Eon Sovereign: Weaving Spells in the River of Time

The village of Eryndor had always been a quiet place, nestled in the shadow of the Prima Mountains. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, where the days blurred into one another, and the only excitement came from the occasional traveler or merchant passing through. But on this night, the village was anything but quiet. 

The screams began at dusk. 

Kael's father, Eryndor, was the first to hear them. He had been sitting by the fire, carving a wooden trinket, when the sound of shattering glass and panicked cries reached his ears. He grabbed his crutch and hobbled to the door, his heart pounding in his chest. 

"Stay inside," he said to Kael, his voice firm despite the fear in his eyes. 

But Kael couldn't stay inside. He followed his father to the door, his own heart racing as he saw the chaos unfolding in the village. 

The cult members moved like shadows, their black robes blending into the night. They were armed with jagged blades and dark magic, their eyes glowing with a malevolent red light. They moved with purpose, their target clear: the altar in the forest. 

But they didn't just pass through the village—they destroyed it. 

Homes were set ablaze, their flames lighting up the night sky. Villagers were cut down as they tried to flee, their screams echoing through the air. The cult showed no mercy, not even to the children. 

Kael's father grabbed a pitchfork from the wall, his hands trembling as he gripped the handle. "We have to fight," he said, his voice filled with determination. 

Kael nodded, his own fear giving way to a fierce resolve. He had always been weak, his body frail and his spirit broken. But he couldn't stand by and watch as his home was destroyed. 

The villagers fought with everything they had. They armed themselves with whatever they could find—pitchforks, knives, even stones. They formed a makeshift barricade, their faces filled with fear but their eyes burning with defiance. 

Kael's father led the charge, his crutch abandoned as he limped forward with the pitchfork in hand. He was a shadow of the soldier he had once been, but his spirit was unbroken. 

The cult members were relentless, their dark magic cutting through the villagers' defenses like paper. But the villagers didn't give up. They fought with a desperation born of love for their home and their families. 

One cult member fell, his throat slit by a villager's knife. It was a small victory, but it gave the villagers hope. 

That hope was short-lived. 

As the villagers fought, more cult members emerged from the shadows. There were dozens of them, their numbers overwhelming. The villagers' barricade was breached, and the fight turned into a massacre. 

Kael's father fought to his last breath. He took down two cult members before he was surrounded. They beat him mercilessly, their blades cutting into his flesh. But he didn't cry out. He fought until the end, his eyes filled with defiance. 

When it was over, they crucified him. 

Kael watched in horror as his father's body was nailed to a wooden beam and raised high above the village. It was a message, a warning to anyone who dared to resist. 

Kael wanted to fight. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to do something—anything—to save his father and his village. But he was weak. His body betrayed him, his legs giving out as he tried to stand. 

He crawled through the blood-soaked streets, his hands slipping on the wet cobblestones. He reached the edge of the village, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

The cult members were heading toward the forest, their eyes fixed on the altar. Kael knew what they were after. The altar had given him his powers, and now they wanted it for themselves. 

But Kael couldn't let them have it.

Kael reached the altar just as the cult members did. He stood in front of it, his body trembling but his eyes filled with determination. 

"You won't take it," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

The cult members laughed, their voices cold and mocking. "You think you can stop us, boy? You're nothing but a weakling." 

Kael clenched his fists, his mind racing. He didn't have the strength to fight them, but he had something they didn't—a connection to the altar. 

He reached out with his mind, his time manipulation activating as he slowed the cult members' movements. It wasn't much, but it was enough to buy him some time. 

He placed his hand on the altar, his fingers brushing against the ancient runes carved into its surface. He felt a surge of energy, a connection to something far greater than himself. 

The altar responded to his touch, its runes glowing with a faint light. The cult members hesitated, their laughter fading as they felt the power emanating from the altar. 

But it wasn't enough. 

The cult members recovered quickly, their dark magic overpowering Kael's time manipulation. They advanced on him, their blades raised. 

Kael closed his eyes, his mind filled with images of his father, his village, and the people he had failed to save. He felt a surge of anger, of desperation, of determination. 

He wouldn't let them win. 

The altar's light grew brighter, its energy surging through Kael's body. He felt a connection to something ancient, something powerful. 

And then, everything went black. 

When Kael opened his eyes, the cult members were gone. The altar was silent, its runes dark once more. The forest was quiet, the only sound the crackling of flames from the burning village. 

Kael's body was weak, his strength drained. But he was alive. 

He stumbled back to the village, his heart heavy with grief. The streets were littered with bodies, their faces frozen in expressions of fear and pain. 

Kael fell to his knees, his tears mixing with the blood on the ground. He had failed. He hadn't been strong enough to save anyone. 

But as he looked at the ruins of his village, he felt a spark of determination. 

He would become stronger. He would uncover the truth behind the cult and the altar. And he would make them pay.