The War of Names Begins
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Every god has a secret name. But only one man was ever cursed to carry them all.
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The night sky above Ithrael cracked with silent lightning—no thunder, no rain, only streaks of violet that carved through the heavens like scars.
Aedric stood atop the ruins of an ancient ziggurat in the Wyrmbone Desert. Beneath him, the bones of forgotten titans slumbered in the sands. Wind howled between the stone ribs of the temple, and above, stars blinked like the eyes of dead gods.
He could feel it now.
The weight of a Name awakening inside him.
Not just any Name.
A true one.
Ancient. Forbidden.
A Name that once belonged to a being who had defied the Divine Accord.
> "It's starting," he whispered, as pale glyphs flickered to life along his forearms—runic brands he had never etched, now awakening as if in response to some unseen summons.
Lyara stood behind him, her cloak billowing. "Then we don't have much time."
> "For what?"
> "For the world to turn against you."
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Far North – The Frostbound Spire
The Twelve High Thrones of the Divine Synod had not convened in nearly a thousand years.
Until now.
Twelve cloaked figures sat around an obsidian table that hovered above the frozen sea. Their faces were veiled in magic, but their voices held power—each a god-born ruler of a continent.
> "The Namebearer has awakened," spoke the Matriarch of Silence.
> "Impossible," rasped the Shard King. "The Sigils were shattered. The Prophecy dissolved."
> "And yet the Seer saw it," growled the Bone-Eyed Priest. "Aedric Valtoris has claimed the First Name. He now bears Tharynox, the World-Feeder."
A chill deeper than ice passed through the chamber.
> "Then we begin the War of Names," the Matriarch said.
They each stood, drawing ceremonial blades and cutting across their palms, letting their blood fall onto the black ice.
Twelve Names were spoken.
And with them, twelve curses were unleashed.
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Meanwhile – Aedric's Camp
The earth beneath their camp trembled as the ground cracked open, and a figure of living obsidian rose from the sand.
It stood eight feet tall, with molten veins and a helm that wept black fire.
> "Who the hell—" Lyara began, drawing both blades.
The creature bowed—bowed—to Aedric.
> "I am Vekrath, the Warden of the Twelfth Sigil," it rumbled. "You bear the Name of Tharynox. I am bound to serve you."
Aedric's eyes narrowed. "I didn't summon you."
> "You didn't have to. The Name did."
Aedric clenched his fists as another wave of symbols pulsed across his skin—ancient symbols, binding languages older than the written word.
He felt them like fire in his blood.
> "How many Names are there?" he asked.
> "One hundred and eight," said Vekrath. "Each a god. Each now watching you."
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Elsewhere – The Whispering Citadel
Caelen knelt before a wide stone map carved into the floor.
His hands trembled as the Herald of the Sibilant Order placed a mark upon it—an X over a small valley city called Velmire.
> "Velmire has aligned with the Namebearer," the Herald said. "Burn it. Salt it. Let the world see what loyalty to Aedric Valtoris costs."
> "What about the innocents?"
> "There are no innocents left. Only believers and betrayers."
Caelen closed his eyes.
> "Then let this war begin."
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Hours Later – City of Velmire
Aedric stood at the gate.
The city bell had rung. Torches lit the walls. A frightened crowd had gathered—children, elders, warriors with mismatched armor and weary eyes.
> "You shouldn't be here," said a knight, stepping forward.
> "I didn't come to fight," Aedric replied. "I came to warn you."
But it was already too late.
A horn blasted in the distance.
On the hill overlooking Velmire, Caelen's army appeared.
Hundreds of crimson-cloaked warriors, siege engines behind them, and the black banners of the Sibilant Order snapping in the wind.
Lyara hissed through her teeth. "He really came to kill you."
> "No," Aedric said, eyes glowing faintly. "He came to test me."
The Heartbrand flared, and for the first time since the name Tharynox awakened, Aedric let the power stir.
Pale fire bloomed from his shoulders.
His voice deepened—not just louder, but older, as if speaking with a thousand forgotten echoes.
> "Let them come."
> "Let the War of Names begin."
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