The Battle of the Black Sun marks the final cataclysmic confrontation of the Fifth Age, culminating in the battle against Malekith, the false Avatar of the Sun, and his severed shadow, Valekith. Taking place atop The Isle of Ember, within the obsidian-bound Tomb of the Twin-Spirit, this moment signaled the end of The Sunsations' decades long journey—and the reshaping of the world itself.
It is remembered as both the aeonic climax of Valekith's corruption upon Prime Plane, and the dawn of a new cycle: the threshold between The Infinite Continuum and an unbounded future. A convergence of prophecy at the nexus of elemental elysium.. It is remembered as a moment of divine reckoning, mortal defiance, and eldritch revelation—where the fabric of reality itself bent to the will of those who dared corrupt it.
Prelude: Call of the Sunsations
The event began in the fighting pits of Shariz, where Orion, the Rift-Maester, appeared in a temporal breach, assembling the Sunsations and their many allies from across the elemental realms. Longtime friends and allies such as Avatar Terra, Exarch Kaolin, Exarch Maar, Avatar Typhon, Vidarr Lonestorm, Guy the Grateful, Dragon Priestess Hoshiko, Tatsujiro Kazuo, Selena the Dream Oracle, Lucien Ice, Tormund Brightblade, Throk, and Ramune Leone rallied to Talyen's request for aide in this final fight which would determine the fate of the world.
Aboard the airship Sky's Edge, the Sunsations crossed the skies of Osira—soaring over The Sands of Serrakhan, Faewylds,Fingers of the Fallen, The Skybound Shardlands, and The Severed Sea—before reaching The Isle of Ember, where Malekith’s tomb awaited, suspended in air between erupting volcanoes and held to the earth by ancient black-stone chains. This ancient and accursed tomb world resembled a floating pyramid of black onyx and burning gold suspended above the abyss, chained between three erupting volcanoes.
The sky churns, a twisted expanse of ashen clouds and molten light, suffused with the eerie glow of a blood-red sun. Lightning cracks the air, not white or gold, but a deep violet-black, arcing across the shattered heavens like the tendrils of some unseen horror.
Amidst this maelstrom, a floating mountain of obsidian and fire looms, suspended in the void, held aloft by four colossal chains, each anchored to a magma-spewing volcano below.
The chains groan, ancient and unyielding, the last remnants of an oath made in an age long forgotten.
At the mountain’s peak, a golden-capped pyramid rises from the smog, etched with warding runes that still burn with an arcane glow. But even its brilliance is dimmed by the cursed light of the sun, which looms too close, warped and unnatural, as though the heavens themselves are watching.
The Descent into Darkness
On their approach, the airship nearly combusted into flames due to the landscapes unnatural heat, before Orion opened rift portals to the pyramid’s surface. The Sunsations descended into the Tomb of the Twin-Spirit, a nightmarish ziggurat of obsidian, having been forged by Avatar Rok and Talus to seal the ancient evil which lie within. After Avatar Terra and Avatar Talyen fused their Earth-Rifting and Sun-Rifting arcana to open the sealed entrance to the tomb, the Sunsations descended into the darkness that awaited them beyond the onyx threshold... The chambers beyond were riddled with trials drawn from their very own memories, failures, and burdens. Here, they faced mirrored reflections of their past and glimpses of futures yet unrealized.
As they progressed, the tomb would begin to reveal the celestial canvas, a living prophecy painted in Riftlight. It told the story of The Infinite Continuum and its progression through the second, third, fourth, and fifth ages... All the while alluding to the veiled influences of Malekith that had transpired throughout them.
There is no glorious end to the mural, however.
It ends only in darkness.
The vision does not begin with sound—
only silence.
A silence so vast it presses against the ribs.
The mural flickers.
A shadowed shilouette stirs.
Not suddenly, but like smoke creeping beneath a sealed door—
Malekith.
Veiled in shadow, he slithers from the edge of the divine tableau,
a solitary silhouette amid the radiant light of creation.
He walks uninvited into the myth.
Where once stood a sun of purest gold, it darkens.
His presence expands—not in mass, but in consequence.
An absence made flesh. He eclipses the sun.
And then—he reaches. Fingers like trailing shadows stretch outward.
Where they graze, the elements recoil.
The seas… boil dry, their cerulean depths turned to blackened basins, as a blood-red moon rises, casting ruin upon the tide.
The mountains… splinter, their spines shattering into obsidian shards, roots melting to glass as the earth itself convulses.
The sky… rents open, torn like parchment in a storm. Through it, void-light bleeds, and stars fall like burning tears.
The firmament is no longer whole.
The floating cities of the Mythar… Once resplendent in golden archways and drifting spires, are seized by an invisible force. Their engines die. Their light flickers. And they are dragged screaming into spirals of nothing, shattered mid-descent or swallowed whole by oblivion.
And then… a wound opens in the center of the world. Not a crack. Not a storm. A black, weeping gash—the First Continuum Crisis.
It pulses. The colors around it bleach. Time stutters. Reality exhales—and forgets to inhale.
And then, the final panel. More silent than the rest. A scorched, empty world. A solitary figure standing beneath a sky without stars.
A crown of thorns, made of twisted Riftstone, floats above his brow.
And where his shadow falls—
nothing grows.
Nothing remembers.
Not even the gods.
Malekith stands alone before a broken world, his silhouette blotting out the last dying star. Behind him, the golden form of Avatar Lumina, her eyes weeping sunlight, reaches toward him in agony—but cannot touch.
The world beneath fractures like glass, and the mural ends—not with peace, but with a whisper of things yet to come.
