The spires that dot the landscape of the known world are among the most enigmatic structures of the past—remnants of a bygone age. Today, they serve as the foundations for many of the largest cities of Bellacia. Yet, despite centuries of study and exploration, the origins of these structures and the material they're made of remain a topic of heated debate among historians, archaeologists, and scholars alike.
Our historical records stretch back to the era of monsters, when these creatures roamed the lands in staggering numbers. From these records, we know much about the people who lived in those dark days and the eventual emergence of human civilization as we know it. But even these ancient records fail to shed light on the question that lingers at the heart of the mystery: Who built the spires?
It is a theory that has persisted for centuries, one that continues to elude a definitive answer. Some historians believe that these spires were the work of humanity's ancestors, a lost race or culture whose knowledge and power surpassed our own. But others are less convinced, positing instead that the spires were constructed by a race entirely separate from humanity—one whose influence over the land was great enough to leave these formidable structures behind, yet whose civilization seems to have disappeared without a trace.
The evidence supporting this theory is slim, but it is not without merit. The spires themselves, constructed from materials unlike anything found in modern times, are often too advanced for what is known about early human engineering. Their sheer scale and intricacy suggest a level of craftsmanship that surpasses even the most skilled of modern builders. But it's not just the architecture that raises questions; it's the damage. Many of the spires, especially those located in the more desolate regions of the world, bear the marks of what can only be described as violent destruction. Cracks in the stone, scorched surfaces, and strange, jagged fractures that appear to have been caused by some cataclysmic event.
Some speculate that these signs of destruction point to a great conflict, a reckoning, or even a catastrophic war that occurred long before the rise of human civilization. There is a theory that an ancient race, perhaps the builders of the spires, came into conflict with another power—humanity, or perhaps another race altogether—and were ultimately wiped out in a brutal, drawn-out conflict. If this theory holds any truth, it raises further questions: What was this war about? What were the stakes? And most haunting of all, What happened to the builders?
There is little to no direct evidence supporting these theories, but they have persisted in the historical discourse for a reason. Scholars point to the absence of artifacts or cultural remains associated with the builders of the spires, and the lack of any surviving records from the time before the "Great Upheaval". The theory that the spires were constructed by a now-extinct civilization is tantalizing but ultimately unprovable.
Brelith burned. Blistering flames surged skyward, tearing across rooftops as they obliterated everything in their path.The blaze had grown beyond control—an inferno spilling into every district. Winds howled across the plains and over the city walls, turning into burning gales that scattered ash and ember across stone and skin alike. Overhead, the sky churned with thick black smoke and the creeping, roiling crawl of a coming storm.
Siegfried stood at the gates of Léveque Keep, silent as he stared into the chaos. A sea of fire stretched before him, red and orange reflecting in his eyes. Something had driven this catastrophe—a motive, deliberate and cruel. But what? An assassination attempt? No, that didn't add up. If the nobles were the target, the damage would've centered on the aristocratic quarter. Instead, the lower city had taken the brunt of the explosions—market stalls, homes, entire neighborhoods gone in a flash.
Who would do this? And why? If this was a message, it had been written in fire. But to whom?
He shook his head. There was too much of the puzzle missing. The pieces didn't fit—at least not yet. Understanding would have to wait. Right now, there were people to save.
His gaze shifted to his fellow Wardens. They worked as a team, following his orders flawlessly. Anna conjured localized rains, dampening corridors of flame and carving out paths through the blaze. Blanca darted between collapsed buildings, eyes sharp as she searched for the trapped and unconscious. Terry, ever the boulder, heaved debris aside like it was kindling, ferrying the injured to the guards who—surprisingly—were doing more than just getting in the way.
With no nobles barking orders, they turned to the only authority that remained: the Wardens.
The evacuation, at least in the upper city, was progressing smoothly.
Siegfried's eyes drifted downward toward the market district. The square remained relatively untouched, wide enough that the fire hadn't yet consumed it. If he could get everyone to regroup there, they might be able to escape the city entirely.
He stepped forward to issue the next command—start moving toward the market—when a new sound cut through the roar of the inferno.
A deep, clangorous din, metal pounding metal. Then, something worse: a shriek, shrill and unnatural, like iron being torn apart at the seams.
Siegfried turned sharply. The noise was coming from the Keep.
His eyes followed the sound skyward. Flashes of electricity burst from the highest tower—violent arcs of light slashing across the darkened sky. The air thrummed with raw energy, and a strange pressure built in his chest.
Something was happening up there.
Another explosion ripped through the air—but it wasn't like the ones before. This one bloomed outward from the tower in a verdant conflagration, sluggish and unnatural. It spread like liquid fire, tendrils of green flame unfurling in lazy arcs, crawling through the sky as if savoring its expansion. Siegfried had never seen anything like it.
