Dawn broke, but the sun did not rise.
Over the far eastern borders of Artherion, the sky dimmed with a murk not born of storm or smoke. A veil had descended, gray at first, then darker still, until even the birds ceased their flight and the rivers stilled in their beds. It was not nightfall. It was not weather. It was presence.
They called it The Shadow Sky.
It rolled across the heavens like ink spilled over parchment, stretching from the eastern peaks of Elyrion's watchtowers to the westward glades of the lowlands. And wherever it spread, whispers followed. Not in the wind, but under it.
In the citadel of Starhold, the sentinel tower closest to the encroaching dark, bells rang.
Captain Miresth, a scarred veteran of forty winters, squinted into the horizon. Beside him, his falcon refused to fly. The beast only clutched his glove, trembling.
"What omen is this?" the young steward beside him asked, voice tight.
Miresth did not answer at once. He removed his helm.
"The sky itself forgets the sun."
And with that, he sounded the warning horn.
The same cry echoed across twelve provinces.
In the palace of Artherion, Prince Lucien stood by the Grand Solarium, watching the sky fade to ash. The stained glass windows darkened unnaturally, though no clouds stood overhead.
I approached, hesitantly. She held a scroll in her hand, a copy of yesterday's war report.
"My lord," she whispered, "the Bastion remains secure. But… the light. It doesn't reach the walls today."
Lucien turned, slowly.
His red eyes shimmered like coals on the edge of wind.
"Not darkness," he said. "Something worse."
I looked to the horizon. "A curse?"
"A curtain," Lucien replied. "To blind our watchmen before the march begins."
She nodded. "Then it's begun."
"No," Lucien said quietly. "This is still just the prologue."
---
In the deep wastes of the north, hidden within crags choked by black mist, the Dravenguard legions advanced.
Thousands marched under cloaks of illusion, warlocks casting walking shadows, magicians dispersing the sound of boots, beasts of burden outfitted with charms to mask scent. These were not just warriors. These were conjured fiends, cursed steel soldiers, forged from stolen flesh.
At their head rode Prince Alaric.
His armor, blackened from his defeat, had been reforged anew. Woven with veins of crimson light, it pulsed with a dark resolve. At his side, his new blade, the Voidbrand, an unholy sword that answered not to steel, but to pain.
He spoke to none.
Only Saevan rode beside him, hooded, silent.
And above them, riding on wyverns, were the Pale Host: the air force of Dravenguard, witch-riders, cursed archers, and storm-casters. They began to circle the outskirts of Artherion's northern provinces.
It was the first true movement.
And the sky turned black to welcome it.
The air had changed. Even the trees bowed in unnatural submission.
---
Back in Artherion's Watchtower of Staves, High Arcanist Belmere lit the sigil flames.
"By the King's breath," she chanted, "let all shadows confess their origin."
Dozens of her acolytes joined her, pouring magic into the pillar of light that rose through the tower's center.
The light cut through the Shadow Sky.
And revealed them.
Dozens.
No, hundreds of airborne creatures. Cloaked, ethereal, gliding toward the city's edge. They had not been seen before. But now, in the light, they shrieked.
"Defenders to the sky wall!" Belmere cried.
Trumpets screamed. Knights mounted gryphons. Arbalists were drawn. Runes were activated along the walls.
The battle for the sky had begun.
Clashes rang in the distance. Runes fired into the sky like thunderbolts. Creatures fell like black rain, dissolving into ash before they touched the ground.
But not all. Some pierced the barrier. Some clawed at the watchtowers. One even burst into the eastern monastery, screaming like a thousand voices merged as one.
Priests lifted holy relics. One shattered from the pressure of the creature's aura.
Acolyte Rhess, just fourteen, stood his ground. He had never drawn a sword before.
But today, he channeled the king's light and struck the thing down.
He would never forget its eyes.
They wept smoke.
---
Within the western court, General Althandor received a visitor.
A knight. One of the loyal captains. Or so he thought.
The man brought news of an Artherion supply chain broken in the northeast, claiming it had been sabotaged.
But as the general turned to dispatch aid, the knight smiled.
Too calmly.
Moments later, the general collapsed, paralyzed, poison coursing through his veins.
The knight stepped over his body and lit a blue flare.
Within moments, an entire garrison activated a rune portal.
A betrayal.
Three hundred troops vanished.
Defectors. Vanishing to join the Shadow Sky.
But not all of them would reach their destination.
For on the edge of the rune gate, one remained behind, a young knight named Coren.
He couldn't step through.
Something in him resisted.
He had sworn an oath.
The moment the others vanished, he turned and ran to the capital to confess all.
He ran for five hours, bleeding, stumbling, burning.
He would reach the gates just before midnight.
And collapse in Mirelleth's arms.
---
In the Artherion council chamber, the Knight stood beside the throne. His silver-gold armor pulsed faintly.
King Elyrion watched the horizon. His voice was low.
"They believe the sky is theirs now."
The Knight said nothing.
Elyrion's eyes gleamed brighter.
"Let them think it so."
"Shall I act?" the Knight asked.
"Not yet. Let the darkness gather. Let it press. Let it boast."
He leaned forward slightly.
"And then… let light answer."
---
Far below, I sat alone in the chapel of wind, looking through the stained glass at the black sky. Something inside me stirred.
I saw my reflection in the glass.
And for a second, it wasn't my face.
It was armored.
Wreathed in wind.
Eyes burning with the same gold light as the king.
I blinked. It vanished.
But I could still feel it.
I stood and walked toward the altar, past the relics of ancient saints and unknown heroes. My hand brushed against a sword set in a stone plinth, one marked for future generations.
The sword shimmered at my touch.
I pulled away quickly.
It dimmed again.
And I whispered, "Not yet."
But it was coming.
Something is coming.
To be continued...