Chapter 58 - History of Kior
In the tapestry of time, where empires rise and fall like the tide of cosmic seas, Kior's tale unfurls—a symphony of shadow and flame, etched in the very marrow of history. Its story, a serpentine dance of power and peril, weaves through the fabric of reality, leaving in its wake a trail of shattered dreams and splintered bones.
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Born from the womb of an Azone empress, whose name now dances on the precipice of oblivion, Kior grew into a behemoth that devoured lands with an insatiable hunger. Magic, once shunned and feared, became the lifeblood of an empire that pulsed with arcane energy, its cities gleaming with an otherworldly radiance that both beckoned and repelled.
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The first Empress, they whisper, wore power like a second skin, her footsteps leaving frost-bitten roses in their wake. Under her piercing gaze, kingdoms crumbled like autumn leaves, gathering at her feet in a carpet of surrendered crowns. The Azones and Alizahs, those blessed—or perhaps cursed—by magic's capricious kiss, found sanctuary in her shadow, never daring to question why their protector's smile never quite reached her eyes.
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Kior's cities rose like fever dreams carved in stone, their spires piercing both cloud and conscience. Magic flowed through its streets like black honey, sweet and thick with promises that stuck in the throat. Battlemages stood sentinel on walls that whispered secrets, their eyes bright with borrowed power that demanded payment in slow installments of sanity.
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Yet, even as Kior's might stretched across the land like a lover's possessive embrace, a malevolent shadow lurked at its borders. The Forest of Mun, a primordial nightmare seven hundred heartbeats distant, pulsed like an open wound in the world's flesh. It birthed horrors that clawed at the empire's edges—the Tons, creatures of nightmare and flesh, surged forth in waves of terror, their hunger as insatiable as the empire they sought to devour.
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The Tons were not mere beasts, no. They were nature's reflection in a shattered mirror, wearing faces almost human enough to make their acts unforgivable. In response, Kior forged its knights, Azones and Alizahs wreathed in magic and steel. These sentinels stood against the encroaching darkness, their very existence a defiance of nature's laws.
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The Azone knights who fought the Tons returned changed, their victories carved into their flesh in scars that glowed under moonlight. With each campaign, they spoke less, as if words were luxuries they could no longer afford, their silence a testament to horrors beyond mortal comprehension.
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Then came the night of the Empress's fall—a symphony of silence where even the stars held their breath. Her body lay like a discarded poem in the mud of a ravaged village, and her sister's scream birthed new colors of grief into the world. The Monis scion's laughter that followed was a sound that had no business existing in a sane universe, cutting through the night like a blade forged from cruelty itself.
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War, that insatiable beast, awoke with a roar that shook the foundations of reality. The aunt's declaration of vengeance against the Monis house echoed through Kior like a death knell. As the empire turned inward, tearing at its own flesh, vultures circled overhead, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
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Hades, emperor of the Dominions, descended upon Kior with the fury of a thousand storms. Oh clever Hades, who knew that empires fall hardest when they trip over their own shadows. The once-mighty Kior crumbled like sand before the tide, its magic snuffed out like candles in a hurricane.
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In the aftermath of this cataclysm, Kior's children found themselves adrift in a world that had become their enemy. Azones and Alizahs, once united under the empire's banner, now faced each other across a chasm of betrayal and broken trust. They circled each other like wolves sharing a den too small, their magic turning inward like poisoned daggers.
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The aunt, her eyes burning with the fires of vengeance, rallied the Azones to her cause. The Alizahs, sensing opportunity in the chaos, sought to claim the throne for themselves. And in this maelstrom of ambition and hatred, even the bonds of friendship were severed.
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Roxana and Rudbeckia, once inseparable, now stand on opposite sides of a divide as wide as eternity. Their eyes, once filled with laughter, now reflect only the cold light of destiny's cruel joke. Their sundered friendship bleeds new chapters into history's pages—a reminder that even love, that most stubborn of lights, can be devoured by ambition's elegant darkness.
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As the remnants of Kior's legacy struggle to rise from the ashes, a terrible truth whispers in the wind: rebirth comes at a price paid in blood and tears. In the end, only one faction will emerge victorious, their triumph built upon the bones of their kin.
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They say Kior will rise again. But some thrones are better left as ruins, some crowns better left shattered. For in the space between heartbeats, ancient magics still whisper of debts unpaid and prices yet to be extracted—each syllable a smile with too many teeth.