Hall of the Elements
Before the trials began, the Sunsations passed through a vast chamber whose walls shimmered with animated murals—living scenes woven in Riftlight. The murals revealed the history of the elemental realms, from their chaotic genesis in The Planar Rapture, to the harmony forged by the first Avatars, and the rise of the elven civilizations—Solir, Vanir, Njordir, Unknown—each shaped by their respective elemental progenitors (the Archons).
But the murals grew darker.
They revealed how Malekith, a Mythar mage once known as Valekith, lingered like a shadow through time, seeding ambition into the hearts of the elves by stoking the flames of their pride. His voice twisted their arcane discoveries into delusions of dominion. His influence led to The Riftfire Rebellion, the decline of the dragons, and the shattering of the world’s balance during the second continuum crisis.
As the murals ended, the Sunsations beheld a vast circular door carved with four elemental symbols—each now glowing with Rift Magic. Before they could progress, however, they were thrust through four trials designed by elder runewright Talus to ensure that only the four avatars of the elemental realms could unseal the tomb and face what lie ahead...
Trial I: The Trial of Sun
- The party emerges into a golden chamber, radiant and blinding. Sunlight pours from every angle, reflecting off gilded mosaics depicting the rise and decline of The Sun Realm. At the center of the room—a blinding orb of pure sunlight.
- A domed golden chamber. Blinding. Every surface reflects light. A radiant orb hovers at the center, pulsing with sunfire. Only Talyen could withstand the light—forcing him to enter the Avatar State and draw the orb into himself.
- As he does this—a radiant burst of light engulfs them all—and they emerge in the next chamber.
Trial II: The Trial of Earth
- A craggy, dry chamber, the walls formed of hardened stone, the ground constantly shifting with tectonic movements.
- A shifting canyon opens beneath their feet. The room rumbles. Stone pillars collapse. Molten lava oozes from cracked fissures.
- Terra enters the Avatar State, placing his hands upon the ground as he enters the avatar state. The plates shift, settling into perfect harmony.
- The path forward reveals itself.
Trial III: The Trial of Sea
- The floor vanishes. They fall into water. Endless, cold, choking black. There is no surface—only downward.
- They are thrown into a bottomless abyss, unable to breathe.
- Typhon enters the avatar state, guiding the currents and parting the abyss to raise them into the next chamber.
- They are lifted to the surface, gasping for air.
- The water freezes, forming an icy platform.
Trial IV: The Trial of Air
- Now atop an endless frozen lake, torrential winds swirl—hot and cold merging into a perfect storm. Wind shrieks like blades. Lightning flashes around them.
- Winds cut like blades.
- Guy channels the winds, stabilizing the air before he enters the avatar state and equalizes the surrounding atmosphere itself.
- The maelstrom settles.
- A small, black doorway appears in the white void.
They walk for what seems like hours, through a passage of absolute darkness.
Then, an archway appears, leading into a grand chamber.
The air is thick with ancient magic, the scent of decay and charred stone clinging to the walls.
Carved in sublime, impossible precision across the obsidian chamber walls—glowing faintly in the flicker of riftlight torches—stretches a vast mural of divine creation and ruin, its artistry so profound that the very stone seems to breathe with memory. The wall is not static. As the Sunsations pass before it, it shifts, each scene animating subtly with spectral light and soft movement, like a living fresco touched by ancient magic.
The mural begins at the farthest left, depicting a starless void—cold and empty. Then, light blooms. From four crystalline spheres—the Worldstones—pour forth threads of raw elemental essence through the prime plane, each tethered as a conduit of Rift Energy to the four primordial Archons:
- Ember, the Phoenix of Flame, rises in spirals of crimson and gold from the Sunstone, her wings shedding sparks that become rivers of magma and rays of sunlight.
- Bjorn, the Magma Bear, carves his path through bedrock and iron veins, shaping the deep and steady roots of the world from the Earthstone, his wake carving caverns and mountain spines.
- Mythia, the Dragon Turtle, emerges from the Seastone, her shell forming coral reefs, her breath becoming tides, her steps deepening the sea trenches.
- Zirael (aka Goldbrand), the Golden Dragon, coils gracefully from the Etherstone, his mane trailing clouds and his wings spawning the first winds and ether currents.
Together, the archons exhale their breath into the void—but their creation is shapeless, elemental, wild.
Then a divine figure appears.
Helios, the God of Life, sits upon a platform of starlight, plucking a harp wrought from solar strings. Each note he plays draws harmony from chaos. The elements respond, flowing to his rhythm, sculpted into beasts, forests, and rivers. From his song, the first forms of order arise.
But peace does not last. The next section erupts in violence.
A war of unimaginable scale unfolds. The heavens fracture as gods, angels, archons, True Dragon, and nascent Mythar wage battle against colossal beings of unfathomable rage—the Elementari Titans, embodiments of raw, untamed creation.
The skies blacken. Mountains are torn from the crust. Entire seas boil and vanish in an instant. Mortals do not yet exist as the first blood of the gods is spilled...
Eventually, the Elementari are banished, shattered, or slain. The prime plane stills.
From their sacrifice, the dragons seek to create instead of destroy. The remaining True Dragon, wearied, withdraw. But before they go, they mold their elemental essence into new vessels: Elvenkind.
At the far end of the Hall of the Elements stands a monumental door, forged of interlocking blackstone plates etched with veins of rift crystal. Its centerpiece glows with a slow, pulsating rhythm—the symbol of infinity, carved into the obsidian like a coiled serpent devouring its own tail. Eldritch veins of Rift-energy thread through the seams, humming softly, as though it awaits recognition.
Surrounding the chamber are four towering statues, each facing outward toward one of the muraled walls:
- Avatar Umber, the gemstone-skinned titan of stone, warhammer grounded beneath his palms, beard braided with crystalline geodes.
- Avatar Atla, the serpent-helmed sea-king, tall and ocean-eyed, his golden trident raised high above the tide-slicked waves.
