The drums began before sunrise. They came from the west—low, steady, relentless. The sound of an army long dormant, now awakened.
The Ashborn Legions marched under blackened banners. They wore armor forged from the ruins of the old world, etched with symbols that predated Afterlight itself. Their weapons hissed with energy, relics of science that had survived the cleansing fires. For them, Afterlight was not rebirth. It was a mistake to be corrected.
At their front rode General Vaen, a figure both feared and revered. His face was hidden behind a mask of obsidian glass. No one knew his true age. Some said he was a remnant of the old gods' failed creations. Others whispered he had never died during the Fall—that he had watched the world burn and sworn to rebuild it in his image.
Atheron braced for war.
Eryndor stood at the city gates, clad not in gold or armor but in the gray cloak of the First Dawn. Althia stood beside him, her hands resting on the hilt of a sword forged from the Lightspire—the crystal that had once powered Afterlight's awakening. The Codex of Dawn, newly written, hung from Eryndor's shoulder like a relic.
Behind them stood the unified hosts of Afterlight:
The Scholars of the Sun, bearing symbols of balance and truth.
The Warriors of the Flame, sworn to protect the Codex.
The Seers of Ash, those who had survived the Fall and carried visions of the old world's ruin.
Each had set aside creed and bloodline. The Codex had united them.
The war began at midday.
The Ashborn advanced in perfect formation. Their lines moved like a machine—silent, synchronized, inhuman. Atheron's defenders answered with light and flame. Fire rained from the towers. Spears of radiance split the sky. For hours, the ground shook under the weight of battle.
But Vaen was no ordinary general. His army adapted. Their shields absorbed the light. Their blades hummed with dark energy that turned flame cold. By sunset, the outer gates of Atheron had fallen.
Inside the city, panic spread. Refugees crowded the streets. Bells rang in alarm. Eryndor ordered the citizens to retreat to the citadel—the heart of the Codex.
Althia refused to leave the walls.
"If we lose this day," she said, "then all of this—all the rebuilding, all the faith—was for nothing."
Eryndor looked at her, silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Then we hold until dawn."
That night, Atheron burned.
The Ashborn breached the lower quarters. Entire districts were reduced to ash. Yet amid the fire, something unexpected happened. The people—farmers, merchants, orphans—fought beside the soldiers. They threw stones, wielded tools, shouted the words of the Codex. "All light is sacred." "All lives are bound."
The city did not fall that night.
At dawn, Vaen himself approached the walls. His voice boomed through the smoke.
"Eryndor! You speak of order, yet your law is weakness. You worship the light, yet you cannot control it. Kneel, and I will spare what remains of your people."
Eryndor stepped forward, his voice calm. "You are wrong. Light does not control. It reveals."
Vaen laughed, a cold, hollow sound. "Then let it reveal your end."
He raised his hand. The sky darkened. From the horizon, a massive weapon emerged—an ancient engine powered by forbidden energy. It pulsed once, and the earth screamed. Entire battalions vanished in a wave of black light.
The Citadel cracked. The Codex burned.
Eryndor fell to his knees, light searing his eyes. He reached for the flames and whispered a single word: "Bind."
The world froze. The light that once raged became still, like glass suspended in air. From that stillness, a voice rose—not divine, not mortal, but something between.
"You have bound law and chaos," it said. "You have chosen balance."
A column of light erupted from the citadel, swallowing Atheron and the Ashborn both. When it faded, silence followed.
The war ended not in victory or defeat—but in binding.
When the survivors awoke days later, they found the battlefield gone. The land had changed. Atheron stood encased in crystal, frozen in time—a monument, not a city. The Ashborn were nowhere to be seen. Only their black banners remained, turned to dust.
Eryndor and Althia were gone.
Some said they ascended beyond the mortal plane. Others said they became part of the Codex itself. But in the centuries that followed, every ruler who sought power in Afterlight would pass by that crystalline city—and bow in silence.
The Codex had endured. The war had bound the world.
The First Age of Order had begun.