Dust howled through the narrow alleys of Mecca like the exhalation of a chained demon. Heat seeped from the granite walls, peeling skin and lungs alike—faces scorched in a city that had known no rest since the first rift of displacement had split the earth.
On the highest balcony of the elite fortress, Sultan stood—a youth robbed of childhood by the cruelty of fate. His white hair flowed down his back like molten silver under the scorching midday sun, and his blue eyes—pure as glacier ice, harsh as winter—stared northward with the gaze of a man who had known death. His heavy armor, etched with golden symbols immortalizing the Land of Solitude, groaned under his breathing. His fingers dug into the flesh of his left shoulder, over the fire rune engraved there, pulsing now like a buried heart—hot, erratic, ravenous.
Beside him, Khalid stood—or rather, materialized—an embodiment of shadow shaped like a man. His jet-black hair absorbed the light, his features devouring it completely. He wore no gleaming armor, only dark skin slick with oil and ancient blood, rendering him a living absence. His eyes tracked the massive formations below: armies from the three continents converging in the castle courtyard, united by catastrophe and the stench of the world's slow death.
They descended into the courtyard where Saqr waited, mounted on his war steed carved from obsidian. Time had carved deep furrows into his face, each one hard-earned by leadership and loss. He raised his gloved hand toward the massive gates.
"There will be no farewell," Saqr's voice thundered, hammering the air like stone on stone. "The land north of Mecca births monsters from its corruption. Fail there, and no refuge remains—only corpses to bury."
The troops surged forward, hooves pounding, steel screaming. Sultan led the charge, his white hair trailing behind him like a torn banner of light, while warriors from every continent joined the march.
At the edge of the great rift, where violet toxic vapors rose from the wounded earth, and the ground throbbed like a wounded body, Layla al-Riyah revealed herself. She rode a pale steed like a passing storm cloud, silver hair whipping violently as the air bent to her will. The golden mark on her forehead gleamed with a savage ancient light. Her amber eyes locked with Sultan's—silent recognition, silent terror—just as the valley shuddered with a roar that tore through bones and souls alike.
The earth split open.
From the wound crawled Haadar the Dark—an immense beast of twisted flesh and corrupted feathers. Its limbs ended in serrated bone blades dripping viscous black poison, hissing upon contact with the ground. Its breath reeked of rot and ancient slaughter.
Sultan did not hesitate.
He threw himself from the saddle like a white sinner breaking gravity. In the air, he seized his great blade, pouring all the fury, sorrow, and blazing will of the fire rune into the steel. The sword screamed—iron flaring into light, sparks scattering—as it descended with destructive force.
The blade struck deep.
Shoulder split. Bone cracked. Flesh vaporized.
Haadar's roar shattered eardrums, flinging stones from the canyon walls. Arc of burning blood accompanied the sizzling impact of blade upon dust. The beast lashed its spiked tail in blind rage, aiming to cleave Sultan from knee to head.
Death nearly claimed him.
But Khalid moved.
He vanished beneath the beast like spilled ink, shadows obeying his silent command. Darkness thickened under Haadar, rising and coiling around its limbs like iron serpents, tearing muscles from bone to halt its assault.
In that moment of pain and imbalance, Layla raised her hand.
The sky screamed.
The air collapsed inward, then exploded outward. A cyclone of roaring wind slammed into Haadar's skull, crushing cartilage, shattering vertebrae, ripping the massive head sideways with wet, sickening snaps.
Sultan advanced.
This time, he discarded the blade.
He plunged his bare hand into the exposed chest cavity of the beast, fingers gripping molten flesh, clutching viscera writhing violently around his wrist. He roared—a sound born of rage and revelation—and unleashed the fury of the water rune etched on his right arm.
A concentrated torrent of corrosive saline burst outward.
The beast exploded from within.
Black blood, shattered bones, and charred entrails erupted through the rift like a storm of ruin. Haadar's body collapsed into a smoking heap, its remnants trembling before finally stilling.
A suffocating silence followed.
Sultan stood drenched in blood, chest heaving, skin blistered, white hair matted with ash and gore. He wiped his eyes with a trembling hand, meeting Layla's gaze through the accumulating haze.
The runes on his body burned like open wounds of light.
There was no denying it now.
Under an ash-covered sky,
amidst blood-stained stones and shattered earth,
the hero of the prophecy had awakened.
And below, beneath layers of bone and fire,
the demon emperors stirred—smiling.
The war had not yet begun.