There were tales older than kingdoms, whispered by firelight and carried on the wind. Stories of gods and monsters, of heroes who dared to defy fate, and of fools who paid the price for their arrogance. But among them, one legend stood apart—a tale not yet finished, a destiny still unfolding.

  It began, as all such stories did, with a choice.

  Far beyond the reach of mortal lands, in a realm untouched by time, a lone figure stood before the most ancient of beings. He was summoned, accused, and judged. Yet he did not kneel.

  The Grand Hall of the Elders was unlike any other structure in the mortal or celestial realms. It did not simply exist; it loomed, a monolithic titan carved from the very essence of reality. Its walls pulsed with ancient power, shifting between solid stone and cascading streams of arcane energy. The ceiling stretched into infinity, where stars—real and imagined—whispered secrets older than time itself. The very air crackled with an unseen force, pressing upon the souls of all who dared step within.

  At the heart of this unholy vastness sat the Elders.

  Not men. Not mere gods. They were forces of nature given form, the will of the cosmos made manifest. Their thrones, each forged from a concept beyond mortal comprehension—Time, Death, Dominion, Chaos, Balance—floated upon shifting pedestals of celestial fire and abyssal shadow. Their gazes, each carrying the weight of a thousand suns, bore down upon the lone figure standing before them.

  The warrior-mage did not kneel.

  He stood, unyielding, his arms crossed over his chest, the sigils carved into his skin flickering with defiance. His dark eyes met theirs without faltering, though the weight of their presence bore down on him like an ocean upon a drowning man.

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  One of the Elders, draped in flowing robes woven from the threads of reality itself, leaned forward. His voice did not boom—it simply was, filling every corner of existence.

  "You are summoned, and you do not bow?"

  The warrior-mage exhaled slowly, his lips curling into the barest hint of a smirk. "I bow to no one."

  A murmur—no, a ripple—of amusement and disdain coursed through the Elders. Some shifted in their thrones, their immense forms distorting reality itself. Others remained motionless, their unreadable expressions carved from eternity.

  Another Elder, her face obscured by a veil that shifted between light and shadow, spoke. "You were warned, Dainos of the Crescent Moon. The balance you have disturbed is not yours to command."

  Dainos. His name echoed through the chamber like a brand searing into flesh. He clenched his jaw. "I did what was necessary."

  "You did what was reckless," the first Elder countered. "And now, the abyss stirs."

  For the first time, the great chamber dimmed. The walls pulsed as though something beyond them listened. The air grew heavier, saturated with the scent of burning ozone and the iron tang of blood.

  Dainos said nothing.

  The Elders watched him, their silence a judgment heavier than words. Then, with a wave of a spectral hand, the first Elder dismissed him.

  "Go, warrior-mage. Return to your world while it still stands. But know this—your chains are already forged. The Abyss does not forget. And it does not forgive."

  Dainos turned sharply on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode towards the towering doors that groaned open at his approach. He did not look back.

  He did not need to.

  The weight of fate was already settling upon his shoulders.