(Author here: this story from wattpad that decided to transfer here if you wabt more recebt updates feel free to go there)
The sky bled gray, smothered in smoke and the stench of ruin. Stormhold—the heart of Vivendral, once unbreakable—was dying. Towers cracked like bones, its proud walls torn apart by flame and shadow. storms carved through streets where laughter once thrived, leaving only ash and silence broken by screams.
For months, the nations had thrown their finest blades and bravest souls against one enemy—Malgarath. Yet the world's strength bled dry beneath his endless tide of horrors. The Cordiths, victims corrupted by it, prowled the burning city, their guttural roars twisting through the clash of steel and the cries of the dying. Stormhold was no fortress now, but a grave.
Through this nightmare staggered Ater—the Prince of Valefor, heir not by blood but by faith maybe running. Every breath was pain, every step a gamble against death, yet he pressed on. Not for survival. But to reach Alvi—before Malgarath claimed her too.
Ater's POV
The Cordith closed in, their dark shapes darting through the haze of fire and smoke. They moved too fast, their twisted limbs bending at angles that shouldn't have been possible. Their shrieks pierced the air, mingling with the clash of steel and the roar of war.
I moved on instinct. My blade carved through them, each strike a quick blur. I hardly heard the sound of their bodies hitting the ground. Clawed hands raked against my armor, arrows whistled past me, one even grazing my shoulder—but none of it mattered. Pain was nothing. It all became background noise, something distant and irrelevant.
The battlefield was a canvas of smoke, ash, and broken earth. The air stank of iron and dust, thick enough to choke on. Flames licked at the ruins around us, painting the night in a savage glow. My sword caught the firelight with every swing, shining like a thing forged from light itself. It should have been a sight to stir awe, to inspire fear. Instead, I felt nothing.
Instead, I felt nothing.
At least—I thought I felt nothing.
And then I saw her.
Alvi.

She lay crumpled on the ground, her cloak—once bright and full of color—tattered and ruined. The earth around her was smeared dark, the dirt clinging to her hair, dulling its golden shine. Her body was still, nearly cold, but I saw the faint rise and fall of her chest. She was alive. Barely.
For a moment, the world went silent. The Cordith, the battle, the flames—all of it blurred into the distance. My heart clenched with a force I didn't understand. My blade slipped from my hand, forgotten, as I rushed to her side.
I dropped to my knees, hands pressing against her, forcing what little magic a hollow could ignite beneath my palms. The healing spell sparked and faltered, weak and unsteady. It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough to stop the bleeding.
Her breathing was shallow, ragged.
"Alvi," I whispered, the word seeping out of my mouth.
Her one good eye opened slowly, glazed but still searching. When her gaze found mine, there was a faint flicker of relief in it. She moved her lips, struggling, the words barely more than a breath.
"Go… before it's too late."
The battlefield roared back into focus around me—the Cordith pressing closer, shadows spilling across the ground like a tide. And still, all I could hear were her words.
"No." My voice came out low, harsh, more like a growl than anything human.
Her lips trembled into a weak smile, though the effort cost her. "Ater… please… run."
Run? As if I could. As if leaving her was even possible. My chest tightened, anger sparking hot in my veins—not at her, never at her—but at the thought that she believed I would ever abandon her.
"You're not dying here," I said, forcing my voice steady, though it shook with the weight of everything I felt and refused to name.
Her hand shifted, weakly brushing against my wrist. "I'm fine," she whispered, and the lie shoke me. She wasn't fine. She was slipping.
I tore strips from my cloak and bound her as best I could, hands slightly fatigued and clumsy. Every knot was too tight or not tight enough. My magic flared again, faint and flickering, but I pushed it harder, forcing it to flow into her wounds, sealing what I could. The scent of burnt air rose between us as the spell drained the last of my strength, but I didn't stop. I wouldn't.
She tried again, her voice barely audible. "Don't… don't get hurt. I don't want…" Her breath hitched. "I don't want anything to happen to you."
I let out a sigh. This girl, broken and barely clinging to life, still thought of me before herself. She's still as selfless as before.
I bowed my head, my hair falling to shadow my face. My hands trembled against her, but I pressed harder, holding on to her as if sheer force of will could keep her here.
"Stop talking," I muttered, my tone rough, uneven. "Save your strength."
She gave a faint, breathless laugh. It was small, fleeting, but it was there.
I had long thought myself hollow, unreadable, untouched by fear or sorrow. But kneeling there with her fragile life in my hands, I understood something I hadn't wanted to admit.
I was afraid. Terrified.
Not for myself. For her.
The Cordith screamed somewhere in the distance, their shadows flickering against the walls of fire. The world around us was still crumbling, still tearing itself apart, but all I could see was Alvi. All I could feel was the desperate, stubborn refusal in my chest.
I wouldn't let her go.
