A Seemingly Ordinary Knight

The war between the Goddesses Athia and Nishay was a tale of legend and myth, yet their influence remained deeply embedded in the hearts of every citizen across the realm of Caeloria. This vast realm was home to five kingdoms, including Rothrosia, each shaped by the religious beliefs rooted in the divine sisters. The worship of Athia, the Goddess of Light, was the dominant faith throughout Caeloria, embodying hope, prosperity, and peace. In contrast, only a handful of followers dared to worship Nishay, the Goddess of the Night, whose name was often spoken in hushed tones, shrouded in fear and superstition.

In recent centuries, however, a dark undercurrent began to seep into the realm. Whispers of conflict among the kingdoms grew louder. Plagues swept through the lands, and dark magic—particularly among the witches—became more prevalent. Goblin and ogre attacks were on the rise, and even the ancient dragons, long thought dormant, stirred ominously. Although they had yet to make a significant move, their awakening alone was enough to strike fear into the hearts of many.

Throughout Caeloria, anxiety festered. The people began to speak of the end of days, fearing that Nishay's malevolent influence was gaining strength. The cursed promise she had made before being banished now seemed closer to fulfillment than ever. Many feared that the ancient prophecy was on the brink of coming true, that the dark power of the Goddess of the Night, long suppressed, was preparing to break free and plunge the realm into chaos.

...

In the dimly lit room of the Royal Mage Angus, the tension was palpable. A sturdy wooden table stood between them, the parchment with Alastair's name etched upon it lying at its center. Angus, his eyes fixated on the ominous markings, stroked his beard thoughtfully, his brows furrowed in deep concentration. Opposite him stood Sir William, maintaining his usual calm demeanor with his hands clasped behind his back, and Sir Francis, visibly agitated with his expression a mix of seriousness and frustration.

Breaking the silence, Angus spoke gravely, his gaze still locked on the parchment. "This matter must be dealt with swiftly," he said, his voice heavy with concern. "The last thing we need is for the people of Rothrosia to panic."

Sir Francis, his voice tight with barely contained irritation, interjected, "But the arrival of the savior," he nearly spat the word, "marks the beginning of the prophecy. The people of Rothrosia are aware of this fact."

Sir William glanced briefly at Sir Francis, his expression unreadable, before turning his attention back to Angus. "For the past few years," he began, his voice steady, "we've seen the emergence of religions devoted to the worship of this so-called Demon Lord. These cults are mainly composed of those still loyal to the Goddess Nishay."

He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle.

"There are rumors," he continued, "of a great evil rising in the Land Forgotten. This talk of malevolent entities returning has sparked fear amongst the people. If Alastair's name is being whispered in these circles, it could lead to unrest across the realm."

The atmosphere grew heavier with each passing moment.

Alastair, the Demon Lord of Curses and Black Magic, was one of the most formidable beings birthed from the Goddess Nishay's festering hatred toward her sister, Goddess Athia. Among his five Demon Lord siblings, Alastair stood as the strongest and most feared. Legends say that every curse inflicted upon the mortal realm had its roots in his malevolent influence. When Nishay declared war on her sister, it was Alastair who remained unflinchingly loyal, while three of his siblings turned against her, choosing instead to aid Athia.

In the end, when the forces of light triumphed, Nishay was defeated and cast into the void, a realm beyond all known existence. Alastair, bound by the darkness of his own making, was believed to have been banished with her. But now, with his name resurfacing etched in a magic enchantment, a chilling truth dawned upon the realm.

...

In the depths of a dark, secluded forest, a decaying cabins loomed amidst the gnarled, ancient trees. Their rotting timbers and sagging roofs blended seamlessly into the shadowy landscape, the surrounding mist curling around them like the tendrils of a malevolent spirit. Inside one of the cabins, the atmosphere was thick with dread, the air stifling and heavy.

Four witches knelt in the middle of the room, their foreheads pressed against the damp, splintered floorboards in abject submission. Fear radiated from them in waves, their breaths coming in shallow, trembling gasps. Their bodies were tense, each one knowing they were in the presence of something far beyond their comprehension.

