Echoes of Helia

The rain had come down in thick, oppressive sheets all day, turning the streets into glistening rivers of water. Caelus barely noticed. Hood pulled low, shoulders hunched, he walked without purpose, each step blending into the next. The world around him blurred, as if he were living behind a fogged window. People rushed past, umbrellas clutched tightly, faces hidden from the world—just like him. The weight of disillusionment bore down on his chest, making every breath feel like a burden.

What was the point anymore?

Life felt like a broken record, replaying the same mundane routines. Wake up. Go to work. Return to his small, empty apartment. He had given up on hope a long time ago—nothing seemed to change, and nothing seemed to matter.

Then, a sharp cry pierced through his fog.

Caelus looked up. A small boy had run out into the street, oblivious to the headlights fast approaching. The boy’s mother screamed, her voice raw with panic, as a massive truck barreled toward her son. Time slowed for Caelus, and in that frozen moment, something inside him awakened—a forgotten spark of instinct buried beneath the layers of apathy.

Before he even realised it, he was running.

His body moved on pure reflex, adrenaline flooding his veins. He sprinted toward the boy, heart pounding, legs pumping faster than they ever had. The truck’s horn blared—a deafening roar. The headlights blinded him, but he didn’t stop.

With a final burst of strength, Caelus launched himself forward, his heart pounding as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Time seemed to slow as he wrapped his arms around the child’s small frame, feeling the warmth of innocence against his chest. The force of his momentum sent the boy flying out of harm’s way. But Caelus?

The impact came like a tidal wave: relentless and unforgiving.

Metal crunched. The truck slammed into his body, the sound of metal meeting flesh ringing in his ears like a death knell. Pain exploded through him, sharp and fiery, lancing through his body like a thousand bolts of lightning. He was thrown into the air, a ragdoll tossed by the hand of fate, his body tumbling through the air as if time had unravelled.

In those fleeting moments, everything he had known flashed before his eyes—a kaleidoscope of memories, faces, and unfulfilled dreams swirling chaotically around him. The world tilted and blurred, colours merging into a chaotic canvas of despair.

He felt his bones break, the sickening crunch resonating deep within him, a grim symphony accompanying his descent. His ribs shattered, each fracture a violent reminder of the fragility of life, the sharp agony slicing through his consciousness. As the ground rushed to meet him, he gasped for breath, but all that filled his lungs was the cold grasp of inevitability.

The world tilted, blurred... and then there was nothing.

Floating. Endless, weightless darkness stretched in every direction, a vast expanse that seemed to swallow him whole. Caelus’s consciousness hovered at the edge of reality, barely tethered to existence. He sensed the absence of his body—no pain, no heaviness, no warmth. It was as if he had become one with the void, drifting through an abyss that felt both empty and eerily peaceful.

Time lost all meaning. Seconds, minutes, or perhaps aeons could have passed, and he would have been none the wiser. In this place, there were no memories to cling to, no burdens of the past. Everything that had once weighed him down—the disappointments, the loneliness, the monotony of his life—drifted away like wisps of smoke in a gentle breeze.

"Am I... dead?"

The thought bubbled up from somewhere deep within, echoing through the vast emptiness. There was no fear in it, only a strange sense of acceptance. A soft glow began to flicker in the distance, a faint luminescence that illuminated the darkness with shimmering hues of blue and silver. It danced like stars scattered across a twilight sky, pulsating gently as if in rhythm with the heartbeat of the universe.

As he drifted closer to the light, tendrils of warmth enveloped him, wrapping around his essence like a comforting embrace. He felt a surge of memories flash before him—moments of his life replaying like a film, each frame flickering with laughter, sorrow, and fleeting connections. He saw the boy, the one he had saved. He remembered the mother’s cry, raw and filled with terror, and the surge of purpose that had propelled him into action.

What did he have left to lose?

In this ephemeral realm, Caelus reflected on his life—a series of days stitched together by the same thread of disillusionment. But amid that tapestry, the act of saving that child shone like a beacon. Perhaps, in the end, that was enough. Perhaps, in that final moment, his life had meant something greater than he had ever known.

The light grew brighter, casting an ethereal glow around him. Whispers swirled through the void, soft and melodic, like the distant echoes of a song long forgotten. They seemed to beckon him, urging him toward the shimmering radiance that promised understanding and clarity. He felt a pull, a yearning to grasp whatever lay ahead.

