The sky over the Eclipse Wound was not black — it was void.
A swirling rift the size of a kingdom pulsed with jagged threads of corrupted astral energy, anchored between two collapsing peaks in the Ravinor Highlands. Beneath it, the land was dead: ash, broken glass soil, and ruptured ley lines.
And yet a man stood there — alone — as if daring the void to cross the line drawn beneath his feet.
Daelor Terron, Paragon of Humanity.
Wielder of the Iron Bastion.
Slayer of five Astral Devourers.
His armor shimmered with seven stars of Ferrion's sigil, each blazing with divine authority. His tower shield, Aegis of the Fallen Line, was impaled into the ground before him like a monument. Behind him lay the scattered remnants of an elite strike force — unconscious but alive.
He had sent them back.
He would handle this part alone.
A faint ripple echoed from the rift.
The wind died.
Then came the voice — hollow, like bone scraping metal.
"Daelor Terron. Iron shield of men. Still you stand."
A shape slithered from the rift: Elym-Korr, a Voidborn Herald. Towering, wingless, with a body made of writhing shadow-steel and broken starlight, it hovered inches above the deadened ground.
Daelor didn't flinch.
"I thought I ended you at the Siege of Dawnsreach."
Elym-Korr's jaws widened. "You only delayed me. You held the line, yes... but all lines crack eventually. The boy, your heir—he burns already."
Daelor's knuckles tightened around the hilt of his shield.
"You will not speak of him."
"But he burns with two lights, doesn't he? War from both sides. What if he falls before he rises?"
A pulse of corrupted astral energy surged toward Daelor — an imploding spear of voidlight aimed straight at his heart.
He didn't dodge.
His left foot slid half a step back — and he raised the Aegis of the Fallen Line.
CLANG—BOOM!
The impact shattered the ground, sending cracks outward in a sunburst pattern. The spear bent space — but the shield held, pulsing with Ferrion's sigil.
Then came the silence.
Daelor stepped forward.
"Five Astral Devourers," he said calmly, "all more terrifying than you. I didn't survive them by blocking."
He clenched his right hand, and his soul ignited.
Iron Domain.
The air turned silver.
Massive interlocking plates of astral steel erupted from the ground in a circular arena. His armor thickened. Time slowed. In this space, he was the unmovable wall — and Elym-Korr was within range.
Daelor's warhammer appeared in a flash — Cruxsteel, forged from a fragment of the Titan Bastion itself. He charged.
Elym-Korr screeched, slashing with tendrils of anti-energy and spatial bends, but Daelor carved through them. He moved not fast — but without hesitation. Every blow was deliberate, calculated, and grounded in unshakable form.
Strike. Block. Shift. Counter. Advance.
Elym-Korr coiled around him, seeking blind spots — but Daelor had none.
Not because he was perfect.
Because he had trained every flaw until it became fortress.
Then — one final swing.
Cruxsteel met core.
Elym-Korr screamed in collapsing stars as its chest ruptured, its sigil fragmenting into shattered sparks.
Daelor stood over the dissolving Herald, breathing slow.
"Your kind should know," he said quietly, "walls don't fall because you lean on them."
Hours Later – Secret War Chamber, Terron Estate
Daelor returned just before dawn, his armor scorched, his soul core flickering with strain. But he didn't sleep.
Instead, he reviewed astral beacon activity, Rift zone reports, and scrolls of corrupted movement.
The Astral Plane was shifting.
More Heralds were probing the world's edges.
And at the center of this growing tension — Kenzo.
A boy with two war gods in his veins. A living fuse between flame and steel.
"Hold fast, son," Daelor murmured, watching a fading constellation map.
Then he closed his eyes.
And prayed that Kenzo's fire would never outpace his resolve.