Into the Forge
The wind howled across the arid expanse, whipping the sands into veils of shifting gold. The last soldiers of the Stormforged Legion stood silent, their armor weathered by the countless battles of the Long War. Commander Attiger Thorne stood at the forefront, his steel gaze fixed on the horizon, uncertainty pressing heavily on his shoulders. Behind him, legionnaires fidgeted uneasily, eyeing the figure in their midst. A Prophet had come.
Clad in crimson robes billowing like flames against the ochre dunes, the figure strode forward with unearthly calm, their face hidden beneath a shadowed cowl. The sands seemed to part for them. Even the sky, hazy with storm-born dust, dimmed in reverence. No one spoke. No one dared. A Prophet was no ordinary cleric—history proved their words were both balm and blade, reshaping entire civilizations.
The Commander’s jaw tightened as the figure stopped alongside him. Though Attiger held only contempt for the old ways, he needed the mystic’s guidance. Ancient scrolls unearthed in the ruins of Thronefall were said to hold the key to reversing the Red Veil—a truth only those who walked between the divine and mortal could reveal.
“Speak your truth, Prophet.” Attiger’s voice was low but firm. “Tell us what fate awaits.”
The Prophet turned toward the setting sun, raising a hand to the fractured sky. The gesture stilled the air, halting even the restless shuffling of the legionnaires. When they finally spoke, their voice was neither loud nor quiet, but carried effortlessly through the tumultuous winds.
“Humanity won the Long War, yet the scorchwinds consume all that remains. Extinction is our reward,” said the Prophet. “The sands will swallow those who refuse to listen. But for those who dare traverse the void, the Arc of Ascendence reveals the second future.”
Attiger drew a deep breath, exhaling sharply as he knelt, pressing his palm into the hot sand. He lingered there, feeling the grit beneath his fingers. The eyes of the legion bore into him, their unspoken doubts and hopes hanging in the still air. His next words would shape their resolve, and the weight of the moment pressed down, heavier than the desert heat.
“You speak of myths.” His voice cut through the quiet as he rose, clutching a fistful of sand, the dry grains slipping through his fingers. “But it seems myths are all we have left.”
The Prophet’s head dipped. “Through dust and flame.”
“We are forged,” Attiger replied, reflexively, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Like every legionnaire, Attiger Thorne had spoken the creed countless times before. But in that moment, he understood the words more deeply than he’d understood anything in his life. If there was even the smallest chance to change humanity’s fate, the Stormforged would see it through. No matter the cost. No matter what they had to become.