Not her.
Never her.
Pyrothar's Arrival
A wave of searing heat ripped through the battlefield as my father, Pyrothar Valefor, descended from the sky like a blazing star. Fire engulfed the Cordith, their twisted bodies burning to ash or lit up in flames in an instant. He stood wreathed in flame, his eyes molten gold—unyielding, shaken and yet filled with purpose.
"Get Lady Alvi and yourselves into the teleporter, NOW!" his voice thundered.
I clutched Alvi closer, my heart pounding. "The survivors… did it work?"
"Yes! Now go!" His flames carved a wall between us and the horde.
I turned, stumbling toward the city streets. The last of the Knights formed up around us, battered and bloodied but still defiant. At the cathedral steps, they broke away.
"We'll not run," one called, raising his sword high. "We fight for our kingdom and king!"
And they did—forming their last line against the tide while I carried Alvi inside.
The cathedral loomed, its stained glass shattered, its halls echoing with chaos. The portal chamber pulsed with weak light, runes flickering as I laid her down on the circle. The hum of magic deepened, energy building, brighter with every heartbeat.
Then the massive doors behind us shattered, flames bursting inward. Pyrothar strode through the wreckage, fire trailing him like a cloak. He raised his arm, and with a roar, flames tore across the chamber walls. The portal shuddered, its stone frame cracking as sparks cascaded like falling stars.
My eyes widen with shock realizing his plans.
"Father!" I shouted, reaching toward him as the light surged around me. blinding me briefly
His silhouette stood unbroken against the dark tide, the very image of fire and defiance. His voice carried through the storm, heavy with love and finality
"You don't have to understand love for it to matter."
The portal flared, the light consuming everything. He tossed something toward me, but it was lost in the brilliance.
The last I saw was him—unmoving, resolute—before the darkness claimed us.
A New World/ Ater pov:
When the light faded, I was somewhere else.
The battlefield was gone. The smoke, the fire, the screams—all of it replaced by silence. A cold, sterile facility stretched around me. The sky was no longer gray; instead, a dull mechanical glow emanated from panels embedded in the ceiling, casting a lifeless light across smooth metal walls and endless corridors.
Alvi was still in my arms. Her breathing was shallow, fragile, but steady. Relief struck me so hard my knees gave out, and I sank to the ground. Panting heavily my chest hurting and hands shaking. For a long moment, I couldn't breathe. My father's words still echoed in my skull, circling like a flame that wouldn't die.
But the silence pressed in.
Something was wrong.
The air smelled too clean, as if scrubbed of life itself. No smoke. No ash. No scent of blood. My fingers brushed the floor—it was polished, cold and unnatural, smudge by the blood and grime that both covered us. The colors around me were sharp and sterile, too vibrant yet hollow, as though the world or painting had been stripped of its soul.
Panic gripped me, sharp and merciless. This wasn't Stormhold. This wasn't even my world.
I forced myself to breathe, holding Alvi closer, as though she might vanish if I loosened my grip.
Memories came unbidden—Pyrothar's fire, his fury, but also the quiet moments no one else had seen. A man carved by war who had, slowly, painfully, begun to change. He had taught me to fight, to endure, but in the end, he had given me something I had never thought I deserved.
He had been more than a king. More than the Flameborne. He had been my father.
"Love is what makes us human."
His final words burned in me, clearer than any command he had ever given.
For the first time, I understood.
I wasn't sure I had ever believed in love before. It felt like weakness, a distraction I couldn't afford. But now… now it was all that kept me from breaking. If I let go of that, then his sacrifice—his last gift—meant nothing.
I tightened my hold on Alvi, brushing a strand of her hair from her pale face. She stirred faintly, caught between life and death, and my chest ached with the weight of it. My hands still pumping whatever magic or strenght I have left into her.
This world was strange, unfeeling, filled with metal and shadows. I didn't know its rules, its dangers, or why the portal had brought us here. But somewhere in its depths lay the key to saving her. I had to believe that.
I clenched my fists, the tremor of exhaustion giving way to a different fire.
I will find a way to bring her back.
Whatever this world was—whatever it demanded of me—I would endure it. For her. For him. and I will survive.
No One's POV
The sky was a lifeless gray, heavy with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood and flesh.
Stormhold, Las stronghold in Vivendral, last bastion of men, lay broken.
The city had once been alive with sound and color—markets bursting with the calls of merchants, nobles parading in polished armor, children racing through the squares with laughter that carried all the way to the castle gates. Now all that life was gone, replaced by silence broken only by silence, the groan of falling stone, and the guttural roars of the Cordith.
Flames devoured everything. Towers toppled like trees, walls buckled and cracked under relentless assault. The banners of Vivendral, once white and gold, burned away into nothing but curling black ash.
The streets ran with blood.
