The sacred glade held its breath.
The World Tree's colossal trunk soared into the heavens,its roots curling around the ancient stones like slumbering serpents of wood and spirit.
Above, the vast canopy swallowed the midday sun,casting the world below into a solemn twilight.
Today, under her gaze, the pact would be sealed.
And the mortal world's last gamble would begin.
The first sound to break the silence was not the chanting of magic,but the raw, pitiful cries of the condemned.
A hundred prisoners —drawn from every race —bound in chains of soul-forged steel.
Murderers.Tyrants.Betrayers.
Each condemned by their own kind.
Dragged before the sacred glade,they saw their final purpose laid bare.
Some screamed for mercy.Others cursed the heavens.
But all trembled as they beheld the gathering of Transcendents.
No hope remained.
Their lives would end today —fuel for a ritual that might save a world that no longer had a place for them.
Their screams were ignored.
The Transcendents did not even glance their way.
Before the summoning could begin,the oath had to be sworn.
The Elf King stepped forward,robes gleaming faintly under the filtered sunlight,carrying the Sacred Scroll of Binding in trembling hands.
He spoke:
"Before the First Leaf,before the First Word,Life and Soul were bound."
"Today, under the witness of the First Tree,we bind again —that no betrayal shall poison our purpose."
Above them, the World Tree stirred.
From her endless crown,four massive spiritual leaves descended —each glowing with an ethereal light.
One floated before each of the Transcendents:
Arthur Pendragon.
The Demon Lord.
The Dragon Monarch.
Aren Vale.
Each leaf represented a contract of absolute loyalty —binding their very souls to the World Tree's will.
If any broke the oath...their existence would be forfeit.
No second chances.
No escape.
Only oblivion.
Arthur Pendragon stepped forward first.
His golden aura shimmered — pure, noble, but young.
He pressed his hand to the leaf.
The ritual pulled at him, stripping away facade and pride.
For nearly an hour, he fought to remain steady.
At last, the leaf blazed gold —acceptance.
Arthur staggered back, pale but smiling faintly.
Bound.
The Demon Lord followed.
A surging storm of chaotic, unrepentant energy.
The leaf recoiled at first —then, recognizing his brutal honesty,accepted him after a grueling two hours.
His contract burned crimson against the sky.
The Dragon Monarch moved next.
Ancient.Immovable.Majestic.
The very earth trembled as he bared his soul.
Seven agonizing hours passed.
Finally, the leaf pulsed deep ocean blue —binding his existence to the oath.
The Dragon Monarch bowed his mighty head in acknowledgment.
When Aren touched the leaf, the entire glade froze.
Light bent.Wind stopped.The very concept of time seemed to hesitate.
A soul — no, two souls — intertwined, surged outward.
Pain.Loneliness.Defiance.Love.
It swallowed the leaf whole.
Minutes blurred into hours.
Three.Six.Ten.Fifteen.
Still Aren endured.
Silent.Unflinching.
Only at the nineteenth hourdid the leaf glow a deep royal purple —binding him.
When Aren withdrew his hand,he looked the same.
But the others —Arthur, the Demon Lord, the Dragon Monarch, even the Elf King —saw him differently.
Saw something the world could not name.
Something greater —and infinitely more terrifying.
Only after the contracts were sealeddid the four move forward.
At the center of the glade,the ritual circle awaited:
Ancient runes carved deep into stone and earth.
Bloodlines intertwined with sacred geometry.
Energy pulsing low and hungry underfoot.
At the three anchor points,the chosen stood:
The Demon Lord, his dark energy swirling like a vortex.
The Dragon Monarch, his vast presence grounding the circle.
Arthur Pendragon, his golden magic stabilizing the others.
These three would serve as anchors —holding reality firm against the coming storm.
Only beings of true pride, of true sovereignty,could anchor the ritual to summon a Primordial of Sin.
Aren stood apart.
Sword unsheathed.Aura cloaked.Behemoth's Fang sleeping within his soul-space.
He would not anchor.
He would guard.
He would kill anything that dared interrupt.
The prisoners were herded into position around the ritual's edge,their chains glowing faintly with suppression spells.
At the three anchor points of the massive circle stood:
The Demon Lord — a hurricane of blackened might.
The Dragon Monarch — an unshakable wall of ancient sovereignty.
Arthur Pendragon — a golden beacon of stability and will.
Aren took his place at the outer perimeter,silent sword in hand,golden eyes burning like twin suns behind calm lids.
Everything was ready.
The runes pulsed.The blood sacrifices awaited.The World Tree, vast and sentient, loomed above —its unseen gaze heavy on their souls.
No speeches were needed.
No ceremony.
Only will.
Only action.
The ritual could begin at any moment now.
The final breath before tearing open the veil of the abyss.
Aren exhaled slowly, centering himself.
Not in fear.
Not even in hope.
Only in pure, absolute readiness.
For once the invocation began,there would be no turning back.
Azrador, Primordial of Pride, would answer.
One way or another.
And the world... would never be the same.