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The history of Kior, a tale of magic and madness, power and loss, continues to unfold. And as it does, the very fabric of reality trembles, for in the rebirth of an empire, worlds may burn. In the annals of universal history, few empires have left as indelible a mark as Kior, its legacy a dark jewel that bled magic from wounds we carved into reality itself.
-Back to Present, Late Afternoon, Corridor in Helia Palace in Domino-
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In the twilight hours of a fading day, Helia Palace stood as a silent sentinel, its golden-hued corridors bearing witness to the unfolding drama within. The sun's dying rays, slanting through arched windows, painted the marble in a chiaroscuro of amber and crimson, as if nature itself sought to mirror the tempest brewing within the palace walls.
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Through this corridor of light and shadow strode Hades, Crown Prince of Domino, his presence a palpable force that seemed to bend the very air around him. His midnight cloak billowed behind him, a dark banner of barely contained fury. Each footfall echoed like thunder, a portent of the storm to come.
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Kyle Brunte, a step behind, moved with the careful precision of a man treading on thin ice. His face, a mask of stoic resolve, betrayed nothing of the turmoil that surely churned beneath.
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Hades' voice, when it came, cut through the silence like a blade of ice. "Kyle. You do understand that if your father were here, I wouldn't have to waste my time with this, don't you?"
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The words hung in the air, heavy with implication and thinly veiled threat.
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Unshaken, Kyle's response was measured, each word carefully chosen. "Your Highness, I assure you, all of your children and wives are resting in their allotted chambers within the Palaces of Domino."
The lie, for lie it was, tasted bitter on his tongue.
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In a heartbeat, the tension in the air crystallized. Hades halted, his turn so abrupt it seemed to defy the laws of motion. His eyes, twin pools of molten ruby, fixed upon Kyle with an intensity that could have melted stone.
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With serpentine speed, Hades' hand shot out, grasping Kyle's collar. The fabric creaked in protest as he dragged the younger man closer, their faces mere inches apart.
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"Luxana and Roxana." The names fell from Hades' lips like a curse, each syllable dripping with barely contained rage. "Where are they?"
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Kyle's silence was damning. His gaze, flickering downward, spoke volumes more than words ever could.
The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring, before snapping with brutal finality. With a snarl of frustration, Hades shoved Kyle away, sending him stumbling back like a discarded toy.
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As Kyle fought to regain his balance, Hades had already turned, his movements sharp and predatory. The hunt was on, and woe betide those who stood in his path.
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In the wake of his passing, the corridor seemed to exhale, the very stones of Helia Palace trembling in anticipation of what was to come. For in the game of empires and magic, even the mightiest could fall, and the echoes of this day would resound through the annals of history for ages to come.
-Shrine of the Hidden Springs Temple-
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The Shrine of the Hidden Springs Temple, a bastion of ancient power and mystical secrets, now trembled on the precipice of chaos. As the assembled figures stood in tense silence, the air itself seemed to pulse with the weight of impending disaster.
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The grand hall, once a sanctuary of peace and reverence, had transformed into an arena of barely contained fury. Towering pillars, their surfaces etched with fading prayers, stood as silent sentinels to the unfolding drama. The flickering candlelight danced across the obsidian floor, casting long, restless shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.
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At the far end of the hall, perched upon a raised platform, the eldest of the elders cut a formidable figure. His wizened hands gripped the carved wooden railing with such force that his knuckles had turned white. When he spoke, his voice cracked through the air like a whip.
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"WHERE IS THE HEAD PRIEST?!" The bellow echoed off the temple walls, a physical force that made even the bravest among them flinch. His eyes, dark pools of unbridled wrath, swept across the assembled crowd. "Summon him at once!"
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The gathering—a potent mix of priests, nobles, and knights—shifted uneasily. Vincent Lobis, Head of the esteemed Lobis family, stepped forward. His stance was steady, but his voice carried an undercurrent of tension. "Your Holiness, what shall we do when His Majesty asks about the Artifact of Lirania?"
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The elder's response was immediate and explosive. "Unimportant!" he roared, causing Leena, Vincent's daughter, to visibly recoil.
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Lord Heron, standing amidst his knights, remained a study in controlled detachment. His eyes, however, betrayed a keen awareness of the precarious situation.
