Far from the burning skies and the thunder of war, hidden beneath layers of earth and grief, the Hollow Mountains trembled.
The storm outside was alive — a living, writhing thing. Lightning split the heavens into ribbons of fire, and the thunder followed like the roar of some wounded god. Rain fell in torrents, hissing as it struck the mountain's scorched peaks, but deep within the heart of stone, another kind of storm was being born.
Inside a narrow cavern veined with glowing runes, Seraphina Valeheart lay upon a slab of black granite. Sweat gleamed upon her pale skin, mingling with streaks of blood that shimmered faintly with gold. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each one echoing through the hollow like the beat of a dying heart.
The cave pulsed with faint, golden light — the rhythm of life itself, fragile and furious.
Arcane sigils had been carved into the walls by trembling mortal hands, each symbol a prayer and a barrier. The runes flickered like fading candles, straining to hide the radiance leaking from Seraphina's divine essence. Even suppressed, her presence felt too vast for the small cavern — the air rippled with heat, stone cracked beneath her touch, and shadows bent away as though afraid.
Beside her knelt a woman cloaked in midnight blue — her sister, Elara. Her hands glowed with soft silver magic as she pressed them against Seraphina's abdomen. Sweat dripped from her brow, her voice a desperate whisper against the storm.
"You must stay quiet, Sera. Please. If they sense your power—"
Seraphina's reply came as a hoarse laugh that turned into a cry of pain. Her silver hair clung to her face, damp with sweat and tears. "They already know," she rasped, her voice trembling but sharp as steel. "The gods can smell their own fear."
Her divine energy surged, flaring like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The runes screamed — light bursting from their cracks before dimming again. The air filled with the scent of ozone and burnt stone.
Then came a sound from outside — a thunder that was not born of the storm.
The mountain itself shuddered, dust raining from the ceiling. Through the howling wind came a voice, distant but unmistakable — deep, defiant, burning with fury.
"Go, Seraphina! Finish it! I'll hold them off!"
Rion Valeheart's roar shook the cavern more than the thunder ever could.
Elara froze, tears blurring her sight. "He's fighting gods out there," she whispered. "Alone…"
Seraphina's lips trembled, forming a faint smile. Her body was breaking, her divinity fraying at the edges, yet her eyes still burned with fierce light. "Then… he won't die alone."
Her scream tore through the cave as another contraction struck. Power rippled outward — a golden explosion that shattered the sealing runes and splintered the stone around them. The light was blinding, sacred and terrible, washing over everything in waves.
Elara shielded her eyes, her voice shaking as she pleaded, "Sera, you'll tear yourself apart—"
"If this child…" Seraphina gasped, her breath catching, "…is born with our blood… then maybe… the world will have a chance."
The air thickened with divine energy. Symbols burned across the walls like stars being born, then vanished as the storm outside reached its peak.
And then — silence.
For a single heartbeat, the world held its breath.
A soft cry pierced the quiet — fragile, human, and yet filled with impossible strength. The storm seemed to pause, as though the heavens themselves listened.
Elara looked down through her tears and saw him.
A newborn child, his tiny body glowing with a warmth that was not of this world. His skin shimmered faintly with golden light, and when his eyes opened, they glowed silver — two mirrors of the storm outside, calm and unyielding.
Seraphina smiled weakly, her body trembling as she reached for him. Her fingers, pale and cracked with power, brushed the child's cheek.
"Adrian…" she whispered, voice breaking into a soft laugh that was almost a sob. "Adrian Valeheart."
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the cave in gold and silver. Outside, the storm raged on, but within that hollow of stone, a different kind of dawn began — the birth of a child destined to inherit both the fury of man and the light of the divine.
…
Outside, the heavens themselves burned.
The air was thick with ash and light — a storm of dying divinity. The sky split open from horizon to horizon, spilling rivers of molten gold that scorched the clouds. Stars fell like tears, their trails carving scars across the firmament. The war that had begun with faith and defiance now reached its final heartbeat.
At the very edge of creation stood the Gates of Heaven — seven colossal pillars of white crystal, vast enough to pierce the sun. They were said to hold up the sky itself, binding the mortal and divine worlds together. Each pillar hummed with ancient power, etched with runes older than time. For a thousand ages, none had ever touched them.
Until now.
The Godslayers stood before those gates, their armor cracked and smoking, their eyes hollow with exhaustion but burning with unyielding fire. The ground beneath their feet was slick with the blood of angels; the air trembled with the weight of dying gods.
At their head stood Rion Valeheart.
His once-white cloak was blackened with soot. His body bore wounds that no mortal should have survived. Yet in his grasp, he held a blade that pulsed like a living star — Eclipsion, forged from the bones of a fallen god and the dying light of a sun.
The gates shimmered before him, divine and unbreakable. The voice of the heavens whispered through the wind, a thousand pleading tones: Turn back, mortal. You cannot kill eternity.
But Rion only tightened his grip. His voice rose above the storm — hoarse, furious, resolute.
"Then eternity will bleed with me."
He struck.
The impact shook existence itself. Light clashed with darkness in a single blinding flash. The Gates of Heaven cracked — not once, but seven times, each fracture echoing like thunder through every realm.
The pillars shattered. The sky fell.
The divine realm — the Golden City that had once shone brighter than all the stars — collapsed in a storm of ruin. Palaces of light crumbled to dust. Choirs of angels screamed as their wings burned away. The thrones of gods dissolved into shadow and silence.
For the first time since the dawn of creation, heaven knelt.
Humanity had done the impossible. The divine realm was conquered. The gods, scattered and broken, fled into the void, their radiance extinguished by mortal hands.
And when the final gate fell, the war was over.
Humanity had won.
But the taste of victory was ash.