The world outside the dome of Elaris was an endless, desolate ocean of dust and silence. Once, green forests and sparkling rivers had covered these lands, but now there were only deserts and wastelands, as if the earth itself had shed life like an old garment. The sun hung pale and weary on the horizon, its light merely a dim flicker in the hazy sky. The air was thick and heavy, filled with ash and pain, and the whispering wind sounded like the sighs of restless ghosts.
Above this forlorn emptiness arched the dome of Elaris like a protective hand, a masterpiece of technomagical art that enclosed the last oasis of life in a dying world. Its surface pulsed gently with the rhythm of the energy that fed it and was an eternal dance of colors, constantly changing and vanishing again when one tried to grasp them. During the day, sunlight reflected off the dome and broke into a rainbow of colors that danced like liquid gems over the city's rooftops. At sunset, it transformed into a deep purple that gradually faded into dark violet, bathing the city in a soft, dreamlike light.
For the people of Elaris, the dome was both a blessing and a curse. It offered protection from the demons and monsters lurking outside, yet it was also a gilded cage that restricted their view of the world and trapped them in an endless cycle of days and nights. No one knew exactly how the dome worked, only that it was a combination of ancient machinery and powerful spells. The Elders, who ruled the city, claimed the dome was the work of the Lord Elder, the mightiest and oldest spirit who had sat undisturbed on his throne in a hidden palace for centuries. The Lord Elder was an enigma, a silent, omnipresent force that was never seen, but whose will permeated the city. Yet rumors about the true origin of the dome circulated—about old secrets and hidden rites buried deep within the shadows of the palace—and fed the fear and distrust of the populace.
In the districts of the city, people lived under the illusions of an eternal spring. The wealthy districts, like the Aurora Quarter, boasted magnificent villas and manicured gardens illuminated by magical lamps that caught the dome's light in shimmering colors. The streets there were wide and clean, and the people moved with an unconscious elegance that spoke of wealth and security. They firmly believed in the protection of the Elders, who shielded them from the dangers outside, and they prayed daily to them and to the Lord Elder, whom they regarded as a divine guardian.
Further down, in the narrow, grimy alleys of Old Elaris, life was quite different. Here, people struggled to survive, their faces hardened by hardship and their eyes ever watchful for the next chance to get through the day. The air was thick, filled with the scent of soot and sweat, and the shadows of tall buildings lay heavy on the inhabitants. Industria, a rough district full of factories, workshops, and steam-driven machines, continued to hum under the weight of constant labor. Here, the chimneys smoked day and night, and the noise of heavy machinery filled the streets with a constant drone. Each district had its own character and its own secrets, but they were all protected—and controlled—by the dome.
General Kharon, commander of the Iron Guard, marched through the streets of Industria. His armor, made of blackened steel adorned with green gemstones, reflected the cold light of the dome. Kharon was a tall man, broad-shouldered and strong like the warrior statues that honored the Guard. His face was chiseled like stone, with a scar running across his left cheek, and his gray eyes pierced the surroundings with the alertness of a predator. A gust of wind carried the acrid scent of oil and metal, and the heavy, steam-driven machines that endlessly turned and clattered added a constant, uneasy rhythm to the air.
Alongside the soldiers of his Iron Guard, who seemed like invincible bulwarks in their heavy armor, the magical golems also patrolled the streets of Industria. These massive creatures, crafted from metal and stone and powered by intricate spells and technomagical constructs, formed the backbone of the city's defense. Each golem was equipped with a crystal matrix that provided it with both raw power and magical energy. Together with the elite fighters—the best the city had to offer—and the Guard, they maintained order and security, ready to quash any uprising or defend the city against the demons lurking beyond the dome.
Kharon had recently led an expedition outside the dome. The world out there was dead and barren, but sometimes they saw something different—a movement in the corner of their eye, a whisper in the wind. His men had reported a flicker of strange eyes in the darkness, a whisper in an unknown language that moved with the wind—a meeting that had shaken Kharon's convictions. The demons they encountered had eyes that spoke of pain and despair, but also of something else: hope.
Kharon knew such thoughts were dangerous. The Elders must not learn of his doubts. Belief in the protection of the dome and the power of the Elders could not be allowed to falter, especially now, as rumors of unrest and betrayal were growing louder. He knew his loyalty was being tested. Some of the Elders thought him too soft and believed he had underestimated the dangers outside the dome. Others saw him as a potential ally in a time when power dynamics were about to shift.
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His thoughts wandered to Inspector Lyssara, whose iron leadership of the Shadow Guard was infamous. Lyssara, whose sharp mind and deadly determination were feared throughout the city, always had an eye on him. She was a hunter through and through, ready to devour anyone who dared to challenge her authority. He could practically feel her watching him, scrutinizing his every move, his every decision. Lyssara was intelligent and ruthless; she would not hesitate for a second to bring him down if she deemed it necessary. He wondered if she had already heard the rumors of his doubts.
