The sky above the battlefield was not made for gods.
It was cracked open—like the earth itself had scread, and the heavens answered in blood.
Raen Valor stood among corpses of angels and demons, the shattered wings of false divinity scattered like burned parchnt. His hands shook around the hilt of a naless sword—a weapon that drank light, mory, and soul.
He couldn't rember how many he had killed.
Only that none of them were enough.
Before him stood the Throne.
Ancient. Immovable. Breathing.
A spire of carved black bone, forged before ti, pulsing with the echoes of every na it had ever consud.
"Is this it?" Raen whispered, his voice hollow. "This is what they worshipped?"
He stepped forward, leaving footprints in the ash.
Every part of him—bone, blood, and mory—scread to turn back. The closer he got, the heavier he felt. As if the throne was not just a relic, but a grave that rembered every soul that ever tried to reach it.
And failed.
Raen grinned. There was no joy in it. Only defiance.
"I have no na left to give," he muttered.
Then, he struck.
The sword plunged into the throne—not with fire, not with divine fury, but with sothing far more terrifying:
Intention.
The Throne scread.
It wasn't a sound. It was every forgotten prayer, every lie told in the na of a god, every scream that echoed in empty temples.
Raen scread with it.
His body broke. His soul cracked. Every mory he had devoured over lifetis was ripped from him—burned, twisted, and cast into the void. He had defied the heavens. And now, even death would not take him.
He fell.
A Place Between Nas
Ti had no aning in the void.
Raen floated, or perhaps sank. He could not feel his limbs. Could not rember who he was. Only the cold clarity of loss remained.
Until a voice reached him.
Smooth. Dark. Amused.
"You ca close," it said. "Closer than any mortal ever has. You even made the throne bleed. Impressive."
Raen's eyes opened, though he had no body.
Before him stood a figure made of shadows and crowns. A horned being who sat upon no throne, but watched them all. The Demon God.
"You are not welco here," Raen growled.
"And yet here you are," the god said, smiling. "Fallen. Broken. But not gone. No... not yet."
Raen tried to speak. To curse him. But his voice was buried beneath a thousand stolen nas.
"Listen well, little devourer. I offer you a seed. A chance to begin again. A second life. But you will sleep for three centuries. The world will forget you. The throne will not."
Raen said nothing. But his silence was louder than screams.
"When you awaken," the Demon God continued, "you may live quietly. Or... you may choose to continue. To kill the gods. To devour their mories. To shatter the throne until not even their shadows remain."
The voice beca a whisper, close to his ear:
"You will be given power, Raen Valor. But not forgiveness."
Raen floated in silence.
Then, slowly, he spoke:
"Fine."
The Birth of a Curse
Three hundred years later, in a village the world had long forgotten, a child was born.
He did not cry.
He did not scream.
He opened his eyes—and saw a man's face.
Rough. Weathered. A warrior's face.
"You're... real," the man whispered, his hands shaking. "You're mine."
The newborn blinked. His gaze steady.
The na on his soul pulsed beneath the surface like an echo waiting to awaken.
Raen Valor.
The boy who had defied the throne.
The boy who would one day break it.
End of Prologue
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