As he surrendered to the light, a sudden jolt surged through him—a visceral reminder of his mortality. It was a fleeting sense of panic, a reminder that he had once existed in a world full of noise and chaos. But the darkness enveloped him again, cradling him gently, and the fear faded. The light was not a threat; it was a path, a doorway to something beyond.

And then, with a shattering rush, the darkness erupted.

Voices. Echoes of voices surrounded him, chanting strange, foreign words that he couldn’t quite understand. The light intensified, blinding him with a harsh, golden glow. His mind struggled to make sense of it all, the chant pulling him from the void of death and yanking him into something new.

Caelus gasped, his chest rising sharply as if he had just come up for air after being submerged for far too long. His lungs burned, his heart raced, but he was... alive?

He blinked, vision still blurry, and struggled to focus. The first thing he saw was stone—cold, dark stone stretching out around him in all directions. His hands twitched, fingers curling around a hilt. A hilt? He looked down.

Black armour encased his body, dark and foreboding, polished to an almost unnatural sheen. A sword was strapped to his side, its weight familiar yet alien. His heart thudded in his chest. This wasn’t right. Where was he?

The chanting continued, and as his vision cleared, he realised he was standing in the centre of a massive magic circle, glowing with ancient symbols that pulsed with arcane energy. Around him, robed figures—the mages—stood with their hands raised, their voices still murmuring the final words of an incantation.

Then, abruptly, they stopped.

The air was thick with the hum of magic, vibrating with power. One of the mages, an older man with greying hair and trembling hands, gasped aloud, eyes wide with disbelief.

"It worked," he breathed, his voice hoarse with awe. "The prophecy... it came true."

Caelus looked around, still disoriented. He wasn’t alone in the circle. About six others stood nearby, each dressed in different styles of armour or robes, some holding mage staffs, others wielding weapons like his own. Their faces were etched with confusion, just like his. They were just as lost and disoriented as he felt.

"What the hell is going on?" Caelus muttered under his breath, his voice unfamiliar in his own ears.

Before anyone could respond, the heavy doors at the far end of the room swung open with a resonant creak. A figure descended from a throne perched on a raised dais—a young boy, dressed in royal garb. He had long, flowing blonde hair that shimmered in the dim light, and his features were delicate. His every movement carried an air of nervousness, though he tried to conceal it beneath a façade of authority.

The boy stepped forward, eyes scanning the group of newly reincarnated warriors.

"I am King Rowan of Helia," he said, his voice steady but soft. He was young—too young to bear the weight of a kingdom. "And you... you are the ancient champions, reborn to help save our kingdom."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the group. Caelus’s mind was still reeling, trying to piece together what had happened. Reborn? Ancient champions? None of this made sense.

King Rowan continued, his expression both hopeful and desperate. "Helia... my kingdom... is on the brink of ruin. A dark curse has plagued my people for generations, placed upon us by a powerful magician—Myrkos, the Betrayer. He is the one responsible for the destruction of our lands, for the fall of Helia." The king’s hands tightened into fists, his eyes gleaming with determination. "We summoned you, the greatest champions of our history, because only you can stop him. Only you can break the curse and restore Helia to its former glory."

The room fell into a tense silence.

Caelus’s mind raced, struggling to process everything. He stared at his armoured hands, flexing them, feeling the unfamiliar strength coursing through his veins. Another person's body, a sword at his side... but why him? He was no champion. He was just... a man. A man who had died saving a child from a truck.

One of the mages, trembling with awe, stepped forward. "The prophecy foretold the return of the azure-haired saviour with his comrades," he said, looking directly at Caelus. "And here you stand, reborn as Vorrath, the fearsome warlord who once led Helia to its greatest heights."

Vorrath. That name echoed in Caelus’s mind. A warlord. He glanced at the others, their faces just as bewildered as his. Seven reincarnated champions, called forth to save a kingdom they knew nothing about. A prophecy, a curse, and a long-forgotten history.

The king’s gaze swept over them, his voice quiet but filled with conviction. "I ask for your help. For Helia. Will you stand with me?"

Caelus stared at the young king, the weight of his new reality pressing down on him like a thousand tons. He didn’t know who Vorrath was, or why he had been chosen. But one thing was clear—his old life had ended. Now, a new path awaited before him, ripe with the potential for greatness.