrist into a sharp upward ssh. I let the motions flow, letting them pull me into a meditative rhythm.

  But my mind was anything but calm.

  The trauma of betrayal is no easy wound to heal from. The thought lingered, heavier than the sword in my hand. The memory of my old life, of my death, pyed o in the bay mind like a haunting melody I couldn’t escape.

  The bde whistled through the air, slig an invisible foe. My jaw tightened as the motions became sharper, more violent.

  Even in this new world, this different life, I still feel it—that pain. It’s not just a memory. It’s a splinter, buried deep, festering in pces I ’t reach.

  I stepped back, feinting an imaginary terattack, my movements sharp but trolled. Yet, ihere was chaos.

  I’m not delusional. I know I’m behaving like a lunatic. Obsessing. Plotting. Preparing for wars that haven’t even started. My grip on the hilt tightened, my knuckles white as I brought the bde down in a heavy strike. The vibration traveled up my arm, grounding me for a moment.

  I exhaled slowly, l the sword. My chest heaved with exertion. My aura, faint and still immature, pulsed faintly around me like an uneasy shadow.

  I shifted my stand began again, this time slower, more deliberate. My movements weren’t just a training exercise—they were a dialogue with myself.

  The violeny death was fresh when I woke up here. My body may have ged, but my mind hasn’t fotten. And what did I decide? More violence. Violen order. Violence as the solution.

  I let the bde hover in the air for a moment before sweeping it forward, cutting through a low-hanging branch. The branch fell, and I caught it mid-air, examining its texture as if it held answers. It didn’t. I tossed it aside and resumed my drills.

  My feet moved through the leaf-strewn forest floor with practiced precision, g softly against the undergrowth. The sword became aension of me—of my thoughts, my emotions, my rage.

  It’s not just the betrayal that haunts me. It’s the way it rewired me. Every iion is suspect. Every smile hides a bde. A, I ’t stop. I don’t know how to stop. Trust is a luxury I don’t think I’ll ever affain.

  I paused, the tip of the bde resting against the ground. My shoulders slumped for a moment, but only a moment. Then I straightened, rolling my o shake off the tension.

  But that’s the irony, isn’t it? Trust may be gone, but this paranoia? This vigi’s kept me alive. I’ve traded my humanity for survival.

  I stepped fain, my bde rising in an arc before twisting into a reverse ssh. The movements became smoother, the rhythm almost hypnotic. My breathing steadied, and I found myself sinking deeper into the practice, my thoughts sharpening with each strike.

  This… this is my meditation. My rebellion against the chaos in my head. The bde moves, and I find a sliver of pea its simplicity. It’s not about the viole’s about trol. trol over my body, my mind, my choices. A way to ground myself in this cursed world.

  The sword cut through the air o time, and I stopped, pnting the bde into the dirt. My chest rose and fell with measured breaths.

  I stared at the trees arouheir t forms a silent wito my struggle. My hands rexed on the hilt, and for the first time in what felt like hours, I allowed myself to just be.

  I may never heal from what was doo me, but I adapt. I build something new from the ashes of the old.

  With that thought, I wiped the bde against my tunid sheathed it. The forest still felt hostile, the shadows too deep and too quiet. But for now, I had cimed a moment of crity.

  And in this world, crity recious as gold.