Pyrothar Valefor stood amidst the ruin.
The Flameborne King. The Fire. The last wall between his people and annihilation.
His armor was shattered in places, scorched by his own power. His long turned to ash, every movement trailing embers. His horns, chipped and scarred, cast jagged shadows in the firelight. His eyes—twin suns blazing in a face carved by war—held fury enough to sear the heavens.
He looked less like a man and more like the embodiment of wrath itself.
"Playtime's over."
The words rolled like thunder.
And the world answered.
A shockwave of fire erupted outward, a dome of molten rage that liquefied the very cobblestones beneath his feet. The Cordith within its reach did not scream—they simply ceased to be, bodies crumbling into blackened husks before scattering on the wind. The summoning circle at the city's heart faltered, its glowing runes dimming before winking out, powerless against Pyrothar's inferno.
When the flames cleared, he stood in a crater of glassed earth, smoke curling up in spirals. The scent of charred flesh was everywhere, thick enough to choke. Yet still, the Cordith surged forward, endless, unrelenting.
And then—they stopped.
The air grew heavy, suffocating. The battlefield seemed to bend under an invisible weight.
A presence stepped from the tide of writing flesh.
Malgarath.
Its form defied reason. Bones cracked and reshaped with every step. Shadows bled from its skin as though its body could not contain the void within. At one instant, it resembled a man; in the next, a thing of claws and teeth. Faces bloomed across its surface, screaming silently before melting back into the abyss of its flesh. Its eyes—too many, too wide, too wrong—opened all at once, each fixing on Pyrothar with cruel delight.
It smiled, though the gesture split its face unnaturally wide.
"How cute," it sneered, its voice like a chorus of broken mirrors. "geez what a way to start a story. and who are you? oh, I know."
Its arm warped into a jagged blade, dripping blakc like sludge.
"your just a simple plot device to make the protagonist stronger. how pointless."
It lunged.
The impact was instant. Pyrothar barely raised his arm before the blow struck, hurling him across the city. He tore through homes, market stalls, the remnants of the cathedral, his body carving a trail of ruin. Stone shattered. Wood splintered.
Before he could rise, Malgarath was there, its clawed hand closing around his throat. The touch was not flesh but void. Cold. Empty. A nothingness that unmade him, unraveling his soul strand by strand.
His fire dimmed. His essence trembled. For the first time in an age, Pyrothar felt himself slipping. as thoughts fill his head
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P̶͕̉Q̵̖̊W̴̼̆ ̶̢͒V̷̞̈́T̴̩́P̴̨̂ ̵̪͌Ř̸̤V̷̩͐ ̶̘̚F̶̼̑V̸̳̄P̸̨̃ ̸̢͛Ẁ̵̟Ć̴̳Ḏ̶̕T̷̬̑ ̸̥̂F̶̥̂L̶̛͎Ț̶̓ ̸̺̽X̷͓̆R̶̻͋?̴̧̉ ̸̬̆S̴̱̕W̴͛ͅP̸̬̾ ̷͕́T̸̺͋Ǫ̷̉ ̶̟͋Q̵̺͝ ̷̻̉Ȗ̷̢Z̷̥͌Z̸̬̿ ̴͙̓N̴̪̅V̴̼̄D̸̨͒Q̸̠̌ ̶͔̈V̸̦̀Ā̵̝Ŵ̵̪ ̶̖͝Ṗ̵̠Ä̷́ͅZ̴͙̓K̶͎̍ ̵̪̍F̴̠͒X̷͍̎Ǔ̸̳Ǔ̸͙ ̶̲̔I̸̤͌Z̵͎̿G̶̗͝Ȋ̷̻ ̷̯̈́Q̷͉́C̴͔̆S̸̭͑M̶̻̃?̴̭̕
̶̩́M̸͐ͅḦ̶̫́H̵̲̓ ̵͈͆M̶͚̏T̴̡͆R̴̛͓M̴̲͒Z̶̙̽ ̸͖͑M̸̠͛H̵͇̊H̶̺̅ ̶̧͒Ṫ̵̯Ĭ̴̪Z̴̘͝Ṯ̸̇H̶̛͉ ̸͚̽Z̵͚͊R̶̢̚T̶̬͌ ̷̡̃T̴̘͒W̷̼̏Ď̶̹R̸͓̊Ḥ̶͝ ̸̣̐Ǫ̸̉L̸̩̓Ā̵̮ ̶͕͝M̷͎͛H̸̙͘I̵̜͆H̸̫̎H̸͚͌
̸͖͐M̴̡̈́Q̷̲͆J̷̺͝C̶̪̓ ̸͖͂T̶̟͑D̷̹̍E̸̦̋ ̵̨̉V̷͓̅H̴̝͆T̷̥̉Q̶͖̌Ŏ̸̖H̸̗̕X̶͚̏ ̷̪͝K̴͈̽W̷̘̉Ť̷͉J̵̥͑.̴̨̚ ̷̧͒Q̴̧̀ ̷̪̎T̸̜̏Ạ̶̕Ž̸̖J̸̹͂ ̸̺̔C̶̋͜Ḩ̶̛Ȋ̴̫X̷̝͗ ̷͈́K̶̺͛T̵̪͂L̷̤̈.̷̰͒ ̷͈̕Ẅ̸̝́V̸͉͐X̷̠͝ ̴͓̎I̵̥̊X̴̫̒H̷͇́ ̵̝͝D̸͔͘W̴̞̆M̷̝̓Ṋ̷̚.̶̛͕ ̴͕̏Ṡ̶̨Ŷ̶͉Ó̸͈ ̵̼̊A̶̰͋X̸̣̀X̸̥̅ ̴͎̌W̴̡̏Ĩ̷̲ ̸͜͠J̶̝̋S̶̨̉A̵͇̒
̶̖̂
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But he resisted . He was wrath. He was king.
