Far from the obsidian thrones and fire-veined halls of Hell, across the broken fragments of what once was called the Skyveil Dominion, something stirred.
Not Heaven.
Not the old gods.
Something forgotten.
Something waiting.
A lone monk knelt in a shattered temple of light, cradling the Book of Echoes. The candles around him had long since died. The statues of the Seraphim were broken, their wings severed and buried beneath centuries of moss.
He turned to the last page. His fingers trembled.
The words were changing.
"He who bears both flame and void… shall awaken the Gate of Ending."
The monk gasped, staggering back. He tried to speak the words aloud, but they tasted of ash.
Lidow's name had appeared.
Twice.
In Hell, Shadow stood at the center of a long chamber—newly forged—a war hall beneath the Citadel. His generals knelt before him. Valaria stood at his side, radiant and quiet, hands folded in white flame.
The war table glowed with arcane fire. Across it were maps—Earth, Ruined Skyveil, the Hollow Realms, and more. But one new land had burned itself into the stone.
"Vorth'Aluun."
A name that had not been spoken since the Old Silence.
Shadow's voice was low. "The fracture has begun."
Valaria looked at the name. "They've returned?"
"No," he said. "They never left."
Lidow trained in the upper ring of the fortress. He moved alone, sweat falling from his brow, swords in both hands now—one forged from celestial crystal, the other from hell-forged dusksteel.
They pulsed in opposite rhythms.
A push and pull inside his bones.
Each step summoned echoes—burning feathers, rising screams, a throne he had never seen but somehow… remembered.
He stopped.
A vision struck like lightning.
A door—in the heart of Vorth'Aluun.
A voice behind it.
Calling him.
Back in the war hall, one of the oldest surviving Demon Lords — Lord Raethor — leaned forward, his jagged voice like metal torn from stone.
"Let me speak plainly, King."
Shadow looked up.
"The boy is waking up too fast."
"He's my son."
"He is also something else," Raethor growled. "He bends power like no creature should. And the voices that follow him—they are not from Hell. Nor from the Heavens."
Valaria stepped forward. "You fear him?"
Raethor didn't answer.
Shadow did. "Good. Fear will keep your blade sharp."
That night, Lidow descended.
To the Black Gates.
He stood alone before them, where the winds did not blow and time dared not pass.
And behind them, it whispered.
A language no tongue remembered.
He touched the gate.
It pulsed.
And something opened its eyes.
Miles away, in Vorth'Aluun, the chosen vessel of an ancient power rose from beneath a sea of glass. Its face was hidden behind a mirror of endless reflections. It had no name. Only a purpose.
It whispered one word.
"Lidow."
And the earth cracked.
The Citadel of Embers was quieter now. Not peaceful—Hell never slept—but quiet, in the way a storm holds its breath before descending. The infernal winds had turned. Even the ancient demons could feel it.
Shadow stood alone on the edge of the Abyss Balcony, where molten rivers met void sky. His eyes, black and glowing from within, stared out across the churning nothingness.
Beside him, Valaria approached silently. Her silver hair was braided, armored robes glowing faintly with sacred heat.
"You felt it too," she said.
He nodded. "Lidow touched the Gate."
"He heard it, didn't he?"
Shadow's jaw tensed. "He didn't just hear. It heard him."
Below, in the central chamber of the Citadel, the Generals had gathered: Raethor, the Bonekeeper of the Fifth Circle. Sirana, the Whisperblade of Icefire Reach. General Varn, whose breath still reeked of shattered timelines.
Each of them stood in silence as the war map ignited.
A new realm now shimmered into form: Vorth'Aluun — no longer hidden, no longer inert.
Sirana spoke first. "We once believed that realm to be legend."
Shadow entered. "You were wrong."
Raethor scowled. "And the boy is walking into a myth no one should awaken."
Shadow's eyes flared. "He is not a boy anymore."
Far beyond the burning edges of Hell, the Vessel knelt within a temple made of mirrored bone. Its voice was a thousand echoes. It had no face, only a mask that reflected the fears of those who looked at it.
Priests of the Forgotten Ones circled it, chanting. Their skin peeled away with every syllable they spoke, eyes glowing with unlight.
The Vessel rose.
"I see him," it said. "The heir of split flame. Born of light and shadow."
"Shall we strike, O Vessel?" one priest asked, blood streaming from his mouth.
The Vessel turned its head slowly.
"No," it said. "Let him come."
Back in Hell, Lidow paced restlessly in his chamber. The room was carved from black obsidian, adorned with weapons, scrolls, and ancient glyphs of both Heaven and Hell. On his desk sat a fragment of the Gate.
He stared at it. It pulsed.
"Why me?" he muttered.
The door opened. Shadow entered.
Lidow stood straighter. "Father."
Shadow walked in, quiet, calm—but not cold.
"You're changing," he said. "Faster than I expected."
"I touched it. I know."
"What did it show you?"
Lidow's eyes flickered. "A door. And a mirror. And something… old."
Shadow said nothing.
Then: "You'll lead the vanguard."
Lidow's jaw tightened. "To where?"
"To Vorth'Aluun," Shadow said. "The land that dreams of ending gods."
Later that night, alone again, Lidow whispered to himself. His fingers ran along the hilt of his dual-blade — now named Sundawn, forged from his twin heritages.
"They fear me," he said. "Even him."
Behind him, a shadow moved. It was not from this realm.
And the Gate pulsed again.