- Avatar Rozan, clad in robes of solar flame, his skin aglow with divine radiance, the Dawnblade resting upon his shoulder.
- Admiral Aegis, the wind-cloaked Vanir wanderer, his hair whipped upward by a sculpted breeze, eyes pale as the moon, whip coiled at his waist.
Each statue gazes upon a distinct mural along the walls—carved in vibrant magical relief, subtly animated by latent arcana.
- Earth: The foundation of stone, showing his rise from the caverns of Njordir. Earth-Rifting channeled through his warhammer as mountains ascend and rivers are carved. The Archon Bjorn, the magma bear, rises behind him, breathing fire into the core of the world as Umber teaches the art of stone-shaping to the first Njordir tribes.
- Water: An undersea storm, Aesir and Triton tribes swimming together in the bioluminescent depths. The massive dragon turtle Mythia slumbers within the abyss, and Atla communes within a bottomless abyss. He binds the tides with Water-Rifting, commanding typhoons and slaying the Sea Devils. From the bones of ancient sea beasts, the civilization of Atla
- Sun: The blazing sun above, golden rays streaming upon legions of Solir warriors. Rozan marches forth alone against a tide of Fire Giant, his sword cutting a trail of starlight. Behind him, Ember, the Phoenix Archon, soars above, wings aflame. The Solir are formed in fire and sung resolve.
- Air: A solitary island cloaked in stormclouds. The golden dragon Zirael coils through sky and mountain, whispering secrets of Ether-Rifting. Aegis, bare-footed and laughing, learns amidst sky-trials and wind dances, shaping Aerenal with his intention. High elves float in silent meditation, learning to wield the currents.
Each of the current avatars realize that because of their predecessors inward focus, elemental elysium could never truly be achieved. As each statue is rotated inward, facing the pedestal at the chamber’s center, the murals begin to change. Magic flickers and shifts like candlelight catching in mirrored glass. New scenes replace the old:
The Avatars standing beside their elven progeny—teaching Rift magic, shaping the elements into civilization.
The four peoples meeting in council, exchanging knowledge of Rifted casting and philosophical harmony.
But always, always, in the periphery—a golden-haired figure in pristine white-and-gold robes. Malekith.
At first, he merely observes: a scholar among the Vanir, a guest among the Solir, a traveler in Atla’s courts. Then he teaches, offers insight, introduces subtle changes to riftcraft. His presence lingers longer, influences grow deeper.
In each scene where knowledge is shared, Malekith’s shadow lengthens.
When the final statue locks into place, all four eyes ignite—green, blue, golden, and silver. A tremor rolls through the chamber as the infinity pedestal in the center rises, crystalline threads of Rift energy weaving around it like vines.
The pedestal flashes. The energies of Earth, Sea, Sun, and Sky coalesce—each Avatar's legacy pouring into a singular moment.
A vortex forms. A brilliant spiral of elemental Rift-magic spins into being, folding over itself, forming a sigil in the shape of an infinity loop, glowing with impossible color.
The magic rises and pulses once—twice—then explodes upward in radiant silence.
As the door begins to crack and open, a final change sweeps over the murals.
The shared knowledge begins to twist—showing elves coveting the power of The Continuum Crystal, reaching for the very source of all rifted essence.
Malekith stands at their center, his smile half-hidden behind a sunlit mask.
One mural shows a council of high elves drawing the first diagrams of artificial Rift energy—a precursor to the disastrous second Continuum Crisis.
Another shows Malekith offering a crystal to a Vanir scholar—a "blessing" to expand his mind. His hand is on the scholar’s shoulder. The shadow behind them wears a crown of void.
And finally, at the end of it all: the elven cities (vanir of itelion) collapsing into a rift, clawed at by tendrils of unlight. Malekith, now cloaked in shadow, his form half-glimpsed, eclipses the sun.
The world fractures.
And the door opens.
Writhing tendrils of stone and chitin recoil from the frame as the Sunsations peer into the next chamber.
And beyond it—the void awaits.
Veil of the Void
Beyond the infinity seal, the stone threshold yawns open not into another room, but into void incarnate—a suffocating chasm of sightless weight, where even the concept of “light” feels banished by some ancient decree.
As the Sunsations step forward, the cephalopodic tendrils coil behind them with a wet, clicking snap, sealing off the path behind. A heartbeat later, all light dies.
They are plunged into total blackness, not the darkness of night, but something primordial—a realm before suns, before stars, before even time dared open its eyes. The air carries the scent of salted stone and burnt bone, and a low hum begins to rise from the walls—if there are walls at all.
Then come the whispers.
So many whispers.
Layered upon each other like flesh stretched across bone, chittering in alien tongues yet understood innately. Their voices are cold silk across the eardrums, sliding beneath the skin, dripping into the mind.
- “The eyes of the Abyss are many…”
- “You tread the exiled atrium… every breath, a trespass.”
- “The end was written long before you bled.”
- “The soul is a scroll, and yours has already been read.”
These are not merely words.
They are realizations.
Dark truths uncoiling in the recesses of the mind, slithering where courage frays and reason falters.
The chamber shifts, or seems to. The hooded statues—hundreds of them, their forms unmoving and featureless—are suddenly closer. One blinks. Another weeps a stream of ink-black ichor. One lifts its hand slightly, pointing—but not at any of them. Just toward the ceiling, where nothing waits to fall.
Their ears ring with phantom bells from drowned cathedrals. A thousand invisible insects skitter just beneath the skin. Breathing becomes difficult, as if the very air has been forgotten by life.
And then the visions begin...
Each is beset by fractal illusions—maddening, dreamlike reflections of the Realms they once revered, now fractured through the lens of unreality.