He roared, unleashing the inferno within. His body burned hotter than the flames around them, searing Malgarath's hand until it dissolved into ash. The void-creature hissed as its flesh regenerated in an instant, mocking even in its pain.
"Impressive," it sighed. "A tough nut to crack."
Then it raised its arm, and the horde fell upon him.
Cordith swarmed like a flood. Their claws tore at his armor, their teeth bit into his flesh. Pyrothar struck back with fists of fire, every blow vaporizing dozens. His flames split the streets, melted stone, reduced monsters to piles of molten ash. He fought like a god of ruin, every swing of his arm a declaration of defiance.
But the void was endless.
Malgarath descended again, and the battlefield became apocalypse. Their clash split the land—mountains shuddered, skies cracked, rivers boiled to nothing. Pyrothar's hands locked around Malgarath's throat, his flames so hot they melted the ground into magma, boiling the void from within.
And still it endured.
The Cordith writhed together, fusing into Malgarath's body. Its form swelled, stretching higher, darker, more grotesque.
It became a Titan.
A Titan.
The Titan rose from the void — a towering mass of writhing darkness. Its body was an abyss given form, from which countless arms stretched and clawed, grasping at nothing yet reaching for everything. Each hand twisted, trembling with hunger, as though the creature itself could never be whole.
Its surface was not flesh but a shifting nightmare: eyes opening and closing across its form, faces pressing against its skin only to sink back into the void. Every gaze fixed on Pyrothar, unblinking, relentless.
The air trembled with its presence. Screams erupted from its body — not from mouths but from the void itself, a chorus of anguish and madness that split the sky.
It was not simply a Titan.
It was despair made flesh.
Its first movement shattered Pyrothar's arm. One horn snapped, the sound sharp as breaking stone.
The pain barely registered before he was hurled across the land—tearing through trees, skipping across a lake, then crashing into a cliff with earth-splitting force.
The world tilted. The sky blurred. He tried to rise, but his limbs betrayed him.
Malgarath's voice carried across the battlefield—distorted, cold.
"You are no one."
It advanced. Each step shook the ground.
"A king without a kingdom."
Another step. The cliff trembled, stone splitting beneath Pyrothar.
"A father without a family."
His vision dimmed. Frost crawled through his veins.
"And a leader with no power."
The sky blackened. Shadows drowned the horizon. Malgarath raised a colossal hand—void twisting into a sphere of annihilation.
"Your time—"
The singularity pulsed.
"—and this world's—"
The air collapsed, choking the battlefield.
"—is over."
And then, it struck.
Pyrothar's POV
Cold.
For the first time in so long, I felt cold.
The fire that had burned within me for all these years—the flame of kings, of warriors, of gods—was gone.
I tried to move, but my body refused.
I was sinking.
The weight of the water dragged me deeper, and from the shadows below, the Cordith reached. Their hands clutched at me, pulling, dragging me down. I was too weak to resist. Too powerless to fight.
My vision blurred. Darkened. My lungs burned, but even that pain felt… distant.
Death was with me now. Patient. Unyielding.
I was tired.
So cold.
And then—memories.
Flashes of a time before all this.
Before war. Before Malgarath. Before the burden of fire.
I remember finding Ater in a ruined village, just a baby, his face streaked with dirt, his small fists clenched in stubborn defiance at the world.
I remember Alvi at twelve, standing before me—scared, but unbroken. Her hands shook around her staff, but her eyes never wavered.
I remember when I was nothing but a weapon. A monster forged in fire and blood.
And I remember how they changed me.
The Cordith pulled harder, their screams echoing through the depths, dragging me further into the abyss.
The darkness swallowed me whole.
"Please… forgive me for my failure everyone. . ."
My mind drifted into memory, the fire within me nothing more than an ember fading into the void.