The Tiller's Prophecy

Prologue: The Forgotten Prophecy

Beneath the silver moonlight, the wind howled through the ancient stone ruins of Valtoris. Towering mountains loomed in the distance, their jagged peaks lost in the shroud of clouds, while enchanted forests whispered secrets to the night. The once-great cities of the kingdom stood as crumbling monuments to a forgotten age, their glory long faded.

In the heart of the ruin, a hooded figure knelt before an altar of cracked stone, the cold air biting at the edges of their cloak. Their breath misted as they whispered words long buried in the sands of time. In their trembling hands, an ancient scroll—frayed, brittle, and barely holding together—unraveled.

The figure hesitated. The weight of history pressed down, and the words written in the ancient tongue seemed to shimmer with their own dark intent. Yet, despite the warnings whispered in the annals of time, the figure could not resist. The prophecy needed to be spoken once more.

The voice that filled the air was low, filled with reverence and fear, yet firm, as if fate itself demanded it be heard.

"When the shadow of the moon devours the sun, and the last breath of summer carries the cry of the raven, the Ancient One shall rise."

The earth trembled beneath them as the words resonated with the very stones of Valtoris. The prophecy's power—dormant for centuries—stirred in the winds, awakening forces long forgotten.

"Azrathos, Bringer of Ruin, shall walk the lands once more. His hunger unquenched, his darkness without end. Kingdoms will fall, and none shall stand before him."

A chill cut through the air, and the wind howled with an unnatural fury. As the figure read on, visions flickered before their eyes—cities reduced to ash, the sky scorched black, and a monstrous figure cloaked in shadow, devouring the light. The distant echoes of screams carried on the wind, as if the very land remembered the devastation that once came so close to consuming it.

"Yet from the soil of the humble shall rise the one foretold—bearer of the earth's heart, wielding the flame of destiny. Only the chosen, born of toil and roots, shall hold the key to the salvation of the realm."

The scroll shuddered in the figure's hand, and with it came the final words, burning into their soul.

"But beware, for the path to salvation is paved in sacrifice. The balance must be kept, or the world shall be lost to the void forevermore."

The last syllables echoed, their weight falling heavy upon the ruins, and the figure lowered their head. The prophecy, once a distant tale, had now been given life again. And with it, the wheels of fate began to turn.

Far to the north, in a small village nestled at the base of the Everpeak Mountains, the earth beneath the fields began to stir. A farmer, unaware of his destiny, would soon feel the pull of forces far beyond his understanding.

Azrathos had waited patiently for eons, gathering strength in the void. His return was inevitable. And now, with the prophecy spoken, the world would once again tremble beneath his shadow.

The figure rose, leaving the scroll behind, its power unleashed. The fate of Valtoris—and the world—now rested in the hands of those who would heed the prophecy's call.

But as the figure disappeared into the night, one truth remained certain.

The ancient evil was coming. And this time, nothingwould stop it.