Ash'Var did not sleep.
Not anymore.
Not after the war.
Not after the betrayal.
Not after he returned.
The obsidian throne stood alone atop the ruined spire. Its edges melted from divine fire. Its arms scarred by old blood. And yet, it pulsed with silent power — as if it remembered every king who sat upon it.
Only one sat there now.
Shadow.
Not as a ruler.
But as a warning.
He did not rebuild the Nine.
He did not seek allies.
The days of councils and brotherhoods were ashes.
Instead, he watched the world — through broken flames and dead stars — and listened.
Because he knew the world was afraid.
Alaris entered the throne room, covered in black dust. Her voice was quiet.
"The Prophet is dead. His chains shattered."
Shadow did not respond at first.
His gaze was fixed on the horizon — where the clouds never cleared.
Then he said, softly:
"They'll send more."
Across the lands, in the high courts of men and monsters, fear spread like rot.
The last chosen one had failed. The Prophet of Light lay dead, broken by the very thing he was sent to destroy.
So they gathered again — kings, priests, dreamers, and heretics.
They could not agree on anything…
Except one thing:
Shadow must fall.
A new prophecy emerged. Ancient. Half-burned. Found beneath a church turned to rubble.
It spoke of a soul born from balance.
Neither light, nor shadow.
A force meant to end both.
They called it:
"The Breaker."
And in secret, five realms began searching.
Shadow, meanwhile, stared at his reflection in the black mirror of the throne's arm.
He didn't look like a man.
Not anymore.
Horned. Scarred. Smoldering with silent wrath.
But there was something else in his eyes now — not pain, not vengeance.
Something deeper.
Memory.
He remembered Black.
He remembered Kara.
He remembered Saphira.
Their faces. Their choices.
Their deaths.
He whispered to himself:
"They all thought they could fix the world…"
His fingers curled around the Prophet's shattered dagger.
"…but the world isn't broken.
It's just honest now."
Alaris stepped closer. Her face was grave.
"There's… movement in the east. Lightborne priests. Whispering of a rebirth."
Shadow stood.
The ground cracked.
"The throne remembers every betrayal," he said.
Then he turned.
"I will teach them how to forget."
The storm was coming again.
But this time, he wasn't waiting.
The fire hadn't gone out.
It had just moved.
Buried itself.
Hidden deep.
Waiting — in a heartbeat, in a whisper, in a name.
And now, across the frost-covered plains of Vareth, a boy stood at the edge of the dead woods.
He was not remarkable.
Not yet.
But the earth beneath him pulsed — once.
The Breaker was waking.
They had called him many things.
Foundling. Orphan. Echo.
Raised by monks who feared what slept inside him. Taught the words of light, but forbidden to feel it. Trained in silence. Named only once.
His name?
Elias.
He had always dreamed of fire.
Not the comforting kind.
Not the kind that warmed hearths.
No — the fire that screamed. That devoured cities and left kings begging for death.
Every time, the dream ended with one name on his lips:
"Shadow."
In the capital of Arthane, the High Seers gathered.
Their faces hidden beneath alabaster masks.
"The Balance is failing," one hissed.
"Shadow's throne corrupts the weave," said another.
"He is not a king — he is remnant," said the third. "A curse made flesh."
They turned to the artifact — a blade forged before time, humming with destiny.
And they spoke the words that would end the age:
"Send the Breaker."
Elias did not choose the title.
It chose him.
When the blade appeared in his chamber — hovering, burning cold — he felt the weight of it in his bones.
He gripped the hilt.
And his heart stopped.
A vision.
Ash'Var.
Cracked skies.
A throne of flame.
A man — tall, cloaked in shadows.
Eyes like collapsed stars.
And a voice that cut through reality:
"Come then, little candle.
Try to end the night."
Elias awoke screaming.
But the blade stayed in his hand.
And outside, the monks who had once raised him now knelt, whispering in fear.
They saw it too:
The Breaker had awakened.
Meanwhile, in the ruins of the Nine Halls, Shadow moved through the dark with a quiet wrath.
Demons bowed.
Whispers crawled like snakes through the stone.
Alaris approached again, blade at her side.
"The eastern winds change."
Shadow didn't look back.
"I know," he said.
"I can hear them breathe."
He walked to the edge of the world — where the souls of the damned still wandered.
He closed his eyes.
And he spoke, not with his voice — but with will:
"Come, then. All of you.
I am the last throne.
Let the fire test you."
And somewhere far away…
Elias stepped onto a road that no one returned from.
Cloaked in light.
Carrying a blade that hated gods.
And the world, once again, held its breath.