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A younger priest, his voice trembling with barely suppressed panic, broke the tense silence. "The prophecy was clear! The Goddess was supposed to descend tonight! The entire kingdom was expecting it—the Romanian King, the Monis Household, all of them! And yet, she did not come!"
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Another elder, his gnarled fingers curling into a trembling fist, spat out, "And whose failure is that? Who among you dares explain this to the Alizahs? To the Monis family? Do you know what they will do to this temple once they realize we have given them nothing but empty words?"
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A wave of fearful murmurs rippled through the hall, the gravity of their situation settling like a heavy shroud.
It was Lord Heron who finally broke through the rising tide of panic. His voice, cold and precise, cut through the whispers. "Perhaps we should consider an alternative approach."
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Vincent turned to him sharply. "And what would that be?"
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Heron's lips curled into a smile that held no warmth. "Deception built upon deception is bound to crumble. We must decide whether to weave another lie—or prepare for war."
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His words hung in the air, a chilling reminder of the precipice upon which they stood. The Shrine of the Hidden Springs Temple, once a bastion of faith and power, now teetered on the edge of an abyss. As the assembled figures grappled with their dire circumstances, one thing became clear: the decisions made within these hallowed walls would shape the fate of kingdoms.
The Artifact of Lirania
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A legend whispered through the annals of time, the Artifact of Lirania was not simply an object—it was the embodiment of divine reckoning. A tear, shed by the Goddess herself, destined to fall upon the land during the Hunting Ground Festival, its descent marking the kingdom’s salvation from the Unholy. A single, crystalline droplet, rumored to be born of celestial sorrow, capable of reshaping fate itself.
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Prophecies spoke of its boundless power—to purify the land, to anoint rulers, to unmake and remake reality at a whim and much more, but it was all still unknown to mankind. With the Artifact in their grasp, kingdoms could rise or fall, the laws of men and magic bent beneath its radiance. It was not merely a symbol of high power; it was power incarnate.
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And yet, on the fated night when the heavens were supposed to weep, no tear fell.
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Now, the Temple of Domino—Shrine of the Hidden Springs—stood on the precipice of ruin. Having promised its arrival to the Romanian Kingdom and the Monis Household, their failure to produce the Artifact meant only one thing: their very existence hung by a thread.
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For the Alizahs, for the Monis, for Romania—this was not a minor setback. This was treason.
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And treason, in their world, demanded only one answer: blood.
-Night in The Ethereal Basilica of Blood; Romania-
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The gothic hall stretched upward with high, arched ceilings supported by stone columns. Tall, narrow windows lined the walls, filled with stained glass panels depicting fragmented scenes in muted colors. Intricate architectural details carved into the stone revealed geometric patterns and subtle religious iconography.
Red light filtered through the stained glass, casting angular shadows across the polished marble floor. The light transformed the space into a crimson-tinted chamber, creating sharp contrasts between deep shadows and illuminated surfaces. Dust particles drifted visibly in the light streams, suspended like tiny specks of suspended time.
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Wooden benches lined the sides of the hall, their surfaces weathered and marked with years of use. Fragments of broken glass and splintered wood were scattered across the floor near a raised central platform, suggesting recent disruption or conflict.
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At the far end of the hall, a single chain hung from the ceiling, its metal links reflecting the red light with a dull metallic sheen. The chain terminated above a raised platform, its surface tarnished and marked with scratches and old stains.
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On this raised platform lay Luxana, her body motionless and her hands bound by the grey chain descending from above. Her long black hair spilled over the edge of the platform, mingling with the debris on the floor below. The red light cast deep shadows across her face, accentuating the stillness of her features.
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Luxana was wearing a black dress with a high-low hemline, the front ending at her knees while the back trailed to her ankles. Crimson ruffles adorned the bodice, their edges catching the light. Off-shoulder sleeves puffed out before cinching above her elbows with black ribbons. Scattered across the dress were ornate butterfly designs in red and black, their wings appearing to shimmer slightly in the uneven light.
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A choker encircled her neck, its dark stones barely distinguishable from the shadows. On her feet were black heels wrapped with red lace that wound up her ankles. Despite the grandeur of her attire, Luxana's prone form and bound hands created a stark contrast with the opulence of her dress and surroundings.
To be Continued...
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