The Forsaken Seal

The sky was bleeding.

Dark clouds churned like ink spilled across the heavens, roiling and crackling with veins of pale lightning that illuminated the battlefield below. Shadows moved like living specters across the shattered land, clashing violently against figures cloaked in shimmering light. The air reeked of burning flesh and scorched earth, of metal grinding against bone and the unnatural crackle of powers no mortal should ever wield.

At the center of it all stood Zorthaal — The Cursed Supreme — his form barely human, wreathed in living darkness that twisted and churned around him like smoke with a mind of its own. His eyes, molten slits of crimson, stared down at the circle of six. They stood in formation, their robes flaring in the wind, hands outstretched as six living shadows erupted from their palms, snaking through the air like serpents of pure void.

The shadows pierced Zorthaal's chest, limbs, and throat — pulling, draining, sealing.

Zorthaal's mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound came — only the earth trembling beneath him as the very world seemed to reject his existence. His own army — grotesque, monstrous beings forged from his corruption — howled in agony as they began to disintegrate, vanishing into dark mist the moment their king's essence was bound.

The Protectors' forces surged forward, blades of light cleaving through the dissipating horde, until only silence remained.

The sky above, once furious and raging, began to still — but the air was not cleansed. The darkness had not vanished. It had merely shifted, searching for a new vessel.

As the final shadow pierced through Zorthaal's heart, far from the battlefield, in a village untouched by war — a cry rang out.

A child's cry.

The storm above the village raged unnaturally. Thunder cracked like a whip, the rain falling in sheets so thick the streets ran like veins of silver. People huddled inside their homes, whispering prayers to gods they had long forgotten. The midwife's hands trembled as she held the newborn boy, her eyes widening in horror as she saw the mark — a black, twisting sigil, like a serpent consuming its own tail, burned into the infant's chest.

The Vessel had been chosen.

The storm screamed louder, as though the sky itself had borne witness to fate being rewritten. Blood smeared the floor of the small cottage where Layron was born, and the midwife fled without a word, leaving the child alone in the arms of his dying mother.

The wind whispered his name.

Layron.

---

Years Later – The Nightmare

The sky split apart.

The dream was always the same. Layron ran through rain-slicked forests, his feet bare, his arms clutching something warm and fragile to his chest — an infant. His breath came in ragged gasps, but no matter how fast he ran, the footsteps behind him followed, silent yet deafening. Through the rain, shapes moved — figures clad in dark armor, eyes gleaming beneath their hoods. They called to him, not with words, but with a pressure inside his skull that made him want to scream.

Give us the boy.

He held the infant tighter. Lightning tore across the sky, illuminating a blade swinging towards his throat — and then—

Layron jolted awake, heart hammering so hard it hurt. Sweat slicked his skin, his sheets tangled around his legs like chains. His room was cold despite the summer air, the shadows in the corners somehow darker than they should be. His breathing slowed, but the weight in his chest didn't lift.

It was always the same dream.

Except it wasn't a dream. It was a memory. But Layron had no clue.

---

A knock rattled his door, sharp and impatient.

"Layron!" The voice was familiar, sharp with annoyance. "Get up, or you'll be late again!"

He groaned, covering his face with his arm. "Just five more minutes…"

The door swung open, and the blanket was yanked off him with brutal efficiency. Standing at the foot of his bed, arms crossed and silver hair glinting in the morning light, stood Anya — his younger sister, though anyone meeting them would have thought she was the older sibling.

"Get up," she said flatly. "Unless you want to repeat yesterday's humiliation."

Layron sat up, his hair a mess, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. "Ever heard of knocking?"

"I did. You ignored me." Her expression didn't change — equal parts bored and vaguely amused at his suffering.

He dragged himself out of bed, muscles aching from training. Not that it mattered. Training never made him stronger. It only reminded him of how far behind he is.

---

In the kitchen, Gramps sat at the wooden table, slowly sipping tea. His wrinkled hands gripped the cup with steady precision, and his sharp eyes flicked to Layron the moment he entered.

"You overslept," Gramps muttered.

Layron sat down without a word. He had long since given up trying to explain himself

—Gramps always knew the truth anyway.

Anya grabbed a slice of bread and sat across from them. "If you don't hurry, you'll miss training again," she said between bites.

Layron scowled but said nothing. He wasn't in the mood for another reminder of his incompetence.

Gramps set his cup down with a quiet clink. "You're not going to get stronger by sulking."

Layron's hands tightened around his fork.

"I train every day," he muttered.

"Training means nothing if you don't believe in yourself," Gramps said simply.

Layron clenched his teeth. He wanted to argue, but what was the point? He wasn't like Anya. No matter how hard he tried, he always fell short.

