The End and the Beginning of Stillness

PROLOGUE

The battlefield was ruined—scorched earth, broken stone, and skies ripped apart by magic that should never have existed.

Mountains had crumbled into blackened dust. Rivers boiled and twisted away from their beds, fleeing the wrath that had been unleashed. The air reeked of ozone and blood, thick with the scent of burnt gods and shattered spells. Corpses lay strewn like forgotten relics—mortals, celestials, beasts of realms unnamed—all silenced by the cataclysm that had torn through reality.

Above it all stood Damien Isadora di Valtor, the greatest mage of the human realm. Cloaked in black and gold, with a crimson-lined mantle fluttering in the dying wind, he stood like a monument to both glory and ruin. His boots pressed into cracked stone that still glowed faintly with divine fire. His gloves, once immaculate, were drenched in blood—not just of enemies, but of comrades, of old gods, of things that no longer had names.

His breath came in shallow, wheezing rasps, each inhale a reminder that he, too, was still mortal.

His eyes, however, told a different story—eyes that had seen realms collapse, alliances burn, and time itself fray beneath the weight of forbidden magic.

And before him… lay the broken form of the God of Stillness.

Once a being of serene elegance—draped in robes woven from starlight and crowned with the quiet glow of eternity—the god was now reduced to a crumpled heap of fractured divinity. Its limbs, once long and fluid like flowing water, were twisted and limp. Silver blood, thick and luminescent, spilled from its mouth, pooling around the altar where its voice had once calmed armies and bent reality.

Its once-glowing crown lay crooked atop its head, flickering like a dying candle in a storm, as if the cosmos itself were reluctant to let go.

Damien stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He raised his hand—not with hesitation, but with the solemnity of a man who had carried too many burdens for too long. He was not proud. He was not triumphant. Only resigned.

Behind him, massive arcane circles spun slowly in the air, inscribed with ancient runes that predated empires. Each ring burned with pulsing light, the air humming with the weight of a tenth-circle spell—the highest tier of mortal magic. Reality bent and groaned beneath its force.

The killing blow was ready.

But then—the god laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t manic.

It was soft. Fragile.

And utterly horrifying.

It was not the laugh of joy, nor defiance—but the shattering of Stillness into something unknowable. A laugh from the mouth of eternity itself, wounded but not gone. A laugh that echoed across the ruined field like a funeral bell, soft and endless.

The sound chilled Damien deeper than any frost spell ever had.

“You think this is the end, mortal?” the god rasped, voice layered like overlapping whispers, like wind blowing through the cracks of creation. “You have silenced me… but Stillness cannot die. It waits. It watches. And it… returns.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. His voice was firm, but his soul trembled.

“Then I’ll silence it again. Forever.”

The god coughed, silver ichor spilling down its chin. Its fingers twitched against the broken altar—the last remnant of its once-sacred dominion.

“You cannot,” the god whispered. “My blessing… has already been passed. The seed… has already taken root in your blood.”

The words struck Damien like a blade. He said nothing—only stared, waiting.

A silence stretched between them. Not from awe. Not from fear.

But from prophecy.

“A child shall be born from your flesh, Damien di Valtor,” the god whispered, eyes gleaming one last time with the flicker of divine foresight. “A vessel of Stillness. Of me. Of peace… or ruin.”

Damien’s jaw tightened, but still, he did not answer.

The god tilted its head weakly, a grotesque imitation of pity in its smile.

“They will not love him.”

Damien’s brow furrowed. “I don’t need them to.”

“They will fear him. Worship him. Use him.”

“I’ll never let that happen,” Damien said, his voice low and steady, but his hand shook slightly.

“You will try,” the god murmured, silver blood staining its teeth as it smiled. “And you will fail. As all fathers do.”

The wind, already weak, vanished completely.

The sky held its breath.

"And the world,” the god said, soft and final, “will fall silent once more.”

Damien closed his eyes.

Clenched his fist.

And the spell ignited.

A pillar of light—white at its core, rimmed with violet fire—tore through the god’s chest, ripping apart what remained of its soul. The god’s body arched, limbs convulsing as its essence was unmade. A soundless scream escaped its lips as it was severed from the mortal plane.

The explosion of light was like a dying star—immense, absolute, mournful.

When it faded, the altar was gone.

So was the god.

In its place, only ash remained—and a silence that did not feel peaceful, but watchful. Waiting.

Damien stood alone in the stillness. The wind did not return. The skies above remained torn and quiet, like the world itself dared not disturb what had just transpired.

The god’s final words pulsed inside his skull like a curse.

He didn’t speak.

He simply turned, his silhouette consumed by the fading light of the arcane runes.

And vanished into the smoke.

Then—

Three years had passed since the end of the god.

Snow drifted gently outside the tall windows of the Tower of Valtor. The ancient stone halls, lined with spell-bound braziers and runic banners, flickered with soft firelight. The wind howled over the peaks outside, but within the mage’s stronghold, all was hushed. Expectant.

Footsteps echoed down the spiral stairwell — sharp, brisk, filled with dread. Damien, older now, with silver streaks dancing through his black hair, descended the hall without his usual regal grace. His gloves were gone, his robe open, and his breaths sharp.

He burst into the chamber.

The scent of blood hit him first.

Then the stillness.

A midwife stood there, her face pale, hands trembling. She clutched a bundle wrapped in silver-lined cloth.

Damien didn’t need to ask. Her silence spoke louder than any words.

He moved past her.

On the bed lay his wife—pale, unmoving, her beauty untouched even by death. Her hands were still warm. He reached out and touched her cheek, brushing a strand of hair away.

“Alina…” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m here.”

There was no answer. Only silence. The kind that didn’t pass—the kind that settled in bones.

He stood there for a long time, unmoving. The room felt heavy, as if the walls themselves mourned with him.

The midwife stepped forward, gently offering the newborn. “Your son... he lives. He’s strong.”

Damien turned.

The moment his fingers touched the child, the world fell quiet.

The crackling of torches died.

The wind outside ceased.

Even the weeping of the midwife halted, as if the sound had been swallowed.

Damien looked down.

The infant’s eyes were open—impossibly blue. Not the soft blue of new life. But cold, ancient, aware. A chill passed through the mage’s spine.

The child blinked. Once.

Damien held him tighter.

The silence deepened. No magic surrounded them, and yet the world obeyed.

The God of Stillness was right.

This child—his child—carried something within him.

Power.

Prophecy.

Possibility.

Damien didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil. He only pulled the child closer.

“I’ll protect you,” he whispered. “Even from yourself.”

The baby stared back, unmoving.

Then, softly, the child exhaled—and with it, the brazier flames flickered, dimmed, then returned.

“…He hasn’t even cried,” the midwife murmured, her voice shaky. “It’s as if he’s… holding it in.”

“He is,” Damien said quietly. “He’s listening.”

“To what?”

Damien’s eyes never left the child’s. “The silence.”

He walked to the large window at the edge of the chamber, where the snow had resumed falling—though no wind carried it.

The world was holding its breath.

He looked out over the vast, cold lands below and spoke the name like a vow:

“Elarion.”

A single flake landed on the child’s brow and melted.

And somewhere, in the far corners of the world, something ancient stirred.

Stillness had returned.

But this time, it wore the face of a child.