Humans spend the majority of their lives inching toward a destiny that ultimately leads them to the gates of hell. Some arrive late, while others charge headlong into their fate.
At the top of the cliff, observing the latter, stood several figures aligned behind their leader: Raiking.
Below, the drums of Dawnfall's armies thundered, echoing through the skies and shaking the very trees. Steel boots sank into the muddy ground, where fallen comrades were already laid to rest.
"Is it arrogance? Or resilience?" Raiking pondered aloud.
"Excuse me, my lord?"
"These mortals... They hoist their banners with pride, yet lament when they cannot resurrect the dead."
"Why trouble yourself with the thoughts of the dead, my lord?"
A wet belch cut through the tension as Avorlas stepped forward to rest his heavy hands on Bellavius's shoulders. "Can we get this over with, for there is talk that Athenrail's tavern has a new ale." He leaned in, ignoring the gravity of the war below. "Will you join me, brother?"
"Anyone who dares to leave without the Master's consent will answer to me," Ezmelral warned.
"Oh, how terrifying... little sister."
Ignoring his provocation, she moved forward and knelt before Raiking. "What are your orders?"
Raiking remained silent.
Slowly, he raised his hands, and the clouds responded with fury.
"Storm Dragon... heed my call."
The sky split open as a jagged bolt of azure lightning struck the cliff's edge, shaking the mountain's very foundation until the drums below fell silent.
Smoke curled from the impact crater where a figure crouched, slowly rising to reveal a man of immense stature. His cheeks and forearms were covered in shimmering blue scales, and static electricity crackled fiercely around the horns protruding from his skull.
"Master," the being rumbled, keeping his head bowed low.
"Deal with them."
"Yes my lord."
The man's form blurred as the command took hold. He soared towards the battlefield, his otherworldly flesh twisting mid-flight into something far more ancient. He expanded against the wind, morphing into a massive, wingless dragon that unleashed a roar loud enough to shake the nerve of every man below.
"It's a dragon!" a soldier shouted.
"Archers, take your positions!"
A volley of arrows shot into the sky, but Raiking turned away from the scene as the storm dragon opened its mouth to challenge their resistance. He made his way toward the sect doors, indifferent to the lightning breath about to strike.
"My lord?" Iraetius inquired.
"It always ends the same," Raiking replied, not breaking his stride. "I will enter seclusion for a few years."
"And what about us?" Dia'tia asked.
"Didn't he already give his answer? Just continue as usual," Libinea interjected, casting a sharp look at Ezmelral. "What about you, little sister? Will you follow your usual routine?"
Ezmelral ignored the provocation and hurried to Raiking's side. "I will guard the entrance."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
"... Then do as you wish."
The heavy gates closed with a final thud, cutting off the screams and the acrid stench of burning flesh that filled the valley.
Silence returned after a brief battle, as the massacre was complete. Years passed as Dawnfall healed its wounds and prepared for yet another hopeless campaign. Meanwhile, on the other side of the continent, an emergency unfolded that would answer an age-old question.
What occurs when a god is compelled to become a babysitter?