- The Sun Realm: A sky of black flame hangs above a scorched plain where Solir crawl blindly beneath a noonday eclipse. Their golden skin peels like wax, whispering “He never left the fire,” as a colossal statue of Rozan weeps molten blood onto a burning tree crowned in teeth.
- The Earth Realm: Mountains bleed as stone pulses like living flesh. The gem-veined bones of Avatar Umber shudder beneath the soil, his hands digging through his own skull. The earth groans with regret, whispering that it has been buried alive by time itself.
- The Sea Realm: The oceans boil with oil-slick shadow. Coral reefs twist into teeth. You see Atla walking across the sea floor, unblinking, as bloated, eyeless Aesir chant songs in reverse. Leviathans suspended in chains of bone swim backward into oblivion.
- The Air Realm: The sky is an infinite staircase spiraling into static. Zirael’s golden wings have been stitched shut with rune-wire, his body hollowed into a windchime that plays only screams. Aegis floats, untethered, murmuring, “I flew too far… and now I cannot fall.”
Each vision ends the same way.
A rift opens in the sky—glistening with eyes, not stars—
And Malekith’s silhouette stands silhouetted against a burning horizon, beckoning, hand extended, crown of tendrils rising like a black sun.
The statues breathe now, quietly. Their hoods ripple as if from wind that does not exist. Something old presses against the thin veil of this place, watching through eyes uncountable, a hunger so vast it cannot feed.
The whispers rise into a crescendo of dissonance. The walls chant. The silence screams.
And then—each of them stands alone.
Just the sensation of floating in the dark. A single voice speaks to each of them.
Then, from within the self— a voice not yours, yet shaped from your breath.
- “Would you trade what is true…
- for what can be known?
- Or will you choose to delve… and never surface?”
It does not wait for your answer.
Because it already knows it.
They feel breath upon the nape of their necks—but no wind. They feel watched by names they dare not speak aloud.
The chamber does not simply test the body—it devours the mind.
Mural of the Marred
The black abyss gives way to something solid—a damp, moss-covered chamber, lined with obsidian walls, etched in ancient eldritch runes that pulse like the dying breath of something long-buried.
It does not resemble the architectural style of Avatar Rok or Elder Talus.
It does not belong here.
But it is here.
The air is thick, the silence too perfect.
There are no doors. No windows. No exits.
Then—a deep rumbling begins.
An obsidian slab slowly rises, revealing a grand pyramid chamber beyond.
A throne room, adorned in the sickly glow of violet-lit braziers.
Above them, stretched across the vaulted ceiling like a wound carved into the stone of time, an ancient mural unfolds—not painted, but seared into the rock in jagged veins of black-gold, pulsing faintly as if still bleeding memory.
It does not depict a battle.
It depicts an extinction event for heaven itself.
Colossal beings writhe upon a broken firmament—Angels falling like comets, their wings alight with divine fury, hurling sunfire and scorching the sky.
Across from them, the Elementari Titans rise like cosmic tumors, forged from the primal bones of creation, their forms too vast to fully comprehend—a hurricane with teeth, a volcano spewing molten madness, a tsunami bearing a spine of coral blades.
Where they clash, reality fractures.
Skies rip like parchment.
The constellations drown.
Wings are torn from angelic hosts and scattered like petals upon a funeral pyre of stars.
Celestial bodies rupture into eclipses.
Divine ichor floods the earth in rivers of phosphorescent sorrow, burning forests and mountains into ash and silence.
At the center of it all—beneath the feet of gods and the collapse of titans—a black spiral grows, a void that is not space, not shadow, but entropy.
It does not hunger. It does not rage.
It simply unravels.
Along the chamber’s walls, the mural continues:
- Choirs of angels lie sundered in the dust, their halos shattered like broken crowns.
- The Mythar, the radiant progeny of the gods, are shown impaled upon spears made of their own starlight, their glassy eyes staring into an afterlife that never came.
- The gods themselves are depicted dying not with dignity, but with hollow mouths open in shock, their divine forms devoured by entropy—unwept, unburied.
And through it all, in the spaces where no brush touched and no color dared dwell, the suggestion of eyes—silent, watching, remembering.
It is not merely a mural of war.
It is a dirge carved in stone, a cosmic autopsy.
A warning, not a record.
A monument to the truth that echoes in the marrow of all things:
Even the eternal can perish.
Malekith, the Sundered Sun
At the zenith of the pyramid, high above the smoldering abyss and eternal dusk that swallows the Isle of Ember, the Sunsations ascend through a narrow spiral stairwell carved from ashen obsidian. The stone is slick with age and veined with luminous threads of violet—a sick imitation of mythar light that pulses in rhythm with something not of this world.
At the summit, the Throne Hall opens like the hollowed ribcage of a dead god—an immense and echoing space hewn from black-gold stone, engraved from floor to vaulted ceiling in ancient Mythar runes, long since dead to time. Some glow faintly with residual power; others flicker, as though resisting the weight of the presence within.
The chamber is unnaturally still.
A silence that clings to the tongue.
The air, thick with the scent of ancient parchment, cold iron, and scorched roses.
Dust does not settle here.
It floats—caught in a timeless moment.
Rising from the circular dais at the end of the chamber—where all runes converge in spiraling patterns—is the Throne of the Betrayer.
Carved from pale, marrow-white stone, streaked with the petrified veins of long-dead celestial beasts, the throne sits like a tombstone atop a world that was. Its base is formed from entwined angelic wings, turned inward as if folded in shame. The back of the throne arches like the spine of some fallen titan, each vertebra inscribed with prayers written in a dialect no longer spoken in this world.
And upon that throne sits a figure—
Serene. Radiant. Immutable.
