Khazir led Khaltar through the dimly lit corridors of his private war tent. The scent of aged parchment, dried ink, and leather filled the space, mixing with the faint aroma of burning incense. At the center of the tent, atop a carved stone table, lay an ancient map of Sol-Minora.
Markers made of bone and obsidian indicated key locations—each one corresponding to the sites where the so-called "Guardians" were said to slumber. Khaltar felt his pulse quicken. This was it. The map he had traveled through time to retrieve.
But as he stepped forward, Khazir suddenly raised a hand, stopping him. "Do not be so eager to gaze upon your own undoing," Khazir said, his tone grave. His storm-gray eyes locked onto Khaltar's with an intensity that made the younger warrior pause. "Do you even know what you seek to unleash?" Khazir continued.
Khaltar furrowed his brow. "They are the Guardians," he said. "They will save us from the Fallen."
Khazir let out a bitter chuckle. "Guardians? Is that what you were told?" His voice carried a weight that made the air in the tent feel heavier. "Whoever told you this is either a fool or a liar. Perhaps both."
Khaltar's stomach twisted. "What do you mean?"
Khazir exhaled sharply, then gestured toward the map. "Do you know why the Guardians were sealed away?"
Khaltar hesitated. The Prophet never explained.
Khazir nodded knowingly. "Of course he didn't. Because if he had, you would have never followed him here." He tapped the map with a calloused finger. "They are not Guardians. That is a lie."
Khaltar's breath caught in his throat. "Then… what are they?"
Khazir's expression darkened. "They are the Messengers of Garuda."
The name sent a chill down Khaltar's spine.
"Garuda, the Dragon of Destruction. One of the Seven Dragons of Ruin," Khazir continued. "The bringer of endless storms, the sky-shatterer, the harbinger of calamity. The 'Guardians' are not protectors—they are its servants, bound to its will."
Khaltar's mind reeled. Everything the Prophet had told him—was it all a lie?
Khazir continued, voice steady but filled with the weight of terrible truth. "Do you know why they were sealed?"
Khaltar slowly shook his head.
"Because they are the key to Garuda's prison," Khazir said. "The angels—those who came before us—sealed them away, not to trap them, but to weaken Garuda itself. As long as they remain in slumber, the chains around the Dragon of Destruction remain strong."
Khazir turned to face Khaltar directly. His expression was unreadable, but his words struck like lightning. "If you release them, you do not save the world. You end it."
Khazir's eyes darkened as he stepped away from the map, his voice carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "You need to understand the gravity of what you seek to unleash, Khaltar."
He gestured toward the entrance of the tent, where the sky stretched endlessly over the vast expanse of Sol-Minora. "Look to the heavens. Now imagine them torn apart."
Khaltar swallowed hard.
"Garuda is not just a dragon. It is the storm incarnate, the living tempest. A fusion of monstrous bird and wyvern, its body stretches across the horizon, each feather as vast as a mountain range. Its wings, when fully unfurled, cast entire continents into shadow."
The firelight flickered against Khazir's face as he spoke, his tone steady but heavy with dread. "In the old days, when Garuda still roamed the skies, a single flap of its wings could summon hurricanes that swallowed nations. A mere twitch of its talons could carve canyons into the ground. Its screech was said to shatter castle walls and send men to madness. It was not a mere beast—it was a force of nature."
Khaltar clenched his fists. "Then how was it sealed?"
Khazir exhaled sharply. "The cost was unimaginable. The Angels descended from the celestial realm, wielding divine power, and waged war against Garuda. But even they could not kill it."
He pointed at the map again, this time at the marked locations. "So they weakened it. By severing its connection to the storm, by sealing away its seven strongest warriors—the so-called 'Guardians.' They were its extensions, its hands and eyes across the land. Without them, Garuda's power was crippled, its body forced into a deep slumber beneath the Sky's End."
Khaltar felt his heart pounding. The Prophet had never mentioned any of this.
"Do you understand now?" Khazir pressed. "If you release the Guardians, you do not just gain powerful allies against the Fallen—you restore Garuda's strength. You wake the Sky-Shatterer. Tell me, Khaltar—can you even begin to comprehend the destruction it would bring?"
Khaltar was silent. His mind spun with doubt, confusion, and fear. The Prophet had spoken of salvation. Of a way to destroy the Fallen and reclaim their world. But if what Khazir said was true… Would he be trading one catastrophe for another.
Khazir let out a long, weary sigh and sat down, gripping the hilt of his blade. His gaze, heavy with centuries of wisdom, locked onto Khaltar's. "If you are truly my son from the future… then you are the last remnant of my hope."
His voice, though calm, carried the weight of a dying legacy. "The Stormborn bloodline was meant to protect, not destroy. If our people have truly fallen, if our lineage has been wiped from history, then your existence alone is proof that the world still has a chance."
