Ten years ago, the ARC ships made landfall in a valley now called Cradle Reach. It was the first time in five years anyone had touched dry earth. But this wasn't the Earth they remembered.
The trees were ancient and sickly, their bark as tough as stone and blackened by exposure. Rivers ran in the wrong direction. Thunderstorms erupted without warning and passed in seconds, leaving behind a strange, glowing humidity. Insects had grown grotesquely large, their biology altered by some invisible change that came with the flood.
Kalious and Malious were infants then. Orphans from separate bloodlines but tied by a bond stronger than brotherhood. Their parents were said to be noble leaders among the ARC exodus. They died during the chaos of boarding or fell to sea plague in the years adrift. The elders had taken them in without hesitation.
The camp survived. Barely. They learned to grow moss stalks for food, trap rats the size of dogs, and trade bones for firestone with passing caravans. But something always felt... watched. The land was alive, aware.
And then the sky darkened.
That morning, a thick cloud bank rolled over Cradle Reach faster than any storm before. The mist crawled like smoke, dense and unnatural. Birds fled the canopy. Fire pits extinguished as if smothered by unseen hands. The wind died completely. A silence settled in—one that didn't feel like calm.
Then came the man.
He didn't walk—he glided, his long robes never touching the ground. His skin was alabaster white, veined with blue. His eyes were like oil: bottomless, swirling. The air around him bent slightly, like heat on a distant road.
He raised one hand.
And fire rained down.