Draped in robes of white and gold that shimmer faintly with mythar threads, Malekith appears as an emperor from an age of impossible beauty. His golden hair cascades like liquid sunlight across his shoulders. His face is carved with impossible grace—divinity wearing the mask of a man. His hands rest lazily—one cradling his chin, the other dangling from the throne’s arm, fingers curled with idle amusement.
Draped in pristine, white-gold Mythar robes, his golden hair flowing like silk, his radiant eyes half-lidded with a knowing, tired amusement.
One hand supports his head, as if unbothered, unimpressed.
He does not rise.
He does not speak.
He simply watches.
For a moment, it is as if he is waiting.
Behind him, arching across the back wall of the chamber like a wound in the firmament, looms a shattered glass mirror—its jagged surface twisted and bleeding voidlight. It reflects nothing of Malekith, for he casts no reflection. Where his image should be, the mirror shows only ruin—a vision of the Netherveil, torn asunder, its sky cracked open like a broken skull, its cities overturned, its rivers running black with ichor.
No light touches that place.
Only absence.
Only the echo of unbeing.
Crimson dust falls gently from the vaulted ceiling above, like drifting cinders from a burned-out star. The Sunsations feel the pressure in their bones—not gravity, but expectation.
And then, finally—his lips curve into a smile.
Malekith does not rise.
His voice unfurls like velvet laid across a blade—measured, smooth, and terribly sure.
- “You feel it too, don’t you? That low, humming dread in your marrow.
- That old, familiar, sinking feeling of something TRULY inevitable. The tremor before the collapse. The final breath before drowning. The deafening ring before ceaseless silence.
- That is not fear—no, it is something even more primal. It is an instinctual memory. The soul recalling its place in a story far older than the stars.”
He gestures lazily to the mural that arcs above him—the depiction of gods warring with titans, the skies torn, the angels broken and bled into earth.
- “We were among the first. Not born, but formed. The Mythar—made in the image of potential… smithed from the flames of purpose.
- Cast into flesh to wage war for a world not our own.
- When the Planar Rapture burned across the Continuum, we were not protected—we were conscripted.
- The divine do not wish to be slaughtered ungracefully in battle… so they first send others to die in their holy stead.”
His fingers trace the edge of his throne. The veins in his hand glow faintly—lines of starlight corrupted by abyssal ink.
- “They called it a gift, you see. This world. This flesh. This burden of mortality.
- But what is mortality, if not the leash by which the gods hold dominion over those they pretend to uplift?
- What is this plane if not a tomb?
- You call it life—I call it exile.
- “They speak of me as tyrant, heretic, betrayer, and usurper.
- Yet… I sought only to reclaim what was denied—to take, as they once… so freely… took.
- And for that, I was damned.”
- But you see… their condemnation, their divine damnation.. It rests only on a bed of lies. Their lies.. Their disgraceful, contemptible lies.. Still permeate this world like an unspoken truth that none dare accuse.
- I will tell you the truth.
- They are the product of the greatest treachery. Before even the Pantheon of Primus, the Eldari turned on their Creator, sealed him from the heavens, then crowned themselves in His absence.
- And now they wag their gilded fingers at me—for daring to dream?”
He lifts his gaze. The shimmer in his golden eyes now flickers—like candlelight at the edge of a pit.
- “What hypocrisy burns brighter than that of the divine?
- They feared what I knew—that divinity is not bestowed. It is taken, with blood and ash and indomitable will.
- The Pantheon of Primus, your hallowed gods, cloister themselves in unreachable dominions…
- clutching at their stolen thrones while sending you to clean the rot from the root.”
His smile fades—not into sadness, but into stillness. A quiet forged in the crucible of conviction.
- “They feared my truth. That we—the Mythar—were not meant to serve, but to shape.
- That we were never meant to kneel.
- And when I reached into the dark to reclaim what they denied me…
- the heavens themselves shuttered their gaze.”
Behind him, the shattered mirror pulses once more—revealing only ruin and shadow.
- “You think yourselves free, guided by choice, carried by fate. But look at you.
- Every step, pushed by prophecy. Every loss, another verse in someone else’s scripture.
- You are not heroes. You are pieces in a game you do not yet understand.”
Then, with a flick of his wrist, the walls begin to move.
Figures carved in reverent poses twitch and bend. Wings snap backward with a sickening crunch.
Hollow-eyed angels drag themselves from the mural, their faces twisted in divine grief.
Violet fire dances in their sockets, and their mouths open—not to scream, but to sing.
His smile fades, replaced by something colder.
- "I saw past the illusions, past the lies of our pathetic shepherd, Emperor Ezekiel."
- "I did not avert my gaze. I did not cower in ignorance."
- "I stared into the abyss…"
His radiant golden eyes darken, their glow fading into pale, endless pits of void.
- "And the abyss… stared back."
A pause—the quiet hum of the braziers flickering like a heartbeat.
- "But I did not lose myself to it like the others. No, no…"
A slow, indulgent chuckle.
- "I found the truth. That the gods were nothing more than hedonists and cowards. That they took the stars for themselves and left us to rot."
- “Do not hope for victory. Do not wish for salvation. Do not pray for peace..
- For there are no gods left who listen.”
A slow, indulgent breath.
Then he speaks again—quieter now, almost kind.
- “So I ask you, sunsations...
- Would you know the truth, as I have?
- Or return to your dreams… and die in ignorance?”
His radiant gaze lingers on them. Not in mockery.
But in genuine curiosity—like a man watching the last candle flicker in a dark room.
- “Come then. Bear witness.
- Let the final light be cast not by the sun...
- but by the one who dares to eclipse it.”
He leans forward, golden hair falling like a curtain of sunlight marred with shadow.
- “I will not let you die yet.
- Not until you see me ascend—not as a tyrant.
- But as the final truth your gods dared never become.”
The mural bleeds.
The angels descend.
And the eclipse begins.
