The City of Zephyrron, long known as the Forgotten City of the Gods, stood as a forsaken land where light no longer reached and grace had long since faded. For centuries, it had been a refuge for the condemned, those cast out by kingdoms and judged unworthy by the world beyond its borders. No divine blessing lingered in its soil. Instead, thick veils of mist coiled endlessly through its streets, and an unyielding darkness consumed the sky. Within that gloom, monstrous beings roamed freely, abominations that even the bravest warriors dared not face.
Time had not been kind to Zephyrron. The land had withered into lifelessness. Trees stood hollow and brittle, their branches rarely bearing leaves, much less flowers. What little life remained clung desperately to survival. Deep within the mountain lay the Cave of Dao, a hidden passage where the city's inhabitants sought sustenance. There, in its shadowed depths, stood an ancient structure untouched by millennia—the Temple of Dao, a forbidden and feared place.
Stories of the temple had spread far beyond Zephyrron, reaching even the distant Holy Cities. It was said that a god once perished there—a god who had embraced corruption and defied the sacred order. This fallen deity, according to legend, had spread forbidden teachings, tainting the world with blasphemous knowledge. In response, the other gods abandoned the city, leaving it cursed for eternity.
No one from the Holy Cities dared approach the Mountain of Dao. The rulers had declared it forbidden, warning of demons and unseen horrors that lurked within. Those who ventured too close were never seen again. They left behind no bodies, no traces—only faint cries, as though their souls had been swallowed by the darkness itself.
Beneath a sky devoid of warmth, the wind whispered through the ruins, carrying with it a quiet sense of despair. It was in this desolate night that an old woman moved through the cold, her steps unsteady yet determined. Wrapped in a worn cloak, she held a child close to her chest, shielding it from the biting air.
"Shh… do not be afraid. God is with us…" she murmured, though her voice trembled with exhaustion.
Each breath she took was labored. Dust filled her lungs, and blood seeped steadily from the wound in her side—the result of an arrow that had struck her during her desperate escape. Her body threatened to give in, but she forced herself forward.
She could not stop. The child in her arms was all she had left, her grandchild.
Her daughter had died upon giving birth, leaving the infant alone in a world that had already rejected it. Rather than offering mercy, the Emperor of Velyndor had decreed the child's death. All because of its black hair.
In the Holy Cities, hair of white and gold symbolized purity, a mark of divine favor. Black, however, was feared. It was seen as a sign of corruption—a curse that foretold ruin.
"The world is cruel…" the old woman whispered, tightening her hold as tears blurred her vision. "How can they treat you like this?"
Above them, a crimson moon cast its eerie glow upon the land, guiding her steps toward her final destination.
She had always known this day would come. The storm that loomed over their lives had been inevitable. And now, it has arrived.
Tears slipped silently down her face, yet the soft, unaware laughter of the child gave her strength. It was enough to keep her moving, even as her body begged her to surrender.
At last, the towering silhouette of the Temple of Dao emerged before her. A place no one dared enter. A place abandoned even by faith. Yet to her, it was the only hope left.
No soldiers would follow her here. No hunter would risk stepping into a land cursed by the gods themselves. If there was any place where the child might survive… it was here.
With the last of her strength, she crossed the threshold. The moment she entered, her body faltered. Blood spilled from her lips as she coughed, and the child stirred, letting out a soft cry. But they had made it. They were inside.
Her vision dimmed, the edges of the world fading into dark. Still, she forced herself to remain conscious, gently rocking the child in her arms.
"Hush now…" she whispered, her voice softening into a lullaby.
The melody drifted through the temple, carrying a strange warmth that reached beyond its walls. Across Zephyrron, those who heard it paused, drawn to the sorrow woven within its sound. Slowly, the old woman sank to her knees.
The temple's interior was unlike the barren world outside. It was filled with life, lush plants and delicate flowers that had never been seen elsewhere. In the center lay a grave, an ancient tomb.
With trembling hands, she placed the child beside it.
"Whoever you are…" she whispered, her voice breaking, "I beg of you… give life to my grandchild in exchange for mine…"
Silence answered her. Time passed, but no god came. Still, she did not waver. Gathering what little strength remained, she stabbed herself by her own hand. A self-sacrifice.
A ritual that offered her life in exchange for another's, granting years of existence at the cost of her own soul. It was a power no one dared use—for its consequence was eternal damnation, a fate of endless darkness with no hope of salvation. Yet she did not hesitate.
"This was my last gift for you…" she breathed.
As the ritual took hold, her life began to fade.
"Please… take care of this child…" Her final words slipped into the stillness, before darkness enveloped her soul.
The temple fell silent once more. Minutes passed. The child slept peacefully beside the grave, unaware of the sacrifice made for it. Then without warning, a soft light emerged from the ancient tomb.
It pulsed gently, something within had awakened. The light enveloped the child, wrapping around its small form like an unseen embrace. A quiet energy lingered in the air, it's immeasurable. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the light faded. Left behind was a single mark upon the child's forehead—a symbol etched into its skin, bearing the will of the Temple itself.
From that moment forward, the child was bound to an unbreakable law. Anyone who dared to take its life would pay with hundreds of their own. It was not a curse, It was judgment. A law that even gods could not defy.