Clash of Dooms:
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Clash of Dooms
By [CEO]
Chapter One: Whispers Beneath the Stone
The sky above Durnholde was the color of old iron, heavy and unmoving. Storm clouds loomed like the breath of gods holding back wrath. The ancient city, nestled between the Blackspire Mountains and the Ashen Coast, stood silent as if waiting for something forgotten to awaken.
Deep beneath its cobbled streets, far from the bustling market squares and echoing bell towers, lay the Catacombs of Aedra—a sprawling maze of tombs, relic chambers, and secrets long buried. Only a few dared venture below, and fewer returned. Some whispered of curses. Others feared the deep silence that seemed to breathe like a slumbering beast.
But none of that mattered to Kaelen Vire.
With a flickering torch in one hand and a map of fraying parchment in the other, Kaelen moved through the narrow corridors, his boots echoing softly on the stone. His breath misted before him in the stale, cold air. He wasn't here for gold or fame. He was looking for a name—an answer to a question that had haunted his bloodline for generations.
"Valmorra," he whispered, as if the walls themselves might react. "Where did you fall?"
The name was older than the city. Older than the war that split the world in half two thousand years ago. Valmorra the Doomcaller—his ancestor. A legend. A traitor. A god-slayer.
And possibly, Kaelen feared, the reason the world teetered on the edge of a second collapse.
He paused at a mural etched into the stone, now covered in centuries of dust and moss. The image was faint but unmistakable—figures with wings of fire clashing against beasts made of void. The Great Sundering. The first war between light and abyss.
As he reached to brush the grime away, the stone beneath his feet shifted with a soft click. Too late, he realized his mistake.
The floor gave way.
Kaelen plunged into darkness, torch spiraling out of reach, his scream swallowed by the ancient, waiting dark.
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Elsewhere, across the sea, in the kingdom of Saryndor, the stars danced strangely.
High atop the ivory towers of the Astral Conclave, Arch-Seer Elindra Moir closed the Tome of Eversight and turned toward the convulsing sky. The constellations were no longer aligned. The Twin Moons had begun their descent days earlier than the celestial calendar allowed.
A sign.
A convergence.
Doom, written in the heavens.
She murmured to the empty chamber, "The bindings have begun to fray. The tombs stir. The Old Ones whisper once more."
And far below the tower, sealed beneath molten rock and ocean tide, something ancient opened a single eye.
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To be continued in Chapter Two: The Sigil and The Storm