In the time when beasts sang the skies alight and the mountains still walked, the Seers of Viraelon spoke of a day yet to come.
A day when the Shrines would bleed,
when the Void would hunger again,
when the earth would tremble beneath the tread of a forgotten evil.
In that dying light, they said, one would rise.
Not born of pure shrine blood, nor bound by old pacts, but something new.
A flame chosen — not by tradition, but by will.
"The Last Flame," they whispered.
Neither god nor beast. Neither savior nor destroyer.
A fire meant to burn away the rot of the world...
or to consume it entirely.
It was foretold that the Last Flame would stand at the crossroad of fate, where loyalty would falter, where betrayal would strike deepest, and where ancient rivals would clash anew beneath a dying sky.
In their dreams, the Seers saw a figure cloaked in fire, standing atop a field of ruin, a crimson wolf at his side.
Behind him, the shattered stars.
Before him, the choice: to cleanse or to conquer.
And from the ashes of his decision, Viraelon would either be reborn...
or forgotten forever.