Ashes of the Fallen Realm

The rain fell like the sky itself was bleeding.

15th of January, 2056.

Time: 00:35.

Thunder screamed, ripping the clouds apart. Lightning struck London, splitting roads and concrete as if the city had angered the heavens. The air itself smelled wrong — heavy, sharp, charged. No human could survive this storm unshaken.

Yet I stood atop Big Ben.

A black vest jacket clung to me, hood pulled low. Black jeans, black boots. Fingerless gloves with metal knuckles. My hands rested lightly on the stone railing. Below, London slept, oblivious. The world did not know it was at war.

Not a single soul noticed the silent war unfolding.

My eyes — black as the void — reflected nothing but the storm. I had survived what no one should. My body had died. My power had been stolen. My feelings, my emotions, my very life force had been stripped until only my soul remained. Yet I endured. I endured alone.

I breathed in the storm. Thunder answered. Lightning obeyed. The city below was mine to watch, mine to protect.

I spoke into the rain, though no one could hear me.

Let me take you back… to a time before mythical creatures were myths… and before the war that no one saw began.