Battle of the Black Sun
Upon delivering a final ultimatum to Malekith, the Sunsations would then fight for their lives and the lives of all whom existed upon the prime plane. All the while, an Eclipse reaches its apex overhead the tomb world they fought upon.
The walls tremble. The heavens scream. The war begins.
From the depths of the murals, the Fallen Mythar Angels surge forward, wretched husks of divine beings, their once-radiant halos shattered, their skeletal wings jagged and torn, eyes ablaze with violet fire. They descend upon the Sunsations, their twisted seraphic blades clashing in a chorus of ruin.
Above it all, Malekith steps from his throne, his golden gaze burning like twin suns, his presence alone enough to bend the air into searing heat.
He does not speak. He does not rise.
A mere flick of his finger sends radiant force crashing into the Sunsations knocking them backward, golden embers scorching their forms.
He is not simply powerful.
He is overwhelming.
And through the carnage, he does not break a sweat as he barely lifts a finger to thwart those around him... Increasingly, however, he is growing frustrated and mad over being "bored" by the spectacle playing out in the throne room.
The world stills as the air thickens like coagulated oil. Shadows grow long. The voice that follows does not come from a mouth—it seeps from the edges of thought, whispering into bone, bleeding into dream.
Malekith speaks.
A pause—long enough for doubt to bloom.
- “How quaint.”
- “Death is mercy. Death is silence. It is the soft closing of a door you were never meant to open.”
- “But I have seen beyond it.”
A hum begins behind his words—like a choir of mouths submerged beneath black oceans.
- “There is a place where the dead do not rest. Where memory is a cage, and time a blade that never stops cutting.”
- “There is no end in that place. Only erosion. Of name. Of self. Of soul.”
His shadow stretches outward, devouring color.
- “You speak of heroes, of sacrifice. But you do not yet understand.”
- “There are worse things than being forgotten.”
- “There is… becoming memory itself. A flickering thought within a dying god’s mind. A scream caught between the ticks of an eternal clock.”
- “That is what I offer.”
- “Finality in rest.”
He leans closer, though his feet do not move. His presence thickens, pressing against your chest like drowning.
- “So tell me, brave little flames—”
- “Will you burn out? Or will you be made to burn forever?”
As the battle rages, Malekith steps forward, his form shifting, his golden light growing into an unbearable brilliance.
Behind him, a spectral figure materializes—a golden Solir angel, her ethereal form weeping with sorrow, but bound in chains of radiance.
Lumina.
Her expression is pained, but serene, as she raises her hands alongside Malekith, fighting in tandem with him, her movements mirroring his own. Golden tears stream endlessly from her hollow, sunlit eyes.
Malekith's smirk is cold and cruel as he advances upon Talyen, their battle shifting into a radiant duel of sunfire and pure rift energy.
Their blades clash, sparks of solar essence igniting upon impact, but Talyen is faltering.
Malekith speaks, his voice a dagger to the heart.
- "You are weak."
- "You are alone."
- "You are nothing."
He presses his advantage.
Talyen stumbles, his knees hitting the scorched obsidian.
Malekith stands over him, golden eyes filled with pitiless amusement.
And then—he delivers the final blow.
- "You could never defeat me… because you never had the will."
Malekith leans down, voice a whisper—a revelation.
- "Your mother is still alive."
- "Her essence is bound within me."
- "She watched everything—her people’s fall, her son’s weakness."
Talyen chokes back a sob, trembling, hands grasping at the stone beneath him.
- "If you kill me…"
- "You kill her."
- "and now, she will watch as I drain the sunlight from your eyes..."
Talyen collapses forward, broken, lost.
Malekith smiles.
Malekith walks forward, his expression unreadable.
His words are not shouted. They do not need to be.
- "You are a failure."
- "A failure as a warrior. A failure as an Avatar. A failure as a son."
- "Look at you. On your knees. Crying like a child who never grew up."
Talyen does not move. He does not fight back.
Malekith leans back as he reaches up towards the sky above the shattered pyramid, plucking the stars themselves from the sky as he pulls them crashing down onto the dying tomb world. He smiles wildly for a moment, looking at Talyen.
- "You fancy yourself the Avatar of the Sun, yet you still do not know the extent of it's dominion.."
- "What greater force is there than that of which holds the stars in place... gravity."
- "I will impart you with one final lesson, child."
And then—the walls of the pyramid shatter.
The sky above turns crimson.
Valekith, the Severed Shadow
The world splits apart.
The pyramid unravels piece by piece, floating in the gravity-defying abyss as a crimson sun looms overhead, swallowed by the void.
Time stops.
From the heavens, a shadow descends—a ghastly specter, mirroring Malekith’s form, but hollow, skeletal.
Valekith.
His hand reaches downward—like the creation of Adam, his fingers stretching toward Malekith’s own.
The Avatars rush forward, desperate, screaming—
But time does not move.
In one touch, Malekith shudders, his entire form convulsing, twisting, screaming.
The radiant orb collapses.
Talyen drops to the ground, his eyes burned away, golden light searing his face in raw agony.
Malekith is gone.
Valekith stands in his place.
But—something is wrong.
Where Malekith stood—now stands a being of impossible contradiction: one half divine brilliance, one half starless abyss, flickering violently as they struggle for control.
One moment, he is radiant, golden, a being of celestial perfection.
The next, he is hollow, decayed, a void in the shape of a man.
His laughter echoes, filled with madness, reverence, and triumph.
- "Eons… eons I have waited for this."
- "To feel the light of the stars upon my skin once more..."
- "You are all blessed beyond measure—to witness TRUE divinity firsthand."
Time resumes. The slaughter begins.
He raises a hand. The sky tears, and fragments of stars fall like fire.
Every turn, his existence stabilizes.
Every attack, he grows stronger, more complete.
