The Blue eye

The crimson sun lingered above the jagged peaks of Mount Eltaran, casting its dying light upon the once-mighty capital of Valtoria. Towers that once pierced the sky now lay crumbled and scorched. The banner of the white lion, proud symbol of the united kingdom, fluttered weakly from a broken spire as if mourning its fall. Ash hung heavy in the air, and silence, more suffocating than the smoke, claimed the throne hall. King Albert Reynard stood amidst the ruins of his legacy. His golden armor was battered, his crown chipped, and his eyes dim. He held the severed banner in his hands like a priest clutching a holy relic, torn between fury and sorrow. Around him, what remained of his royal guards knelt with lowered heads, their weapons dipped in blood and soot. “Are we all that remain?” the King whispered. Sir Eland, his most trusted knight, nodded grimly. “The western wing has fallen. General Daran was slain defending the vault. We have but one escape route left—through the catacombs.” Albert’s jaw clenched. “And the civilians?” “Gone, Your Majesty. Slaughtered. Or enslaved.” He turned his gaze to the shattered throne—once the seat of unity, now a fractured memory. “How did it come to this?” Footsteps echoed through the marbled hall. A woman emerged from the shadows—radiant, cold, and terrifying. Her silver-blue hair cascaded like ice over her shoulders, and her eyes glowed with unnatural magic. She wore a flowing black gown etched with shifting symbols—ancient, powerful, forbidden. “Blue Eye,” Albert said with a bitter edge. “My queen. My curse.” She tilted her head, almost in mock sympathy. “You once loved me, Albert. You promised me peace. A future.” “I gave you everything.” “No,” she said softly, dangerously. “You gave me chains. You buried my people beneath your throne and dared call it peace.” The magic in the air crackled as her shadow stretched unnaturally across the hall. Flames rose behind her, fed not by fire but by grief and rage. The guards instinctively reached for their swords, but Albert raised a hand. “You were right to be angry,” he said. “But this… this is not justice.” Blue Eye’s expression hardened. “Then call it vengeance.” She lifted her hand, and ice burst forth, freezing the nearest columns into glistening monuments of death. Albert stepped forward, drawing his blade—a relic passed down through Reynard generations. “I will not let my kingdom fall to your wrath.” “Your kingdom has already fallen,” she whispered, and the battle began. --- Outside, chaos consumed Valtoria. Streets ran red with blood as demons—summoned by the traitorous demonologist Ravenna—poured through rifts in the air, feasting on the despair of the dying city. Civilians screamed, only to vanish beneath waves of shadow and flame. At the city’s edge, two figures fought side by side—General Ryan and General Richard, Albert’s twin sons. Ryan, agile and fierce, wielded twin swords infused with lightning and fire. Richard, the elder by minutes, stood like a wall of earth and water, his sword cleaving through demons like paper. “We have to reach Father!” Richard shouted, deflecting a talon aimed for Ryan’s throat. Ryan growled. “You think I don’t know that?!” A group of terrified children huddled nearby. Richard turned to them. “Run! Head to the catacombs!” They nodded, tears streaking through soot-covered faces, and fled. Suddenly, the sky cracked open. Blue lightning and black mist spiraled down as Ravenna descended atop a monstrous beast. His skin shimmered with runes, and his face no longer bore human semblance. “This city shall feed my children,” Ravenna bellowed. “And your souls shall fuel my rebirth!” Ryan flinched. “Ravenna?! He’s become… something else.” Richard planted his feet. “We hold him off. Father must escape.” The twins launched into action, each unleashing their elemental fury. Flame clashed with shadow. Water hissed against cursed flame. Yet even together, they barely held Ravenna at bay. --- Beneath the palace, in the damp, torch-lit catacombs, King Albert stumbled forward, his strength failing. Blue Eye’s magic had wounded him deeply, and each breath came with a shudder. Sir Eland supported him. “Your Majesty, we must hurry. The underground path leads to the valley.” Albert looked back one last time toward the sound of battle above. He clutched a sealed scroll—a prophecy written generations ago by the Seers of Taleth. “If I fall,” he told Eland, “see to it that this is delivered… to the heirs.” Eland hesitated. “Which heir?” Albert’s eyes burned. “Both. The kingdom must never fall into such darkness again. Let them rebuild, separately if they must. But they must survive.” The sound of collapsing stone echoed behind them. The way back was sealed. Albert fell to his knees. “No,” Eland gasped. “Your Majesty!” The king smiled faintly. “Tell Ryan… tell Richard… I’m proud of them.” With that, the last king of united Valtoria breathed his final breath. --- Hours later, the dawn rose over two separate lands. What remained of the eastern refugees—led by Richard—claimed the valleys and called their new home Valon. Those from the western mountains—led by Ryan—settled in the highlands and forged Valtor. The white lion of Valtoria was no more. From its ashes rose two kingdoms—forever divided, yet tied by blood. And from the shadows, unseen by all, a woman with silver-blue hair watched. “My daughter will finish what I began,” Blue Eye whispered. “And the blood of Reynard shall pay in full