Before them, shrouded in impenetrable darkness, was a being of pure malevolence. Its presence dominated the room, an oppressive aura that seemed to bend the very shadows around it. The air was frigid and suffocating, the silence broken only by the sound of faint, labored breathing. In the depths of the darkness, two cold, glowing eyes watched them, piercing and unblinking, radiating a hatred that was almost tangible.

Beside the kneeling witches, another figure hung suspended against the wall. Her arms were splayed unnaturally, as if pinned there by invisible claws. Her head hung limply, and she let out a weak, pained whimper, her body convulsing as she struggled to draw breath. Blood trickled from her mouth, staining her chin and the tattered fabric of her robes. She was barely conscious, her eyes rolling back as she teetered on the edge of oblivion.

"You've failed me," it rasped, the words dripping with venom and disappointment.

The voice seemed to echo from the darkness, reverberating off the walls and seeping into the marrow of their bones. Two glowing eyes pierced the gloom, cold and unblinking, watching them with a hatred that felt almost tangible.

The witches flinched as one, their bodies trembling under the scrutiny of those piercing eyes. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, and they dared not lift their heads, too terrified to meet the gaze of the being shrouded in darkness. Their breaths were ragged, their hearts pounding like the drums of a funeral march.

The witch pinned to the wall let out a strangled cry, her body wracked with spasms as the unseen force tightened its grip. Her limbs twitched helplessly, her eyes wide with agony as her body convulsed. The other witches did not dare to move, their fear palpable, a choking, suffocating thing that filled the room.

The malevolent being in the shadows remained silent, its gaze fixed on them with a relentless, crushing intensity. The room felt colder now, the silence only broken by the shallow, desperate gasps of the witches. The presence in the darkness seemed to grow, filling every corner, pressing down on them with a weight that made the very air hard to breathe.

One of the kneeling witches, her voice trembling and frail, dared to speak.

"M-my L...Lord—" she stammered, only to be cut off by another, her tone urgent and fearful.

"My Lord Alastair," the second witch said, her words rushed and desperate. "We were interrupted by a powerful magical blast. Th-then, out of nowhere, this boy appeared."

A third witch, her voice tinged with panic, quickly interjected, "It seems the people of Rothrosia have hailed him as the savior, the one foretold in legend."

No sooner had the words left her mouth than an overwhelming surge of magic erupted from the darkness. The sheer force of it pressed down on the witches, making the air crackle with energy. It was suffocating, paralyzing, as if the very essence of fear had taken form and was bearing down on them.

"HOW DARE YOU CARELESSLY MUTTER MY NAME!".

Alastair's voice thundered from the shadows, filled with a wrath that sent chills down their spines. His eyes flared a menacing crimson, cutting through the darkness like twin embers of hate. The witches froze, their hearts pounding wildly as the room seemed to tremble with his fury.

The intense magical pressure gradually subsided, and the darkness seemed to withdraw, though Alastair's presence remained suffocating. His voice, now lower but no less menacing, echoed through the cabin.

"So, it seems the so-called savior has arrived," he mused, his gaze boring down on the cowering figures before him. His eyes blazed with a renewed intensity, as if contemplating some dark and terrible scheme. "Very well, I'll give you all one more chance." His tone was icy, each word a promise of unspeakable consequences. "But if you fail me again..."

One of the witches, her voice trembling but resolute, lifted her head just enough to speak. "We won't," she vowed, though fear still clung to her words.

A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the ragged breaths of the witches. Alastair's eyes narrowed, glowing like molten coals in the shadows, as he stared down at them. The threat of his anger lingered in the air, a promise of the darkness that would consume them should they fail.

"See that you don't," he hissed finally, his voice fading into the darkness as the oppressive aura lifted slightly, leaving the witches trembling in the aftermath of his wrath.

The witch who had spoken last dared not move, her heart racing. The others remained prostrate on the floor, their terror palpable, knowing they had been spared this once—but not without a cost.

The cabin plunged back into silence, the darkness wrapping around them like a shroud, each witch acutely aware that their lives now hung by the thinnest of threads.