The tower cracked open. Stone shattered apart, but the fragments didn't fall. They hovered, suspended midair—defying gravity—as veins of lightning coiled through them like serpents. Energy pulsed between each chunk of stone, arcing and snapping, painting the sky in a jagged halo of light. Glass twinkled like stars within the chaos.
Behind him, heavy footsteps approached. "What…," Terry muttered, voice trailing off in awe—or dread.
"I cannot say with certainty." Siegfried answered, his gaze fixed skyward, a cold shiver crawling down his spine."We must act—"
He stopped mid sentence, his eyes squinting against the light.
A silhouette moved within the chaos. Small—human-sized—drifting in the center of the storm, framed by lightning and swirling emerald flame.
"Is that a person?" Terry asked, his voice suddenly brittle.
Siegfried didn't answer this time. "We should take our leave." he snapped instead.
But the words had barely escaped his lips before the storm responded.
A concussive blast erupted from the sphere—a shockwave of pure entropy. It slammed into the ground with titanic force, flattening the flames and scattering all in its path like leaves in the wind. Siegfried was hurled backward, his vision spinning as his body struck the stone, rolling painfully along the ground.
His ears rang, and he blinked rapidly, struggling to focus as he staggered back to his feet. And then, he saw the sky.
The clouds were gone. The smoke was gone. Above him stretched an absolute, yawning sphere of stillness carved into the night. A clear window in the storm. Moonlight streamed through it, stark and untouched—like the world had been peeled open and something from beyond was gazing in.
Siegfried turned his attention back toward the Keep—the tower was gone. Erased. Its upper half had crumpled with it, a cascade of pulverized stone and shattered supports now strewn across the courtyard and beyond. What remained of the structure groaned under its own weight, slouched and broken, half of it missing as though scooped out by a god's hand.
His eyes swept across the devastation, a futile search for meaning amid the ruin. Scorch marks scarred the cobblestone. Smoke curled around warped beams and blackened marble. And then—his breath caught.
A figure stood in the center of the courtyard, alone amidst the carnage.
Humanoid—but wrong.
Its skin was the color of scorched bronze, etched with cracks that glowed faintly from within like veins of molten slag. Two curved horns jutted back from its brow, crimson and ridged, their bases glowing faintly with the same inner light. Behind it, tattered remnants of what might once have been a cloak fluttered in the breeze. A long, thick tail protruding from beneath.
Its head tilted, slowly, glancing around at the devastation, its yellow eyes turned towards him, as if aware it was being observed.
Even at this distance, Siegfried felt it.
A pressure—palpable and heavy—pressing down on his chest. Not spira, not magic. Something suffocating and primordial. A feeling that he was not used to. Fear.
For a fleeting moment, Siegfried wanted to run. Abandon his post, his duty—everything—and disappear into the smoke. The thought brought a flush of shame, but it clung to him all the same.
"S-Siegfried," Terry's voice cracked behind him. "What... are we—should we...?"
He didn't answer right away. What was the right call here? The creature hadn't moved, but it knew they were there. Siegfried didn't need instinct to tell him it was dangerous—he felt it, a certainty that gnawed at the edges of reason. This thing wasn't merely malicious. It was unholy.
"We're withdrawing." he said at last, keeping his voice steady. "Locate the others. Ensure they get to the square."
"Y-yeah," Terry murmured, still dazed. "Right."
Siegfried heard him leave, footsteps growing fainter as he ran off to deliver the order. That left only him—and the thing in the courtyard. The silence between them felt oppressive. Heavy.
If it decided to strike, could he stop it? No, he doubted it. Not alone.
So why was it just standing there? Why did it watch him so intently?
He didn't want to meet its gaze, but dread rooted him in place, and his eyes locked with it, drawn by sheer instinct. The creature tilted its head, bared its teeth in a slow, deliberate smile—not human. Not even close.
His blood froze and a wave of nausea shot through him.
His hand moved before he could stop it, reaching back for his longsword. Not out of courage—but trepidation. A deep, primitive terror that seized his limbs and made him act.
If this thing moved, he would be ready—even if it meant dying on his feet.
The creature vanished.
There was no blur, no rush of motion—just absence, like a flame snuffed out mid-flicker. One heartbeat, it stood across the courtyard. The next—
A deafening crack of impact.
It appeared directly before him, an explosion of displaced air bursting outward as it dropped from the sky. Claws like jagged obsidian cleaved down, a black arc meant to split him in two.
Siegfried didn't think—Spira surged through his veins like a lightning strike.
