The war was supposed to last a decade.
Two nations, the Vireyan Dominion and the Holy Empire of Kael, stood poised on either side of the Shaladrin Valley, their armies like mirrored tides waiting to crash. Banners of crimson and gold clashed against black and white, spells whispered across the wind, and prophets screamed of blood.
High above the battlefield, in the Citadel of Flame, General Istra Kael watched through an enchanted pane of glass. Her armored fingers tapped once against the hilt of her sword.
"This is the day the gods chose," she said to her council. "Let it be remembered."
She turned. Dozens of commanders knelt. "Begin the charge."
But the charge never came.
Across the valley, within the obsidian halls of the Dominion's war council, a similar order was given. Supreme Strategist Thain Vireya raised his war-scepter and declared the march. His voice echoed with magic and conviction.
And then, he paused.
A silence deeper than sound crept into his bones.
No messenger arrived with confirmation. No soldiers moved. No drums. No horns. Just stillness.
Thain frowned. He turned to his adjutant. "Where is the signal fire?"
The man blinked. "What fire, my lord?"
Thain's blood chilled. He stepped to the window and saw—nothing.
No troops. No banners. The valley below was empty.
The soldiers had vanished.
Not killed. Not taken.
Erased.
In temples across the realm, oracles screamed in unison. Holy texts burned as if struck by invisible lightning. Prophets fell to their knees, clutching their chests.
High above the mortal world, in the fractured crystal plane of the gods, the divine took notice.
"What is this?" demanded Erelas, the Flame God of Conquest. "Who dares interrupt my war?"
"It is not us," whispered Lurae, Goddess of Threads, her eyes glassy with fear. "Something… something deeper is at work."
A shadow passed through the divine hall. Not a being. Not a presence.
Just absence.
And in its wake, something vanished.
Erelas blinked—and his War Archives, an ancient record of every conquest he had ever blessed, were gone. The scrolls, the records, the relics—erased from divine memory.
"No..." he hissed.
"It judges," Lurae whispered. "Even us."
Back in the valley, a boy named Kaen stood alone where the armies should have been. He had come looking for his brother, a footsoldier conscripted by the Dominion. Instead, he found silence. No blood. No bodies. Just the faint shimmer of heat and a scentless breeze.
A single flower bloomed in the center of the field. A violet, untouched, its petals curling toward the sun.
Kaen knelt beside it, unaware of the ancient force that had passed through this place.
Above him, unseen and unknown, the arbiter watched.
Not from the heavens.
Not from the earth.
From a space between.
No one would find footprints.
No one would hear a name.
But balance had been disturbed.
And it had been corrected.