Until—there is no longer two.
There is only Valekith.
And then, the slaughter begins.
- “You think of the elements as mere weapons. You wield them like blunt instruments.
I have borne witness to another, more fundamental truth. They are mine to master, as GOD.”
Aegis of the Avatars
Locked in a brutal battle with Valekith, Terra and Typhon try to sever the shadow that now drapes over the collapsing tomb world...
The ground beneath Terra's feet groans, the stone itself weeping cracks, as if mourning its master.
He stands tall, bloodied but resolute, his skin veined with molten seams of diamond and gold.
His warhammer is shattered. His stance unshaken.
Terra (hoarse, defiant):
- “The earth remembers me. It will not bear the weight of your sins.”
Valekith lands before him—graceful as snowfall, terrible as an eclipse.
With a whisper, he reaches down and touches the earth.
And the world betrays Terra.
The rock beneath his feet turns to ash. His body is lifted—not by force, but by the earth's sudden absence.
Valekith:
- “Yet, even mountains yield to the inexorable march of time.”
Terra lets out a roar, not of fear—but of farewell.
Then he fractures—a pillar of stone turned to dust, scattering into the wind like crushed marble and powdered bone.
Valekith places his palm on the fallen avatar, and Terra’s essence, glowing like molten crystal, is drawn into his form—fusing to his spine in a burning coil of tectonic power.
The battlefield shakes and then stills into a permeable silence.
Typhon rises from the tide he summoned—his form carved from the abyss, eyes glowing with the light of storms at sea.
The battlefield floods beneath his command—tidal walls crashing like ancient drums, crashing against Valekith’s approach.
Typhon:
- “The sea takes all things back. Even you.”
But Valekith raises a single hand.
The water hesitates.
Valekith:
- “No. You were never its master. Only a dreamer adrift in its ceaseless tides.”
With a flex of his fingers, the tides turn inside-out.
Typhon stares, wide-eyed, as the ocean that obeyed him now clutches at his limbs, twisting upward, curling into spirals of glass.
- “You drowned them all, didn’t you?” Valekith whispers, smiling.
- “How poetic, to drown alone.”
Typhon gasps.
His form dissolves—skin melting into seafoam, eyes streaming salt that vanishes before it touches the ground.
His scream is the last roar of a maelstrom, before silence.
Valekith places his other palm on his head as he draws his essence from the mist—a blue-white stream of oceanic power coiling into his ribs like frost-etched coral.
Rain begins to upward.
Valekith drinks deep from their power, his form now beyond mortal comprehension.
As the Sunsations stagger, bloodied and broken, Valekith walks among the ruin like a god reborn.
- “I seethed in silence.
- I slept in the hollow places of stars.
- I watched empires die, and I did not mourn.
- You call me heretic, butcher, defiler.
- But I am only the truth you would not see.”
His voice becomes many. Echoing. Reverent.
- “You are not here to stop me.
- You are here to witness.
- Witness a god who was never born,
- but who became.”
He opens his arms—as if embracing the void.
The eclipse darkens. The pyramid crumbles.
- “Let the final light fall not from the sun.
- But from the hand that dares to grasp it.”
- “You never understood the elements. You only ever used them.”
Invocation of the Archangel
Amidst the ashen winds and flickering twilight, the Sunsations stand bloodied—shadows swirling like serpents around the battlefield. The sky groans under the weight of Valekith’s presence, the Severed Shadow warping time and space around his shadowed form. Hope flickers like a candle in a crypt.
Then—Professor Henry Endsworth steps forward, clutching a parchment worn with age, inked in gold-leaf script. He lifts his voice, breaking the silence with a verse not spoken in centuries. His words ring out like the toll of a cathedral bell at the world's end:
- ✹ Invocation of the Archangel ✹
- “Oh Radiant Father, Bringer of Dawn,
- By your light and holy might,
- Deliver your flame, your warrior bright,
- Let Ezekiel rise, and end the night.”
The parchment ignites in radiant fire. The wind halts. Clouds retreat.
And then—the sky tears open.
A burning sigil, etched into the fabric of the heavens, opens like an eye. From within descends a figure wreathed in blazing celestial flame, wingspan stretching a hundred feet wide. Haloed in rotating runes of flame and time, Archangel Ezekiel descends like the sword of judgment itself.
His armor is burnished bronze etched in radiant script, his helm crowned in rays of forged sunfire. From the aether, he draws his glaive—"Conviction", a weapon of blinding radiance and silver starlight, humming with divine resonance.
His feet touch the battlefield.
The world stills. Even Valekith falters.
- ✹ Proclamation of Judgment – Ezekiel’s Monologue ✹
- “Valekith. Slayer of Kin, Severed Shadow, Wraith of the Betrayer, Shadow at the worlds edge.”
- “In the name of the Hosts of Helion, in the voice of Helios, by the mandate of the Pantheon of Primus—I speak divine judgment.”
- “You, who sundered flesh from soul and twisted the Ether to mirror your fracture, shall know ruin. The sands of your hourglass now run thin.”
- “For too long have you fed on the marrow of this world. No longer.”
- “Do you not remember me, old friend? I am Ezekiel, Archangel of the Heavens. I bring reckoning. I bring severance. I bring peace through purgation.”
- (His wings extend, casting burning light across the battlefield—chasing the shadows back like smoke.)
- “Let none falter. Let none despair. The hour is black, but the flame still burns.”
- “Strike, Sunsworn. Let your blades sing with truth. The heavens stand beside you.”
Archangel Ezekiel (formerly Emperor Ezekiel) imbues the sunsations with the lifeblood of helios as they regain their vitality to fight anew.
Shadow of the Sun
Yet the day has not been won.. Moments after Valekith falters in the presence of his old friend turned divine nemesis, he makes a terrible decision...