His feet shifted, stance rotating on instinct. His sword came up in a single, trained motion—one hand on the hilt, the other bracing the flat of the blade. Steel screamed against claw. The collision jolted through his arms, his boots sliding backward against the stone.
He gritted his teeth, holding his guard, the momentum of the blow staggering, but not breaking him. His muscles burned, every tendon stretched to its limit.
That technique. It was an arte he was very familiar with. That was a boat-step. The sign of a skilled forcer, an ability that took years of training to perfect.
The creature loomed over him, claws bearing down against his sword. Its horned face twisted into a sick mockery of a smile, amused by Siegfried's reaction.
His blade trembled in his grip as the creature pressed harder. He couldn't afford to let up or it would tear through his guard.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The moon gleamed through the ruptured sky, casting silver light over the courtyard. It glinted off the monster's horns and shimmered along the ridges of its armored skin. Its limbs were too long, its shoulders too wide, its warped form a mockery of a human.
With a grunt, Siegfried twisted, redirecting the creature's weight and breaking contact. He pivoted hard, pushing it back just enough to disengage and regain his footing. His longsword came up again, trembling in his grip, his arms still shaking from the initial clash.
It turned to look at him, its mouth moved spewing forth an unnatural sound, a multitude of voices speaking discordantly, "This fiend has some technique, but it is no match for I."
"And whom, pray tell, are you calling a fiend?" Siegfried replied, dryly. "The only one befitting that title, I see standing before me."
"It speaks?" The fiend remarked in surprise. It tilted its head again—and vanished. Another boat-step, But this time, Siegfried was ready.
That technique had a glaring weakness, it could only move in a straight line. He rolled to the side, blade sweeping up. He would catch it as it rematerialized.
Clang!
Claws met steel once more—the creature had reacted fast enough to block his counter.
Siegfried flashed into a different stance and pushed into an offensive assault.
His blade whipped forward in a blur, angled to cut low and drive the fiend back. But it was already gone, leaping over the attack like smoke caught in the wind. There was no clash—just the hiss of air as claws raked toward his spine. Siegfried spun, twisting his entire torso and catching the strike against his sword. The blow knocked him off balance. Another strike came from the side—then above, the fiend closing in from every angle.
He was being overwhelmed.
Each movement demanded every ounce of focus he could muster. Every block, every pivot had to be faultless. He ducked a sweeping kick, parried a clawed hand, lashed out with the pommel of his weapon. Yet, nothing landed cleanly. Every counter he attempted was just shy of effective, his strikes slipping off skin—like he was trying to cut through stone with an old knife.
And still, he fought back as best he could.
Siegfried reached deep—drawing on years of training, every mistake etched into him through pain and repetition. He gave everything he had and more. He adjusted his rhythm, tried unpredictable combinations, searching for anything that might shift the tide.
He turned his backstep into a roll, using the momentum to launch upward with a rising slash, following with a spinning horizontal arc meant to shear across the creature's side. The fiend evaded the first strike, but this time, he was certain he had it. There was no way it could avoid the second. Its tail swung around from behind it, slapping the broad side of his sword, knocking it up and breaking momentum. Siegfried jumped back and landed in a low stance, panting, sweat beading down his brow.
His arms ached. His lungs burned. And yet, the thing didn't seem to be all that worked up. If anything, it appeared to be amused, simply toying with him.
The creature laughed—a low, guttural rasp that reverberated in Siegfried's bones. Its claws slid back into its forearms with a wet snap, fingers curling into fists. Then it shifted its stance, shoulders turning sideways, feet grounding itself.
It didn't boat-step this time.
It simply moved—with terrifying speed, a blur of unbridled motion. Fists flew like hammers, each strike whistling through the air. Siegfried blocked the first few, absorbed a knee with his bracer, pivoted to deflect a tail swipe—but there were too many. The barrage came from every angle—kicks to his ribs, punches to his gut, backfists that cracked against his guard and rattled his teeth. His arms ached under the strain, every bone humming with the force of the blows. He could only shield what mattered: his head, his heart, his spine. He wouldn't last long like this.
Then—salvation. As stone met flesh. A large rock slammed into the fiend's side, the impact jarring enough to pause its onslaught. Siegfried didn't need to look. Terry had thrown it. He used the opening, lunging forward in a ruthless arc—his blade carving into the fiend's temple and shaving off a chunk of its horn.
A hiss of pain.
Before it could counter, Blanca slipped into its blind spot like a wraith. Her spear lanced forward—dead center at the spine. The fiend twisted at the last second, the point veering off—but not before it raked a deep cut across its flank. A jet of steaming, viscous fluid sprayed out like boiling tar.
The creature snarled, leaping into the air to reassess. Straight into Anna's trap.
