Prologue
The gods did not weep when the world burned.
They watched, distant and silent, as fire devoured kingdoms, as shadows swallowed stars. For a thousand years, light and dark waged war across the spine of the world, and mortals—those fragile things—bore the cost. Empires fell. Kings were shattered. But the gods, they remained cold, unyielding, their attention divided among their endless struggle.
Then came the Accord.
Forged not with ink, but with the blood of the first gods, the Twilight Accord brought silence to the screaming skies. It did not promise peace—only pause. The champions of light and darkness laid down their blades, their fangs, their fire. In their place, they built a wall—not of stone, but of binding magic and ancient oath. For centuries, the wall held. The land healed, though the scars of the war lingered, buried deep beneath the surface.
But accords, like men, do not last forever.
And as the wall weakens, the power of the gods stirs once again.
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Chapter One
The Mark of Dusk
The wind howled down the spine of Mount Vehl, dragging with it ash, snow, and whispers.
Kael Riven stood on the cliff's edge, boots sinking into the black ice, the sky above a wild tapestry of stormclouds and distant stars. He should've turned back an hour ago—maybe two—but the mark on his hand burned with an intensity that shook him to his core.
Three lines of silver fire pulsed on his palm—ancient, inscribed deep into his flesh. A mark older than the gods themselves. A symbol feared by both light and dark. It was a mark no mortal should bear.
Kael was Bound. He didn't know what that meant—not fully. He only knew that this mark had awakened within him, drawing him to the mountains of Vehl, to this desolate peak where silence reigned and gods had once walked. And in the shadows of his dreams, he had seen the truth—white-eyed giants in chains, a serpent god howling beneath the sea, his mother's voice, long dead, urging him to flee.
But he hadn't fled.
He had climbed.
Behind him, the ancient road to the summit twisted like a scar through the mountains, remnants of an old world lost to time. Below, the realm slumbered, a strange blend of the old and new—city lights flickering in towers of magic-forged stone, surrounded by castles whose moss-covered walls whispered of wars long past.
It was a lie.
Because in the west, beyond the Riftlands, the monsters once chained had begun to stir again. Vampires, freed from their blood-oaths. Elven cities shrouded in shadow. Giants who no longer answered their ancient gods.
And Kael? He was a blacksmith's son, with a fire in his blood and too many questions, none of which were answered by the mark that burned on his palm.
The wind shifted.
From the mist, a figure emerged—a silhouette cloaked in feathers, eyes burning like molten gold.
"Kael Riven," the figure spoke, the words heavy with ancient power. "You carry the godmark. The Accord is breaking. And you… you are its final heir."
Kael's pulse quickened. The world shifted beneath his feet. The weight of the figure's words pressed into his chest, the mark on his palm throbbing in answer.
The Accord was breaking.
And somehow, he was bound to it.
To be continued...