prologue

Prologue: The stain of the family

Evander was a stain on his family's honor. His family bore the weight of a prestigious title, but he was its weakest link. Fearful, timid, and deemed a failure, he was the black sheep of the household—a shadow they treated as invisible unless it was to hurl insults or ridicule. His father dismissed him as a disgrace, his older brother mocked him openly, and his cousins regarded him as an embarrassment to the family name.

Evander endured their scorn in silence for years, his tears falling in the shadow of their contempt. He trained harder, hoping to prove himself, but no effort could erase the label they had given him. His father's words haunted him, echoing in his mind like an unrelenting curse:

"You are nothing—a stain on this family's honor."

But one day, the weight of it all became unbearable.

Evander marched into the king's castle unannounced, his heart pounding with fear and anger. The grand hall was vast, its marble pillars gleaming under the cold light of golden chandeliers. Nobles stood in clusters, their embroidered robes shimmering with wealth and status. At the center of it all, the king sat on his throne, speaking to Evander's father.

The air was heavy with authority, an unspoken demand for reverence. Yet Evander broke it with trembling defiance.

"My lord," he began, his voice faltering but resolute, "I can no longer remain silent."

The hall fell still. Conversations ceased, and all eyes turned to him. His father's sharp glare pinned him in place, a silent warning. Yet Evander pressed on, his voice growing stronger with every word:

"You call me weak, yet you are the ones who crushed me. You ridicule me for failing but never allowed me to succeed!"

Gasps rippled through the hall. Nobles whispered in shock, while servants lowered their gazes, unwilling to witness what would come next.

His father rose slowly, his expression carved from stone. "You will be punished for this insolence," he declared coldly. "I will not have your madness stain my name any further. You will be sent to the battlefield."

Evander's heart sank. "Father, please—"

"You should be grateful," his father interrupted, his voice as cold as winter steel. "It's this or execution."

As Evander turned to leave, his father's final words struck him like a dagger:

"Be gone, you fool. Consider this my kindness."

The Battlefield

The battlefield was a nightmare beyond imagination. The ground was littered with the dead, their lifeless eyes staring into nothing. The air stank of blood, sweat, and ash, choking every breath Evander took. He stumbled through the chaos, gripping a sword he barely knew how to use. His first kill left him trembling, the taste of bile rising in his throat. His second filled him with dread.

But survival demanded brutality.

The days blurred together, each one harsher than the last. Evander fought desperately, his hands blistered and his body battered. One day, amidst the cacophony of war, a weapon of immense power struck him down. The blade, crackling with arcane energy, pierced through his chest. Pain erupted through his body, blinding and overwhelming. His vision darkened, and for a moment, death felt inevitable.

But something stirred within him.

As healers worked frantically to save him, Evander's consciousness drifted into a place, beyond reality—a void where threads of light and shadow wove together in chaotic patterns. They pulsed with a strange rhythm as if they held the secrets of time itself.

A voice, or perhaps his thoughts, whispered:

"Take control, or be consumed."

When he awoke, the world felt different. The threads of reality shimmered before him, alive and vibrant. He reached out instinctively, and the Arcane Weave responded. A surge of chaotic energy burst from his fingertips, bending the world itself to his will.

For the first time, Evander felt powerful.

Wrath Awakens

But his transformation was far from complete.

The war dragged on, and with each battle, Evander's rage grew. The horrors he witnessed—the deaths of comrades, the slaughter of innocents—ignited a fire within him. That fire became fuel for another power, one born of his emotions. His anger, his grief, his pain—all manifested as destructive magic, raw and unrestrained.

At first, he welcomed it. The more he felt, the stronger he became. But soon, the power began to take its toll. One fateful day, in the heat of battle, his fury overtook him. The air around him erupted in flames, consuming friend and foe alike. When the fires subsided, Evander stood amidst the charred remains, his hands trembling.

The soldiers who survived began to whisper his new name: Wrath.

A Hero's Cost

Years passed, and Evander honed his powers. He became a force of nature on the battlefield, feared by enemies and allies alike. The Arcane Weave bent to his will, though it often pushed back, threatening to tear apart his mind. His mastery of Emotive Sorcery deepened but at the cost of his humanity.

The war finally ended, and Evander was hailed as one of the five heroes who brought peace to the land. The king named him a general, but the title brought him no joy. The weight of the lives he had taken, the comrades he had lost, and the powers he had unleashed left scars that no victory could heal.

As sickness overtook him in his later years, Evander lay on his deathbed, his body frail and broken. His mind, however, was alive with regret. As his consciousness began to fade, he whispered his final vow:

"I rose above them all. But at what cost?"

In his final moments, a strange sensation overtook him. His vision blurred, and the threads of the Arcane Weave appeared before him once more, pulsing with energy. They pulled at him, unraveling his reality. And as the light faded, Evander felt himself being drawn backward—through time itself.

This was not the end.

This was the beginning of Evander's second chance.