The Forgotten Tomb

The sea was restless as the two brothers rowed toward the desolate island, their small boat cutting through the mist. Legends spoke of a lost treasure buried deep within the ruins, a fortune beyond imagination. But no legend warned of the horrors that awaited them.

The moment they stepped onto the shore, an unnatural silence swallowed the air. The jungle ahead was thick, its trees twisted, their roots gnarled like grasping fingers. Shadows moved between the branches, eyes watching from the darkness.

"Are you sure about this?" the younger brother asked, gripping the hilt of his rusted sword.

His elder brother smirked. "Treasure doesn't find itself."

Deeper into the island they ventured, guided by an old map and whispers of forgotten riches. But as they reached the heart of the ruins, the truth became clear. This was no ordinary burial ground.

It was a tomb.

A massive stone door, weathered by time yet pulsing with a strange ominous energy, stood before them. Strange carvings covered its surface—winds, storms, and an inscription nearly erased by time. But one phrase remained legible:

"Here lies the Storm...."

The younger brother hesitated. "We should leave."

But it was already too late.

The ground trembled. The jungle howled. And from the shadows, the monsters stirred—guardians of a prison never meant to be opened.

The elder brother traced his fingers over the ancient inscription, his breath shallow. "Stormbringer…" he murmured. "Whoever he was, his tomb must hold something valuable."

The younger brother took a step back, unease creeping into his bones. "This place isn't right. We need to go."

But the elder had already found something—a strange indentation in the stone, like a keyhole. Without thinking, he placed his hand against it.

The moment his palm met the cold surface, the island roared to life.

The ground quaked beneath their feet. The trees bent as an unnatural wind howled through the ruins. The sky above, once dull and gray, crackled with golden lightning.

Then—the monsters came.

From the jungle, twisted creatures of bone and shadow lunged toward them. Their eyes glowed with the same eerie gold as the blood that now seeped from the cracks in the tomb's door.

The younger brother drew his sword, fear gripping him. "What did you do?!"

The elder staggered back as the stone door trembled. A deep, ancient thrum echoed from within. The golden blood dripped faster now, the seal weakening.

And then—a voice.

Low. Thunderous. Awake.

The stone split apart. A rush of divine energy exploded outward, sending the brothers tumbling to the ground. The monsters shrieked, scattering into the darkness.

As the dust settled, they saw him.

A figure stood at the heart of the tomb, his form wreathed in fading light. His armor, once gleaming, was tarnished with time. Golden blood still oozed from the wound in his chest, yet he stood, his eyes burning like twin suns.

The storm was no longer sleeping.

It was here.

The figure stumbled forward, his breath ragged, golden blood dripping from the wound in his chest. His mind was a haze—a storm without direction.

The brothers cowered before him, weapons shaking in their hands. The elder brother whispered, "It's him… the one from the tomb."

The man barely heard him. His hands trembled as he looked down at himself—tarnished armor, fractured wings, a blade wound that refused to close.

"Who… am I?" His voice was rough, ancient, like thunder rolling through a distant sky.

The younger brother exchanged a glance with his sibling. "You're Stormbringer, I have read about you from the ancient texts," he said hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper. "The fallen angel. The one they sealed away."

Stormbringer's eyes flickered. The name felt familiar, yet distant, like a forgotten dream. He clenched his fists, trying to grasp onto the fleeting fragments of memory—betrayal, war, a woman's voice whispering his name… a blade piercing his heart.

Lightning cracked in the sky above.

And then, like a tidal wave, the memories came crashing back.

Phersophene. Malachai. The illusion. The knife. His fall.

His body tensed as realization dawned. His golden eyes burned like a dying sun.