The Beginning of the End

In the beginning, before the gods shaped the stars, there existed only the Void. From its depths rose Valthraxis, the Void Eternal—not a king, not a devil, but the embodiment of ending itself. The young gods, terrified of true silence, forged five Divine Relics from fragments of creation and bound the entity beneath the heart of the continent of Elyria. For three millennia the seal held firm, and the world flourished under sunlight and hope.

Yet nothing lasts forever.

Twenty-one years ago, on the night a platinum-haired infant drew her first breath beneath a blood-red comet, the outermost ring of the ancient seal cracked. The Church proclaimed the child the Chosen Hero, bearer of the holy sword Excalia—Aria Elfriede. Prophecies spoke of five blades that would stand together to restore what was breaking.

Thus the Valkyrie's Covenant was born.

Aria, the righteous hero who carries the weight of destiny on slender shoulders. Borgia, the unyielding tank forged in northern fires. Sylvi Nightshade, the shadow-swift ranger born of elven slums. Liora Sunwell, the pure-hearted priestess raised within marble cloisters. Xevia the Crimson, the prodigious archmage who speaks more to spell formulae than to people.

Together they became legend—slaying corrupted wyrms, closing minor rifts, retrieving forgotten fragments of lore. Yet with every victory the cracks widened. Monsters grew bolder. Villages vanished overnight into silent darkness. The inner rings of the seal began to fracture.

Three months ago, the fourth ring shattered.

The sky has not been truly bright since.

Now the continent stands on the edge of quiet extinction. Rivers run slower. Colors fade at the edges of vision. Children are born with eyes that reflect no light. Ninety days remain, perhaps fewer, before the final ring gives way and Valthraxis devours all that ever was.

Present Day — Alderest Frontier

The campfire popped.

A single ember spiraled into the bruised twilight above Alderest — the last frontier town before the wilderness swallowed the map. Beyond its timber walls, the treeline stood black against a horizon that hadn't seen a proper sunset in weeks. The light just... stopped. As if something past the mountains was drinking it.

The air tasted of pine smoke and something wrong — a metallic sweetness carried on the eastern wind. From the rift lands.

Borgia sharpened a dagger she didn't need, firelight catching the pale scars lacing her tanned forearms. Crimson hair wild, red eyes sharp, iron-black armor stacked beside her like a disassembled fortress.

"Eastern road's gone. Whole stretch collapsed into a sinkhole. We're going through the Ashenmoor instead — unless Princess has a better idea."

Across the fire, Aria Elfriede sat with her back straight as a cathedral pillar, the holy sword Excalia resting across her lap. Platinum-blonde hair like liquid moonlight. Crystal-blue eyes steady.

"The Ashenmoor is acceptable. I shall consult the chapter house maps before dawn."

"Twelve days of rations. Eight if Borgia keeps eating the jerky."

Sylvi Nightshade materialized on a branch eight feet up — lean, leather-clad, an apple in her teeth. Emerald hair wind-tousled, pointed ears twitching, aquamarine eyes glittering after twenty minutes of eavesdropping. The crescent moon tattoo on her inner thigh visible past a leather strap.

"It was a perimeter check!"

"With your teeth?"

"P-Please don't fight...!"

Liora Sunwell hurried from the supply cart, steaming pot in both hands, chestnut braid bouncing. The slit in her black nun habit fluttered with each step, exposing soft pale thigh. Hazel eyes wide with distress, silver Goddess pendant swinging at her throat.

"The stew is ready! If everyone would just sit down and eat peacefully—"

Her foot caught a tent stake. The pot lurched — but Borgia caught it one-handed before a drop spilled.

"Th-thank you, Borgia... I-I'm so clumsy, forgive me..."

"Watch your feet."

In the furthest shadow — on a bedroll stacked with seven open books — Xevia the Crimson hadn't looked up once during any of this. Pale skin drowning in an oversized black robe. Messy black hair curtaining her face, crimson eyes half-lidded, lips moving soundlessly over spell formulas.

"...The stew. Is it done."

No inflection. A statement shaped like a question by social obligation alone.

Liora brightened instantly and began fussing. Xevia pulled her hat over her face and fell back asleep in three seconds.

This was Valkyrie's Covenant.

Five women chosen by prophecy, blessed by destiny, bearing the weight of a dying world.

Currently arguing about jerky.

And then — the sky screamed.

A vibration that lived in the marrow, in the teeth, in the space behind the eyes. The campfire flattened. Every flame in Alderest guttered at once.

Then — light.

Not from the ground. From above.

A fracture split the sky like cracked stained glass — not the sickly purple of corruption, but white. Blinding. Clean. A color that hadn't existed in Elyria's sky for twenty-one years.

Five heroines moved on instinct.

Borgia — on her feet, between the light and Liora. Aria — Excalia drawn, the blade humming with something it recognized. Sylvi — bow drawn, arrow aimed. Liora — golden warding light blooming at her fingertips. And Xevia — fully awake, crimson eyes locked on the fracture, glasses reflecting white fire, lips parted.

"...That mana signature..."

The fracture pulsed — once, twice, like a heartbeat — then tore open.

Something fell through.

A body. Tumbling. Wreathed in fading starlight. Crashing through branches — crack, crack, CRACK — before slamming into the earth fifteen paces from the campfire. Dirt and leaves erupted upward.

The fracture sealed with a sound like a gasp.

Silence.

In the shallow crater, a figure lay motionless.

Excalia sang in Aria's grip — not warning, but recognition. The prophecy surfaced unbidden:

"When the final ring trembles and shadows consume the sun, the Sixth shall emerge from beyond the veil of fate..."​

Borgia reached the crater first. Two fingers on the stranger's throat.

"Alive."

Liora was already running, healing light blooming between her palms. Sylvi crouched low, ears flat, sniffing — "Doesn't smell like anywhere I know." And Xevia stood trembling at the edge, one hand reaching toward the stranger's chest where starlight still sank into skin like water into parched earth.

"...The mana... it's overflowing..."

She caught herself. Pulled her hand back. Pressed it against her own chest.

Alderest's bells began to ring.

The stranger stirred.

Five pairs of eyes watched as the figure in the crater began to open theirs.

Aria's voice cut through the bells — steady, despite the tremor in her sword hand.

"...Can you hear me? Who are you?"