Without another word, he grabbed his things and left for the academy.

The Academy and the Shadows of Failure

A distant chime rang through the academy halls, marking the end of another grueling lesson. Layron slumped forward on his desk, eyes fixed on the wooden surface scratched with years of carvings from past students. His hands clenched into fists.

Today was no different.

He had failed. Again.

The instructor's words still rang in his head.

"Layron, you lack the discipline and ability to advance. You need to work harder—assuming that will even help."

Snickers and muffled laughter followed. His classmates didn't even bother to hide their amusement anymore. Why should they? Everyone knew Layron was the weakest student in the academy. Even younger students surpassed him—especially Anya.

"Pathetic."

That single word echoed louder than anything else. He didn't need to look up to know who had said it. Rael. Tall, sharp-eyed, and effortlessly skilled, he was everything Layron wasn't.

"Still relying on your little sister to protect you?" Rael's smirk widened as he leaned against the desk, arms crossed. "Maybe you should just quit. Not like you're cut out for this anyway."

Layron bit his tongue, gripping his quill until it nearly snapped. He wanted to say something, to fight back—but what could he say? Rael was right. Anya, who was two years younger, had already surpassed him. She had even been moved up to the next class.

He hated it. Not Anya—but himself. His weakness. His reliance on others. The way he was always in someone's shadow.

A sharp knock on his desk startled him. His instructor, an older man with a permanent scowl, glanced at him with disapproval. "Class is dismissed. Don't linger."

Layron grabbed his belongings and hurried out before anyone else could humiliate him further.

---

The Shrine – Whispered Temptations

Layron walked the familiar dirt path home, head lowered, fists trembling at his sides. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and deep crimson.

"Maybe I should quit..."

The thought came unbidden, settling in his mind like a dark cloud. What was the point? He worked hard, yet he never improved. No one expected anything from him except failure.

He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed where his feet had taken him. Instead of heading home, he found himself standing at the edge of the Ruined Shrine, an abandoned place on the outskirts of the village. No one ever came here, this place kept most people away.

Layron didn't care. Right now, he wanted to be alone.

He dropped to his knees, fists slamming into the ground. The frustration inside him boiled over. Tears welled in his eyes.

"I just… I just want to be strong!" he choked out, his voice breaking. His shoulders trembled as he clenched the dirt beneath him.

The wind suddenly shifted. The air grew cold.

And then—

A voice.

"Power is not given. It is taken."

Layron's breath hitched. He froze.

The voice was deep, resonant—like a distant thunderstorm rumbling from within his very soul.

Slowly, Layron lifted his head. He looked around, eyes wide.

No one was there.

The wind whispered through the abandoned shrine, but the voice—it had been real.

Too real.

"Who…?" His voice was barely a whisper.

Silence.

Layron swallowed hard, shaking his head. He was just imagining things. Right?

Pushing himself to his feet, he quickly wiped his face and turned back toward the village. His mind raced, but he forced himself to dismiss the strange occurrence.

It was nothing. Just his frustration playing tricks on him.

But deep down—a part of him knew better.

---

The Burden of Silence

By the time Layron reached home, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The small house, modest but well-kept, sat near the center of the village. Warm light flickered through the windows, and the scent of freshly cooked stew drifted through the air.

Inside, Gramps sat at the table, stirring his meal with slow, methodical movements. His sharp eyes flickered to Layron the moment he entered.

"You're late," Gramps muttered.

Layron avoided his gaze, slipping into his seat. "I stayed out for a bit."

Anya, who was already eating, paused. Her violet eyes studied him carefully. "You've been crying," she said flatly.

Layron's jaw tightened. "No, I haven't."

"Liar," she said, but didn't press further.

Gramps took a slow sip of his broth before speaking. "Another rough day?"

Layron stayed silent.

Gramps sighed. "I told you before. Strength doesn't come overnight."

Layron clenched his fists under the table. That's easy for you to say. You're a legend.

But he said nothing.

After dinner, Layron went to his room and collapsed onto his bed. His thoughts still swirled, but exhaustion weighed heavy on him.

As sleep claimed him, the last thing he heard—

Was the voice.

"You seek power. And I… can grant it."

---

A Voice That Won't Fade

Layron shot up, his breath ragged. His room was silent. No shadows, no figures, nothing unusual.

Yet, he had heard it again.

"I'm going insane." He buried his face in his hands, gripping his hair.

But deep down… he wanted to hear it again.

That voice—it had felt real. Powerful. Promising.

Layron squeezed his eyes shut. No. He couldn't think like that.

But even as he tried to sleep, the words lingered in his mind.

"You seek power. And I can grant it."

For the first time in his life—

He was tempted.

---