In her magnificent palace in the Aurora Quarter, Aranthia, one of the mightiest Elders, sat. Her palace was an imposing structure of white stone, surrounded by a labyrinthine garden where rare flowers and magical plants grew, glowing in the moonlight. The palace walls were adorned with elaborate reliefs depicting ancient legends and mysteries. Here, in a hidden chamber, Aranthia sat on a throne of black stone, her eyes—of an unnatural brightness—glowing with a mixture of curiosity and arrogance as she stared into an ancient book.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her long, silver-gray hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall. She wore a robe of heavy, dark violet fabric that seemed to shimmer in the light of the magical flames illuminating the room. A prophecy, written in faded gold and black on parchment, seemed to dance before her. It spoke of a "tear in the web" and a "flood of despair" that would cut through the dome. Aranthia read the words over and over again, her lips moving silently as if trying to decipher their meaning. She loved secrets and the power she could extract from them. But even she felt that something was changing. An unease hung in the air, a foreboding that the time of the Elders was coming to an end. She also knew that even she was not untouchable within the hierarchy of the Elders.
Aranthia was also one of the few who had ever seen the Lord Elder—or rather, felt his presence. His power lay like a heavy blanket over the city, permeating the dome and the streets, but he had never directly addressed the people. He was more myth than being, a silent power guarded and revered by the Elders. But even Aranthia knew that there were secrets that hid deeper abysses.
A faint ticking interrupted her thoughts—the ticking of a clock, a foreign, intrusive sound that did not belong in this room. Her eyes widened as she saw the metallic shadow of a blade materialize behind her. The blade shimmered strangely, as if it were formed of both light and darkness, a glimmering object that seemed to flicker in an endless loop. An assassin? Here, in her own palace?
At that moment, the heavy wooden door of the room opened quietly, and Valara, her young servant, stepped in. Her red hair glowed in the light of the magical flames, and her green eyes immediately scanned the room. She sensed the tension in the air, something unspoken that made her pause. Valara was always nearby, silent and swift, with an instinctive sense for danger and a loyal willingness to carry out any command. But before Aranthia could call out to her, before Valara could take another step into the room, Aranthia felt a sharp pain in her side.
The blade cut through her as if through water. Aranthia gasped, her eyes wide with pain and surprise. Blood filled her throat, and she felt her power beginning to wane. Panic gripped her. She sensed that her end was near, and in a final, desperate attempt, she directed her remaining strength at Valara. The spirit of the Elders was powerful enough to find a new host. At that moment, as she hurled her essence toward the young servant, she felt resistance and then a bright, unnatural flicker.
The blade suddenly vibrated and emitted an eerie hum as it sliced through Aranthia's chest. A feeling of tearing. Darkness engulfed her, and her mind seemed torn apart, scattered. Her power shattered like glass, and Aranthia felt her being disintegrate, without the safety of a new body. Something had not gone as it should have. Something was wrong. The last thing she felt was a painful rupture—a tear that scattered her essence in all directions. Then there was only emptiness.
While the palace descended into chaos and the assassin's blade gleamed cold in blood, Valara found herself in the midst of this nightmare. Her thoughts were confused, interwoven with incomprehensible images and emotions that were not her own. She did not understand what had happened, only that something fundamental had changed—within her, around her.
Valara stood frozen, her gaze blank, while the screams and clamor around her roared. She felt like she was frozen in time, trapped in a moment that would not end. Her lips trembled, but not a single word left her mouth. The memories of the murder, the coldness of the blood on the floor, and the strange sensations rising within her overwhelmed her. She wanted to scream, to run, but her body did not obey her. The world seemed to dissolve; she vanished into a dense, gray silence.
In her eyes, fragments of memories flashed—not her own, but those that were deep and dark, filled with Aranthia's voice still whispering somewhere in the shadows of her mind. They were words in a language Valara did not know, yet she felt their meaning. Menacing, foreign, ominous. She withdrew deep into herself, unable to speak a word. It was as if the events had stolen her voice, locked her in a dark, silent room where she could only hear her own restless breaths. Her hands shook uncontrollably, and her eyes saw things that were not really there—fragments of memories that did not belong to her, merging with her own and forming a nightmare landscape from which there seemed to be no escape.
In the hours that followed, as the Shadow Guard and the palace guards examined the crime scene and rumors spread like wildfire, Valara sat silently in a corner, her knees drawn to her chest, staring at the pool of blood reflecting the palace's light. She knew something inside her had broken, that she had seen or felt something she could not understand. And she knew she would never be the same again.