He unsheathed his sword—a curved, wind-forged steel that hummed softly as if alive, its edge sharper than any mortal weapon. Khazir held it out to Khaltar, his expression firm. "If you truly love your people, you will not release the Guardians."
The words struck deep.
"He has deceived you." Khazir's fingers tightened around the hilt before offering it fully to Khaltar. "The true path to salvation does not lie in unshackling Garuda's wrath. That is not deliverance—it is damnation."
Khaltar swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he reached for the blade. "Then… what do I do?"
Khazir's lips pressed into a thin line. "You have to kill him."
Silence. The fire in the tent crackled. The wind howled outside.
"Strike him down before he leads you to ruin. His words are poison, his visions are a mirage." Khazir's voice dropped lower, sharper. "And the shaman who raised the Fallen—his necromancy must be severed. Kill him, and the Fallen will return to their tombs beneath the deepest dunes."
Khaltar took the blade, its weight heavy in his hands—not just with steel but with the burden of fate itself. He looked up at Khazir, his father from a time long past, and without hesitation, he bent down and pressed his lips to Khazir's palm in the traditional Sol-Minora gesture of respect. "I will not fail."
Without another word, he turned and strode out of the tent, his mind clouded with doubt, but his purpose now sharpened like the very sword he carried.
The cold night wind bit against his skin as he stepped into the open. Stars scattered across the sky like shattered glass, but his attention snapped back to Khazir he let out a piercing whistle.
From the towering cliffs above, a shadow descended—a beast both majestic and fearsome, its form outlined by the moon.
It was a Zharyk, a griffin-like beast said to be the fastest sky-hunter. Its body was covered in sleek, storm-gray feathers that shimmered with a faint, unnatural glow, as if imbued with the very essence of the wind itself. Its leonine hindquarters were rippling with muscle, powerful enough to crush bone with a single kick, while its taloned forelimbs gleamed like obsidian blades. A long, jagged crest of midnight-black feathers ran down its neck, framing a sharp, raptor-like beak that could tear through steel. Its piercing, golden eyes locked onto Khaltar, as if weighing his soul.
Khazir stepped forward and ran a hand along the Zharyk's neck. "This is Aruzhan," he said. "She will take you to your portal."
Khaltar hesitated only for a moment before gripping the beast's reins and hoisting himself onto its back. Aruzhan let out a low, growling screech, shifting her weight as she adjusted to the unfamiliar rider.
Khazir stepped back, his gaze unreadable. "Go, son of the Stormborn. The fate of Sol-Minora lies in your hands."
With a mighty flap of her colossal wings, Aruzhan launched into the sky, the wind roaring past Khaltar's ears as they shot toward the battlefield—toward the portal that would take him back to his own time.
The moment Khaltar and Aruzhan emerged from the portal, Jhon and the Prophet were already waiting. The air was thick with tension, the shifting sands whispering under the weight of fate itself. The Prophet, ever smug, took a step forward. "So," he grinned, "you have returned. Do you now see the truth?"
Khaltar didn't answer. Instead, he gripped Aruzhan's reins tightly. With a sharp command, the great beast lunged.
The Prophet barely had time to react before Aruzhan's talons slammed him into the ground, pinning him like a helpless insect. The once-smirking Prophet now gasped in shock, his wide eyes flickering with something he had never shown before—fear. "W-what are you doing?!" he sputtered, struggling beneath the beast's crushing grip.
Jhon blinked in confusion, hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. "Khaltar, what the hell is going on?"
Khaltar dismounted smoothly, his expression cold as steel. "He lied."
Jhon's brows furrowed. "About what?"
"The Guardians. They are not saviors." His grip on the sword tightened. "They are the messengers of Garuda, the Dragon of Destruction. If we had released them, we wouldn't have just destroyed the Fallen. We would have doomed the entire world."
The Prophet thrashed beneath Aruzhan's claws, his voice frantic. "You fool! You don't understand! The Fallen will consume everything! If you do this, you doom your own people!"
Khaltar stared down at him, unfazed. "Then I will defeat them with my own hands."
And with that, in one swift motion, he swung the blade. A flash of steel. A sickening thud as the Prophet's severed head tumbled into the bloodstained sand. For a moment, only the howling wind filled the silence.
Jhon exhaled slowly, then let out a dry chuckle. "Hah... well, shit." He smirked, wiping dust from his sleeve. "That was unexpected. But if he was lying... then how the hell are we supposed to stop the Fallen?"
Khaltar turned, gripping his blade tighter. "With my own hands."
Jhon scoffed, shaking his head. "Tch. You're crazy."
"Then let's go back to the Silver Axes," Khaltar said, already walking ahead. "We have a war to win."
Jhon sighed but followed, glancing at the Prophet's lifeless body one last time. "Damn... you're serious, aren't you?"