Here is born shadow and fire
and whispers of things to come
or that have been long past
and forgotten.
Here are legends and pain,
warriors' tears
and the fate of worlds.
Here is the final battle,
the final war,
and the warrior
who would bring them all to end---
this is his tale.
Listen.
Listen.

This is the beginning
and ending
of all things.

It begins in shadow, at a place between the stars, between worlds. It begins at the end of an age, at the end of the Gods, there before the eternal city of Dariathar. Once the home of Gods, it burned --- great towers collapsed with great spouts of flame and sparks, and the continuous rumble of thunder was mixed with the crashing of stone and the screaming of the wounded and dying. Few remained alive. On the plains before the city, the last of the Gods' army stood alone --- perhaps a dozen, maybe less, their once-bright armor stained with blood and ashes. All were wounded yet still able to fight --- their lances were lowered, their swords held ready, waiting for the final charge.
And around them --- the shadows of Hell, twisted shapes, dark and reptilian, thousands waiting to strike, yet none moved forward. It was a lull in battle, that final moment when both sides hesitate before the kill. It was a time for a few breaths, nothing more.
In the midst of the Gods, Meron, father of them all, turned toward the burning ruin that had been Dariathar. The flames tinged his long white beard with red, adding to the blood that was already there and on his armor. He shielded his eyes and stared --- dark shapes darted above the fires, and the screams were growing fewer, yet more desperate. Kysra was there, with a small portion of the army. He knew the War God would fight until his last warrior fell. And then---
A cold wind sighed across the battlefield. The distant stars seemed to ripple as a shadow passed over them.
And then a beam of fire lanced downwards and touched the empty ground between the Demons and the Gods.
Frightened, the Hellborn fell back, and even the Gods had to shield their eyes against the brilliant light. But when the flames subsided, a tall and slender, golden-armored warrior and his dark stallion stood alone in their place. The warrior's visor was down --- few of demon-kind had ever seen his face and lived --- but the gilded armor alone provided enough recognition.
"Kysra!" It was Arek's voice, shouted from the rear ranks of the demon horde. In the silence, the Demon Commander's voice seemed much louder than it was --- it was a voice of many voices, the sound of men and women and children all as one: the sound of damned and tortured souls.
Kysra turned.
There at the back of the Demon army, he could see the reptilian, leather-winged form that was Arek. The Demon Commander was the color of shadows, nearly twice the height of a man, and his blood-red armor sported human skulls as ornaments. Even from where Kysra sat astride his stallion, the red glow of the demon's eyes could be seen --- they held fright, a reaction not uncommon for the War God. He knew it well.
Quickly, he turned to Meron, and to the remaining Gods.
"Go now," he commanded, his voice cold and steel, echoing across the plain. It held the quality of thunder, of storms, of things dark and death, a voice much louder and more powerful than Arek's.
"The others are dead," he continued, "and if you remain here, you will join them."
"No!" Meron shouted. He tried to crawl forward, as if he could aid the War God, but the others held him back.
"Kysra!" he screamed. But his son turned away, as if pained by what he saw, and the nearest of the Gods pulled Meron back.
The wind sighed gently, and above, there came a louder, thundering rumble, adding to the one already there, a rumbling sound that rolled across the sky, growing distant, quiet, and then finally fading altogether. The Gods were gone.
Alone, Kysra turned to face the Hellborn army. Above, even the thunder grew still, as did the winds. All was quiet.
Slowly, he drew out his black sword. The sound rang across the battlefield. At the sword's hilt, a black jewel that glowed with a brilliant light from within suddenly grew brighter, causing the nearest of the demons to retreat even further, shielding their eyes.
Kysra made a quick gesture with one hand, and the dark blade, and his golden armor itself, flashed with flame, blinding white. Raising his sword of shadows, he charged into the nearest ranks of the Hellborn.
There were screams, animal growls, and the demons surged forward to meet him. They struck at the blinding brightness with swords, only to find him gone, and then knew searing pain as his blade found its mark. Their spears shattered, their shields cracked, and all the memories of he who was called the Terror, the Darkness, came flooding back. The winds screamed around him, and his eyes glowed with a scalding white light as he rode through them, reaping with his sword.
The angry growls changed to screams of horror. His blade shattered them, and tore them. He was a scalding flame in their midst. And though they were many, though some of their weapons found their mark, he would not die, but instead, cut them down.
Fearing deeply, the demons fell back, dying, in terror, in pain. Screaming, the demons turned and ran.
For a moment, Kysra was again in a clear space, surrounded by the Hellborn's wounded and dying. Even as he watched, some ceased twitching and melted like mist into the cloud-like plain. He looked down at himself, at his armor and his stallion, and found blood on both, but the pain of his wounds was a distant thing, something he could ignore, and he did. And so he remained, tall and proud before them as the demons cowered.
"Kill him, fools!" screamed Arek. He desperately motioned the demons forward from far behind. "Kill him, or we are all destroyed!"
Quickly, Kysra reached for his belt, for the dagger there. On its hilt: a small fragment of a Jewel of Death, dark as shadow yet glowing with light like the one on the hilt of his sword.
He pulled it from its sheath and brought it back. Arek was exposed, though at a great distance, but it would have to do. He snapped his arm forward.
His dagger flashed briefly in the dull light of the stars as it arced across the field. Several demons turned to follow its progress.
"Kill him!" Arek commanded a final time, his voice a panicked, terrified sound. He had not seen the blade.
And then it struck him, there, on his shoulder.
Screaming, he clutched at the dagger and fell to the ground. The nearest of the demons went to his aid. The rest seemed uncertain, but slowly, turning back to the lone God before them, they began to move. Like a great wave, they rose up against him, rising higher, higher. Their voices were a roar.
Expressionless, Kysra reached for a cord around his neck. Pulling on it, he withdrew another Jewel of Death, even larger than the one on his sword. He gripped this one in his free hand. In his other, he raised his blade.
And then the wave came down.
He was lost to sight beneath the mass of bodies. All that could be seen was his black sword, rising and falling, again and again and again. And then, even that was gone, buried with the rest.
Suddenly, there came an explosion --- a blinding burst of purest white light and a thundering roar that went on and on. From the rear of his army, Arek had a glimpse of his demons outlined against the brilliance before they too were melted away and consumed by its heat, its magics. The expanding ball of light blossomed outwards, growing stronger and brighter.
Screaming in fear, Arek made the gesture that would transport him elsewhere. And as he faded from sight, the wall of light passed over where he had been---
And then faded suddenly, vanished away.
Kysra was gone.
But then, so too was much of the demon army.