---
Chirag returned to the Demon Castle with an army behind him.
The Silent Mountain Clans, once scattered and distant, now marched under one banner. Their roars echoed across the land. Their black and silver armor reflected the sky. Demons of all shapes and sizes moved in unity, following one leader—the flame-born warrior who had once been a powerless human.
As they neared the castle, Siya stood at the highest tower, watching him return. Her heart beat faster.
He had done it.
He was no longer just the boy she had once saved. He had become something more—something powerful, something unshakable. But to her, he was still Chirag, the boy who made her heart feel alive.
When he landed in the courtyard, she ran to him.
They said nothing at first—only looked into each other's eyes. His were tired, but fierce. Hers were warm, but filled with worry.
"You brought them," she said, her voice soft.
"I told you I would," Chirag answered, trying to smile.
Siya stepped closer. "You're pushing yourself too hard. You haven't rested since the funeral. Even fire can burn itself out, Chirag."
He gently touched her hand. "I'll rest when this war is over. When you're safe. When our people are safe."
Kael appeared behind them, looking at the massive group of warriors entering the castle gates. He let out a low whistle.
"Looks like we're building an army," he said. "And not just any army. That's Drenya, isn't it?"
Chirag nodded. "And Vornar. They've pledged loyalty."
Kael folded his arms. "Impressive. We might actually have a chance now."
Chirag's face darkened. "Not yet. We still need the old gods. Without them, we're just preparing for slaughter."
Siya frowned. "Did Lunara's scroll say where to find them?"
"Not exactly," Chirag replied. "Only that the first one sleeps beneath the Hollow Desert. A forgotten god named Orran, the Weaver of Time."
---
The Hollow Desert was a cursed place. No wind blew there. No creatures lived. The sand never moved, and even the sky above it was always cloudy. It was said to be where time itself had once cracked—where the gods buried those they wanted to forget.
Chirag, Siya, and Kael stood at the edge of it the next morning.
"Why do gods need to sleep?" Kael muttered, squinting into the endless gray sand.
"They don't," Siya answered. "But Orran was punished by the Council of Gods. Banished for interfering with fate. His power was too dangerous."
Chirag unrolled the scroll Lunara had given him. The glowing ink shifted across the parchment, forming symbols and maps. One path lit up, leading deep into the heart of the desert.
"Let's move," he said.
---
Hours passed. The desert was silent.
No sound. No wind. Just steps on lifeless sand.
As they walked, Chirag began to hear faint whispers—voices that weren't there, calling his name, warning him, tempting him. The same voices danced around Siya and Kael too.
"This place is cursed," Kael said. "It's trying to pull our minds apart."
"Keep moving," Chirag said, fire flickering in his hands to ground himself. "The tomb must be close."
They reached it at sunset.
A giant stone gate stood half-buried in the sand. Symbols of the old gods were etched into the rock—twisting stars, eyes, and flames. In the center of the gate, a glowing lock pulsed with slow light.
Chirag stepped forward and pressed his hand against the lock.
The scroll in his pouch burst into light, and the lock cracked open with a deep rumble. The gate slowly slid apart, revealing a stairway that led into darkness.
They descended.
---
The air grew cold as they walked down the ancient stairs. A golden glow began to rise from below, and soon they stepped into a vast chamber filled with strange floating crystals and vines of glowing silver.
In the center of the room lay a large stone coffin, untouched by time.
Orran, the Weaver of Time, rested inside.
Chirag approached, unsure of what to expect. Siya and Kael stayed behind, watching cautiously.
"This is it," Chirag whispered. "The first of the forgotten gods."
As his hand reached toward the coffin, the crystals around them began to hum. Light pulsed through the walls.
Then—a voice filled the chamber. Not loud, but ancient. Cold. A whisper from eternity.
"Who dares disturb the river of time?"
The stone lid slid open with a groan.
A figure slowly rose from the coffin. Tall and thin, Orran looked more spirit than god. His skin shimmered like glass. His eyes held the weight of thousands of years.
"You are not of the gods," Orran said, staring at Chirag. "And yet… you burn like one."
"I'm Chirag," he said. "Flame-born of the Demon Realm. We came to ask for your help."
Orran stepped out of the coffin, and the air around him bent as if time itself shifted.
"You have no idea what you've awakened."
---