The world created by the Lord of Shadows was not the first. Before it, there were other worlds, other universes, other forms of existence that emerged and disappeared like waves on the surface of an infinite ocean. The Lord remembered them all. He was older than time, older than the very concept of beginning and end, and his memory held images of realities that had long since turned to dust. He had seen gods born and die, civilizations rise to the heights of power and crumble overnight, the very fabric of existence thin and tear, only to heal anew, but differently. He was a witness to all that was. And in that endless cycle of creation and destruction, he had learned one simple lesson: darkness is not evil. Darkness is the beginning. It is the canvas on which light paints its pictures. It is the silence in which the first sound is born. It is the void that waits to be filled.
But mortals did not understand this. They feared the darkness because they could not see themselves in it. They populated it with monsters of their own imagination and called Darkness a curse, forgetting that their first ancestors had emerged from it. The Lord of Shadows did not blame them. Fear of the unknown was embedded in the very nature of living beings, and he, who had created that nature, understood it better than anyone. He could have destroyed that fear. Could have appeared to mortals in his true form, shown them the full power of Shadow, made them kneel and acknowledge his dominion. He could have become their god, their lord, their absolute ruler. But he did not. Not because he could not. Because he did not want to. The Lord of Shadows was not a villain. He was a creator. And a creator does not break his creations, even if they are imperfect. He allows them to grow, to make mistakes, to fall and rise again. He watches as they find their own way through the darkness. And sometimes, very rarely, he reaches out a hand to help. Not openly. Not so that they know. Just a light touch of Shadow that changes a fate. A meeting that should not have happened. An idea that comes to mind at the most needed moment. A rescue that seems like a miracle. The Lord of Shadows did not rule the world. He loved it. The way one loves one's child. Unconditionally. Without expectations. Without demands. He simply loved.
And when Selene betrayed him, when she stole part of his divinity and imprisoned him in a cell beyond reality, he did not curse her. He did not call upon Darkness to devour the traitor. He did not unleash his wrath upon the world, which could have ground it to dust. He simply accepted it. Because he understood: his daughter, his greatest creation, was broken by the same void that had once tormented him. She sought fulfillment and did not find it. She wanted to be equal but did not know that equality is not taken by force, it is given. She strove for power, thinking it would bring her peace. And she was wrong. As all are wrong who seek happiness outside themselves, instead of looking within. The Lord of Shadows was not angry with her. He pitied her. The way a father pities a daughter who has lost her way and cannot find the road home.
But he knew that one day everything would change. He had known it from the moment his divinity, scattered by Selene's blow, settled in the blood of mortals. He felt every spark of his power, wherever it was. In ancient bloodlines passing Shadow from generation to generation. In random people in whom it awakened unexpectedly, like forgotten inheritance. In children born from the union of Shadow with other forces, creating hybrids the world had never seen. He felt them all. Their hopes, their fears, their victories and defeats. And among this multitude of voices, he heard one, special. The one that sounded louder than all. The one that had been foretold long before his birth.
The Prophecy of the Shadow Child.
It did not appear immediately. Thousands of years passed after the Lord's imprisonment before the first words of the prophecy were spoken aloud. They were whispered by ancient spirits dwelling on the boundaries of worlds. They were sung by sirens in the depths of oceans where no ship had ever sailed. They were carved on the walls of forgotten temples by those who still remembered the true nature of Darkness. The prophecy was passed from mouth to mouth, distorted, overgrown with speculation and fear, but its essence remained unchanged. One day, in the hour of greatest need, when Darkness would be nearly destroyed and Light nearly blinded by its own pride, one would be born who would unite both forces. The Shadow Child. Heir to ancient blood, in whom bloodlines that had never crossed before would converge. He would be marked by the serpent biting its own tail, the symbol of the eternal cycle of destruction and rebirth. He would bear scars not on his body but on his soul, and each scar would become a source of power. He would pass through trials that would have broken any other and emerge not broken but tempered. He would gather the scattered Shadow, awaken the sleeping dragon blood, gaze into the Abyss and not lose himself. And when he was ready, he would free the Lord of Shadows from his prison. Not to rule in his place. Not to become a new god. But to restore the balance. To return Darkness to its rightful place in the universe. To heal the wound caused by Selene's betrayal.
