Clash of Dooms
By [CEO]
Chapter Three: The Broken Oath
The corridor exhaled a breath of cold as Kaelen stepped through the hidden doorway. The flames on the sconces didn't flicker—they stood unnaturally still, casting elongated shadows that seemed to crawl along the stone walls. His footsteps echoed with a strange delay, as if the catacombs were listening.
The sigil throbbed in his satchel, still warm from his touch. Ever since he'd made contact with it, he could feel something deep inside—like a tether had been tied to his soul and now pulled him forward. Every instinct screamed to turn back.
But he didn't.
Kaelen moved slowly, sword drawn, torch relit from the blue flames. The passage descended further underground, and eventually widened into a circular chamber where seven monoliths stood in a perfect ring, each carved with symbols and names in a forgotten tongue.
He recognized only one.
Valmorra.
The name was carved in blood-red stone, glowing faintly in rhythm with the sigil. It pulsed like a heartbeat—his heartbeat. He approached, but before he could reach it, something moved.
The air thickened. Shadows bled from the monoliths, merging into a single figure—tall, robed in tattered black and silver, a face hidden beneath a crown of bones.
"You wear his blood," the voice rumbled. "And you've broken his chains."
Kaelen raised his sword, his voice firm despite the fear clawing up his throat. "Who are you?"
"I am the oathkeeper of the First Doom," the figure replied, stepping forward. "And you, Kaelen Vire, are the final blade of prophecy."
Kaelen's grip tightened on the hilt. "I came seeking the truth of my ancestor, not prophecy."
"Truth and doom are often the same thing," the figure said. "Valmorra was not slain. He was bound. And the oath that sealed him is now broken—by your hand."
Kaelen staggered back. "No… That can't be—"
A sudden gust extinguished his torch. The chamber darkened, the sigil burst with light, and from behind the monolith bearing Valmorra's name, the stone cracked. Something stirred beneath it. Something massive.
A scream echoed through the tunnels—not human, not beast. Ancient. Full of fury and hunger.
And it was waking.
In the mountains of Dareth-Khal, beyond the reach of empire or order, a hooded figure rode through a blizzard, a black banner tied to their spear. Snow hissed against the rocks, but the rider pressed on toward a distant fortress carved into the mountain's bones.
Inside the fortress, war drums pounded.
"The sigil has awakened," said a warrior-priest wrapped in wolf furs. "It is time to call the exiled legions."
The rider pulled back their hood, revealing a scarred face marked with ritual tattoos. Their eyes burned with purpose.
"The world has forgotten the First Doom," they said. "But we have not. When the Old One rises, we will not kneel. We will conquer."
Back in Saryndor, Elindra stared into the Seer's Pool, watching Kaelen's descent. Her hands trembled.
"We must send word to the Circle of Thorns," she said. "And awaken the Warden of Ashes."
"But they are forbidden!" Lorian protested. "The Warden swore never to return."
"If Valmorra rises," Elindra said, her voice cold, "the dead will walk. The sky will bleed. And oaths will break like kindling."
She looked up, her eyes meeting her apprentice's.
"Everything is about to burn."
To be continued in Chapter Four: The Warden of Ashes.