Water crashed down in a surging torrent, smashing it back downward. Jets of liquid followed—sharp, needle-like bursts, pinning each limb to the cobblestone. High above, the air shimmered with magic. Anna stood farther down the street, her hands sweeping to and fro, directing her conjurations, incantations too fast to follow.
The tide had turned.
Once, Siegfried would've scoffed at the notion of relying on others. But training with the others had changed him. Their strength wasn't in any one weapon or arte—it was in unity.
The fiend roared, voice like a war drum cracking the sky. "Enough!"
The shockwave tore through the spellcraft, scattering the incoming jets like raindrops. But Siegfried was already in motion, charging through the chaos. .
With a sharp twist and a well timed rising slash, he severed the already damaged horn clean off. The fiend reeled, howling in pain. Terry followed Siegfried's lead, chaining the combo with a crushing, enchanted punch to its back—forcing it back into Siegfried's range.
He brought his sword down in a devastating diagonal stroke, the blade biting deep. The steel split the fiend nearly from shoulder to hip, ichor boiling out in streams of acrid smoke. It staggered. Terry latched onto it from behind, his strength holding it in place to stifle its movements.
Blanca surged forward, spear poised to strike—aimed straight at the fiend's eye. The perfect setup.
But then—
The fiend's hand plunged into its own gaping wound.
Its fingers closed around something.
In one brutal motion, it yanked free a smooth, rectangular blade—blacker than night and humming with unnatural energy.
Siegfried could only watch as the creature swung.
The sword caught Blanca's midsection. Her spear clattered to the stone as her body hurled backward like a ragdoll, crashing into a wall with bone-jarring force.
"No!" Terry's voice cracked with rage. His grip loosened.
A single moment. That was all it needed.
The fiend twisted free, side-stepped, and lashed out—its foot slammed into Terry's chest, sending him skidding across the courtyard. But it wasn't done. It advanced half a step after him and vanished again.
Boat-step.
It reappeared right in front of Terry and brought its sword down.
Siegfried flinched at the sound—a horrible, wet crack that silenced the world.
The fiend's eyes blazed with a sickening yellow glow, it locked onto Siegfried. With a primal snarl, it surged forward, the black blade scraping against the stone like a predator closing in on its prey. Siegfried took a shaky breath, gathering his focus as he steadied his grip on his sword, knowing this next strike could be the end if he faltered.
Anna's magic shot through the air—a barrage of water blasts intended to hinder the fiend's charge. But the creature moved with inhuman fluidity, weaving between the streams of liquid as it anticipated their paths. It closed the gap between them too quickly. Siegfried swung his blade out to intercept, but the fiend only smiled, a cruel, predatory expression on its face.
Then, in an instant, it vanished.
A blur.
Siegfried's heart skipped a beat. It had boat-stepped again—right past him. He whipped around,searching for Anna, but he was too late.
The fiend appeared beside her. His blade came down and Anna barely had time to react. She raised her arms to defend herself, water artes crackling in the air, but it was futile. The blow landed, the fiend's strike blasting through her meager defence, smashing into her shoulder.
Siegfried's breath caught in his throat as Anna's body buckled under the impact, her form crumpling to the ground, a twisted heap before the fiend.
It had killed them. Just like that. No drawn-out struggle, no chance for last words—only savage, final violence in the span of seconds.
Siegfried stared at the creature through the haze of disbelief, his breath caught somewhere between horror and despair. What was this monster? Why was it here? Why did they have to be the ones to face it? The questions swirled in his mind without answers.
And then a final thought slithered into the quiet corner of his mind, insidious in its calm certainty.
This is where I die.
The fiend surged toward him, its blade dragging behind like an executioner's scythe. Siegfried raised his longsword, the gesture more instinct than hope. The creature struck upward in a wide arc, and his weapon met the blow—but the steel shattered like glass, fragments of his last defense scattering into the storm-churned air.
The rectangular blade slammed into his gut.
The impact tore the breath from his lungs and lifted him off his feet. The world tilted. For a fleeting instant, he was weightless. Then he crashed into the cobblestones with a crunch that rattled his bones, the wind driven out of him like smoke from a dying flame.
He couldn't move. Could barely think. Pain had consumed everything, and yet it was the cold that scared him more.
The sky above, once torn open by the earlier blast, had finally sealed shut. The wound stitched together by churning clouds, smothering the moon's pale glow once more. Darkness reclaimed the night.
And then—
Rain.
Soft, almost gentle, the first drops kissed the blood-slicked stones around him. A mournful sound. Like the sky weeping for the fallen.
Dying young had never truly occurred to him.
But now, he could only lie there, broken and fading, beneath an uncaring sky.