Many heard this prophecy. Many tried to interpret it, use it, bend it to their will. The Moon Goddess, upon learning of it, flew into a rage. She sent her hunters to every corner of the world, ordering them to find and destroy anyone who even remotely fit the description. She erased entire bloodlines, suspecting them of carrying the prophecy. She destroyed the ancient texts that mentioned it. She killed priests, prophets, scholars, all who knew or might learn the truth. She tried to stop the inevitable. And in her blindness, she did not see that every action she took only brought the prophecy closer to fulfillment. Because by destroying Shadow bearers, she forced the survivors to hide, to conceal their power, to wait. And wait. And wait. Until the one came who could unite them.
That «one» was Nox Endragon. He did not know of the prophecy. Sylvana had not had time to tell him, Lady Morvane thought it was still too early, and Master Grave, who knew more than anyone, remained silent, waiting for the boy to be ready to hear the truth. But Shadow inside Nox knew. It felt the ancient blood flowing in his veins. It remembered the Lord of Shadows, its true creator, and yearned for him like a river yearns for the ocean. And the dragon blood, awakened in the catacombs beneath the academy, also knew. It sang ancient songs that Nox could not hear but felt with his whole being. Songs of wings that block out the sun. Of fire that melts stone. Of battles that lasted for ages. Of loyalty that does not die, even when the body dies.
Nox did not know who he truly was. But the world around him had already begun to change. Ancient forces, dormant for millennia, stirred, sensing his presence. The dragon spirits guarding the God of Dragons' sleep stirred in their underground halls. The shadows that had once served the Lord reached toward him, recognizing their own blood. Even the Abyss flowing in Lin's veins responded to his call, though he did not call. Everything was connected. Everything was one. And at the center of this web, without knowing it, stood Nox. A boy from the slums. The last of the Endragon bloodline. The Shadow Child. The one who would one day change everything.
The Lord of Shadows, imprisoned in his cell beyond reality, felt every move he made. Every training session in the catacombs. Every fight, every strike, every victory. He felt the power growing in his heir, how Shadow became more and more obedient, how the dragon blood sang louder and louder. And he smiled. For the first time in many millennia, he smiled. Because he knew: the prophecy was being fulfilled. His child was coming. Slowly, stumbling, making mistakes, but coming. And one day, he would arrive. Not to become a new god. But to free the old one. And then everything would begin anew. But differently.
For now, the Lord of Shadows waited. He knew how to wait. After all, he was older than time. What were the few years the boy needed to grow to him? A moment. One short moment in the endless dance of Darkness and Light. And he could wait a little longer. He believed in his child. Believed that Nox Endragon would succeed. That he would pass through all the trials fate had prepared for him. That he would not break, not betray, not give up. Because in his veins flowed not only Shadow. In him flowed the blood of dragons. The blood of those who never bowed their heads. The blood of those who fought to the end, even when the end was inevitable. And the Lord of Shadows, who had seen all that was, is, and will be, knew: his child would not fail.
Somewhere far away, in the catacombs beneath Noxspire, Nox Endragon woke in the middle of the night with a strange feeling. He had dreamed. A vast hall carved into rock, lit not by torches but by a soft, silvery light emanating from the walls. In the center of the hall stood a throne, black as Darkness itself, and on the throne sat a figure. Or not a figure. A being woven from shadows, with eyes reflecting infinity. It looked at Nox and smiled. Not an evil smile. Not a mocking one. Warm. Paternal.
«You are walking the right path, child,» the being said. «Continue. I am waiting.»
Nox woke and lay for a long time, staring at the ceiling. He did not know what that had been. A vision? A dream? A message from someone watching over him? He did not know. But in his chest, where his father's pendant hung, warmth spread. And Shadow inside him, usually cold and wary, was calm. As if it had recognized someone dear. Someone it had not seen for a long time.
He stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the moon. It was there, as always, pale and cold. But tonight, its light did not seem hostile. Rather, thoughtful. As if it too had felt something. Something that had disturbed its eternal peace. Nox did not know what. But he knew that his path continued. And that somewhere ahead, something greater than mere revenge awaited him. Something worth living for. And fighting for. And winning for.
He turned from the window and lay back down in bed. Tomorrow would be a new day. New trials. New steps on the path to who he was meant to become. For now, he needed to sleep. To gather his strength. So that when the time came, he would be ready. For anything.
The moon outside the window continued to shine. But tonight, there was something new in its light. Something that had not been there before. Perhaps doubt. Or perhaps hope. Who knows what a goddess thinks as she looks at the boy who will one day change everything?