The Forgotten Age

Stormbringer turned sharply, his golden eyes narrowing. "What do you mean… two hundred years?"

The elder brother hesitated. "The war of the angels—the fall of Stormbringer—it's ancient history. A story passed down for generations. The last recorded sighting of you was two centuries ago."

Stormbringer felt a chill deeper than any wound. Two hundred years. The betrayal, his death, the sealing of his tomb—it had all faded into legend.

The younger brother nodded cautiously. "Some say you were the Creator's mightiest warrior. Others say you turned against heaven and had to be struck down." He looked at Stormbringer carefully. "But no one ever knew the truth."

Stormbringer clenched his jaw, memories surging back—Malachai's blade, Phersophene's illusion, the moment the heavens turned against him. His own brethren had erased him from existence.

He took a slow breath. "And what do you believe?"

The younger brother hesitated, then spoke. "I believe a man does not bleed gold and rise from his tomb for no reason."

A silence hung between them.

The elder brother adjusted his grip on his sword. "Whatever happened back then, it doesn't change the fact that you're standing here now. The question is—what are you going to do about it?"

Stormbringer looked at his own reflection in the blade of the dagger—the same dagger that had once ended his life. The storm had faded, his power stripped from him.

But something deeper stirred within.

He had been erased from history. Now, he would carve his return into reality.

Stormbringer stood at the water's edge, staring at his reflection in the moonlit pool. The face that stared back at him was that of a warrior who had lived and died, betrayed and forgotten. A relic of an era lost to time.

That man no longer existed.

His fingers clenched in his white hair before he grabbed a blade and, without hesitation, began cutting. Strands of silver fell into the water, vanishing into the ripples. He dipped his hands into the blackened earth, smearing the dye through his remaining hair until the last traces of his past self were gone.

Then came his wings—once a mark of his celestial nature. With a steady breath, he reached back, grasped the ruined feathers, and severed them from his body. Pain flared through his nerves, but he did not flinch. The wings fell to the ground behind him, lifeless.

He reached up and shaved his beard, the blade scraping away the remnants of his former identity. His fingers traced the scar that now marked his chest—a permanent reminder of his fall.

The two brothers watched in stunned silence.

"You're really letting go of who you were," the elder brother muttered.

Stormbringer—no, that name was dead. He turned to them, his golden eyes dimming as he spoke. "That man is gone."

The younger brother hesitated before nodding. "Then… what should we call you?"

He thought for a moment. A new name. A new beginning.

At last, he spoke.