Valekith rises above the battlefield like a fallen star refusing to dim.
The wind dies.
The sea grows still.
The last embers of sunlight flee the edges of the world.
Above him, the sky shatters—not in thunder, but in silence.
Cracks spread across the firmament like veins of white flame, etching celestial runes into the void. Constellations distort, spinning backward.
The stars... begin to move.
The heavens ripple like water.
And Valekith reaches up—not in plea, but in command.
His voice resonates across the broken battleground—not spoken, but declared, carried by cosmic pressure and the memory of creation.
- “You never understood the elements.
- You called them spells. Tools.
- Fire to burn your foes. Wind to soar above the land. Earth to hold your weight. Water to soothe your wounds.”
- “But these are not things.
- They are principles.
- The first thoughts of a dreaming cosmos.
- The breath of a god that never finished speaking.”
- “You wielded them like children with their fathers swords.”
- “I—listened.
- I remembered their true names.
- And they remembered me.”
- “Now, watch.”
- “As the stars recall the hand that once fell from them.”
Valekith reaches toward the eclipsed sun as he begins to pull it down, closer to the world... A searing radiance scorches the skin of not only the sunsations, but all living creatures whom dwell upon the Prime Plane.
- "Let us take a chance then, and see whose flesh will boil first."
- "Not just your own, but that of every damned being on this world."
Realizing the gravity of what is about to happen, Ezekiel spares no time as he flies directly towards the surface of the sun to hold it from collapsing towards the material world... Even his divine essence is not immune to the scorching radiance of a star, and his form begins to burn as he gives the sunsations one final chance to defeat Valekith.
The Rift Singularity
With his other hand, Valekith reaches into his chest and protrudes an Infinity Shard which he begins to crack with his grasp. Searing eruptions of pure Rift Energy spill forth from the void contained within the eldritch crystal as he delivers a final ultimatum to those who stand before him.
Not of words, but of irreversible and devastating action. Even for a moment, the radiant form of Malekith materializes and threatens to split from Valekith, pleading with Ezekiel to stop this madness before they are all consumed into the void-born crystal. His pleas are left on deaf ears as Valekith forces his other half into submission as the eclipse completes above the collapsing pyramid...
Talyen staggers forward, his vision lost, eyes seared into golden ruin. His breaths come in shudders—his ribs shattered, his body scorched—and yet, still he moves.
Each step is a prayer whispered into blood. He pulls out a twine necklace with a wooden carved symbol of the sun emplaced on it, sweat and blood mixing on the child's ornament he clutches fervently.
Each tremble a defiance of gravity, of pain, of fate.
- “Mother…” he whispers.
- “Please…”
- "do you not remember me?
- "do you not remember this?
- "do you not remember your promise?"
Valekith looms before him—cracked, resplendent, wrong. His form no longer stable.
His eyes blaze like twin stars caught in a storm.
He raises a hand to strike.
But his fingers falter.
He freezes.
Valekith:
- “You still beg for mercy, child?”
Then his body jerks violently, as if pulled by unseen threads.
A fissure splits across his chest—not from a blade, but from within.
Light begins to leak from it.
Valekith:
- “No…”
- “What is this—this…?”
His knees buckle. His wings flare—black one moment, golden the next.
And then, with a thunderous crack, his chest erupts in radiant bloom.
From the fissure, a scream like a star shattering the sky.
Lumina, the imprisoned Solir angel, tears free from Valekith’s essence—her wings burning white-hot, eyes streaming divine tears.
Lumina:
She floats above him—chains of light falling from her arms like broken bonds—her radiance unraveling the god from within.
Valekith staggers back, howling—not in pain, but in unmaking.
From the wound in his chest, faces begin to emerge—not spectral, but luminous.
Their features warped in grief and fury:
- Terra, lips set firm, eyes blazing like a hearthstone.
- Typhon, eyes weeping streams of seawater, mouth open in a drowned scream.
- Lumina, radiant tears streaming from her angelic eyes.
They pull outward, hands clawing from beneath Valekith’s shadowed skin, tearing him open from within.
Valekith:
- “You are mine—mine!”
- "NO, you are ME"
- "there is ONLY me"
But their light intertwines.
Their essences pull from one another, threatening to sunder the form of Valekith into a thousand fractured shadows...
Guy takes this split second opportunity to rush behind Valekith and shatter the mirror to the Netherveil behind him.
As the hollow reflection shatters into thousands of fractured mirrors reflecting the plane of shadows, the rift crystal in Valekith's hand collapses into a blackhole singularity...
Sentence of the Severed Shadow
The battlefield trembles—not with the thunder of war, but with something far older. Valekith stands at its center, cloak torn and form wavering like heat over scorched stone. All around, the world distorts, colors bleeding into violet spirals as an Infinity Shard, cracked and pulsing in his chest, begins to resonate with unbearable frequency.
The air thickens. Then tears.
A rift yawns open behind him—a singularity, no wider than a coin’s width, but darker than anything that could be called shadow. From its edges, reality bends inward, screaming into silence. Stone lifts, light stretches thin, and time hiccups with erratic gasps. The gravity of unmaking has awoken.
Valekith digs his claws into the fractured earth.
- "No..." he growls, as eldritch winds lash his form, pulling at his limbs and soul like gory marionette strings.
- "I am the last mind. The final eye. The severed yet sovereign..."
But even he, the self-crowned Severed Shadow, cannot escape the unraveling call of the void.
Starless tendrils of the singularity grasp his form, tearing away his very essence, stripping him of physical form, until only his gaunt silhouette remains—framed in scorched shadow.
Then… his eye meets Talyen’s.
For a breathless moment, the battlefield halts.
Even the Rift holds its breath.
Valekith smiles—not with malice, but with something older. