Underneath the shimmering expanse of the crystal-lit sky above Idu, a land steeped in ancient wisdom, where the waters sang with untold secrets and time ebbed and flowed like a gentle breath suspended between heartbeats, a dire warning reverberated through the sacred sanctum of the Temple of the Deep Flame. The atmosphere was charged with urgency and prophecy.
Standing at the forefront of the Temple, the High Priest of Idu draped in flowing garments of white linen intricately woven with gold threads and adorned with a crown of vivid red beads that caught the flickering torchlight, addressed the Circle of Angels with a voice that resonated like thunder. "Seeds of war stir in the five kingdoms," he pronounced, his tone grave yet commanding. "One among them has already sprouted poison. The others will soon follow suit."
His gaze landed heavily on Samyaza, a figure of composure amidst the palpable tension. With his arms crossed firmly and a somber expression etched across his face, Samyaza embodied contemplation fortified by foresight. "You must quicken the union," the High Priest insisted, urgency woven into every word. "The pact between the five kingdoms must be forged through oath and blood. Only then will the remaining two be rendered weak enough to be afraid of the four kingdoms.
"And what of the Nephilim?" Samyaza inquired, curiosity tinged with concern.
"They must ascend beyond mere whispers in the shadows, beyond being hidden children of immense power," the High Priest declared with growing fervor. "They must transform into living legends, unrivaled on the battlefield—mortal in form but invincible in the heat of war. Let not the world glimpse their power, yet let them witness no defeat."
As the foreboding words of the High Priest settled like an ominous thunderclap within the temple's hallowed walls, an unexpected visitor graced the sacred altar. A falcon, its feathers woven of jet and silver, descended gracefully, carrying with it a vital message sealed tightly within its talon. The mark was as unmistakable as it was foreboding Kaelen of Nakarith.
With an urgent air, Samyaza broke the seal and read the letter aloud, each word imbued with a sense of impending inevitability: "After the wedding, we will no longer remain passive. Imora has armed for war. It is time. Awaken us"—signed simply, "Kaelen."
The timing of this message was no mere coincidence; the High Priest's foreboding prophecy was now confirmed by one among the four themselves, intertwining the fates of the kingdoms in an intricate web of destiny.
In the midst of brewing conflict, urgency fueled Samyaza's every action. He summoned forth Azazel and Arakel, two ancient angels whose bond was fortified by rites of silent warfare and the weight of secrecy. As emissaries, they spread their wings and traversed the four kingdoms—Velhara, Nakarith, Tharamor, and Kireth, on a quest to reach the Nephilim brothers, their mission urgent and resolute.
There was no time for elaborate ceremonies; no petitions for permission to act. Under the cloak of moonless night, shrouded in the shimmering embrace of starlight, the angels sought out each of the brothers: Averan, Kaelen, Dareion, and Tareth. In hushed tones and sacred whispers, they performed the Ritual of Warfire.
Gone were the resplendent halos, the echoing thunder that often accompanied divine intervention. This was a quiet incantation, a whisper that permeated the very essence of their souls, instilling within them the echoes of ancient warriors long past. They would bleed, yes, but they would also embody an invulnerable spirit.
No sigils were burned upon their flesh, yet from that moment forward, they would stride into battle with swords that never missed their mark. Their spirits, unyielding, would rise above the fray, and their physical strength would remain unmatched by any foe. The angels imparted a final charge to each brother: "Proclaim your kingdom untouchable. Prove it with your blood and your blade. And let the people place their faith, not in the heavens, but in you."
In the distant realm of Dorshan, across tumultuous seas, King Elak stood resolute upon the crumbling Seawall. His royal cloak billowed in the bracing salt wind, and his crown sat askew, reflecting a ruler weighed down by the burdens of an uneasy reign. Each day, his weary eyes searched the horizon, filled with the silent hope that a change was bound to arrive.
"Samyaza…" he called, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer. "Azazel… any of you... hear me. If I have lost your favor, then let it be, but I plead with you, spare my people. Spare my son."
Behind him, the grandeur of the palace crumbled under the weight of doubt, yet the sea seemed to respond. Amidst the mist that hovered just above the waves, ethereal wings glimmered for a fleeting moment—visible only to the sorrowful king. Though they did not descend, nor did they utter a word, their silent vigilance spoke volumes.
In the silence that engulfed the scene, Azazel's voice cut through the dark. "We should let him suffer," he stated coldly, the lack of compassion palpable.
"He stood alone when none would, this test we planted, he has done well to choose his son over the kingdom, now we protect the kingdom," Samyaza countered, his voice firm with resolve. "We do not assist him for his sake, but for the queen… and for the sake of the boy." Remember we need Dorshan to stand strong for the alliance with the four kingdoms.
And so, the angels chose not to abandon Dorshan, lingering in the shadows as secret guardians and watchful protectors. Their presence remained obscured, yet their promise loomed large, a beacon of hope in a time of despair.