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Lamathandë, The Dragon Genesis.
In the shadowed halls of Eina, a tension thick as the ancient stone walls themselves hung in the air. Intruders were uncommon within these sacred chambers, and yet today, an ominous figure stood before the great archaic doors. Clad in midnight armor that seemed to swallow the light around him, Rheodus, the feared Son of Necromanč, faced the house's solitary defender.
“Necromanč!” Rheodus's voice was a snarl, contempt dripping from every syllable. “Let that name taint your lips again, spawn of mortals, and it will be the last breath you draw. You dare to belittle the Sovereign of the Void? Would you gaze upon your severed head adorned upon the spiked gates of Sylitith's stronghold? Choose your next words with care; they may spell your end.”
With a swift motion seamless as the night, Rheodus unsheathed his sword, the blade a whisper of death at Galactnougt’s throat. Yet, the stalwart guardian stood unflinching, a defiant gleam in his eye. Rheodus’s laughter echoed, a cruel sound that filled the chamber.
“You mortals wither like autumn leaves, ephemeral and frail. The Dark Lord Necromanč graced you with the gift of everlasting night, but your line alone scorned eternity.”
Galactnougt’s gaze was unwavering as he spoke, “Life’s beauty, my lord, lies in its finiteness. I have seen wonders among women, steeds, and the great expanse of the seas. They are captivating because they do not last; they are fleeting moments in the endless churn of time.”
Rheodus paused, intrigue momentarily displacing his malice. “A philosopher, are you? Curious that your forebear did not sire another mind such as yours, for I have come for your demise.”
“Spare me, noble Rheodus. I stand here, the last echo of my kind,” Galactnougt implored.
“My kind?” Rheodus advanced, his voice now a thunderous quake. “The sun dares not shine upon anything that does not bow to Necromanč. All shall serve, or none shall stand.”
He raised his sword high, the very air seeming to still in anticipation of the strike. But in the breath of a moment, an ethereal sound—a whispering whistle—preceded the inevitable.
A silver arrow pierced the void, its aim unerring. Rheodus grunted, staggered backward, the formidable son of darkness crumpling with a silvered shaft protruding from his sightless eye. His lifeblood painted the floor in shades of betrayal and night.
A lone owl, spectral and silent, took wing from Eina’s heights, its flight a portentous omen as it glided toward the dread domain of Sylitith, where the Dark Lord Necromanč awaited news. The struggle for the fate of Isonearth had taken a fateful turn, and the twilight of the gods was nigh upon them all.
With Rheodus's fall, the story of Eina and the shadow that clung to its people hung in suspense, a tale's ending yet to be carved by sword and sorcery, by courage and sacrifice. The House of Eina stood defiant, its saga to be continued under the watching gaze of the celestial bodies, guardians of fate and time itself.
...to be continued
© Kaiso Isaac
“Necromanč!” Rheodus's voice was a snarl, contempt dripping from every syllable. “Let that name taint your lips again, spawn of mortals, and it will be the last breath you draw. You dare to belittle the Sovereign of the Void? Would you gaze upon your severed head adorned upon the spiked gates of Sylitith's stronghold? Choose your next words with care; they may spell your end.”
With a swift motion seamless as the night, Rheodus unsheathed his sword, the blade a whisper of death at Galactnougt’s throat. Yet, the stalwart guardian stood unflinching, a defiant gleam in his eye. Rheodus’s laughter echoed, a cruel sound that filled the chamber.
“You mortals wither like autumn leaves, ephemeral and frail. The Dark Lord Necromanč graced you with the gift of everlasting night, but your line alone scorned eternity.”
Galactnougt’s gaze was unwavering as he spoke, “Life’s beauty, my lord, lies in its finiteness. I have seen wonders among women, steeds, and the great expanse of the seas. They are captivating because they do not last; they are fleeting moments in the endless churn of time.”
Rheodus paused, intrigue momentarily displacing his malice. “A philosopher, are you? Curious that your forebear did not sire another mind such as yours, for I have come for your demise.”
“Spare me, noble Rheodus. I stand here, the last echo of my kind,” Galactnougt implored.
“My kind?” Rheodus advanced, his voice now a thunderous quake. “The sun dares not shine upon anything that does not bow to Necromanč. All shall serve, or none shall stand.”
He raised his sword high, the very air seeming to still in anticipation of the strike. But in the breath of a moment, an ethereal sound—a whispering whistle—preceded the inevitable.
A silver arrow pierced the void, its aim unerring. Rheodus grunted, staggered backward, the formidable son of darkness crumpling with a silvered shaft protruding from his sightless eye. His lifeblood painted the floor in shades of betrayal and night.
A lone owl, spectral and silent, took wing from Eina’s heights, its flight a portentous omen as it glided toward the dread domain of Sylitith, where the Dark Lord Necromanč awaited news. The struggle for the fate of Isonearth had taken a fateful turn, and the twilight of the gods was nigh upon them all.
With Rheodus's fall, the story of Eina and the shadow that clung to its people hung in suspense, a tale's ending yet to be carved by sword and sorcery, by courage and sacrifice. The House of Eina stood defiant, its saga to be continued under the watching gaze of the celestial bodies, guardians of fate and time itself.
...to be continued
© Kaiso Isaac
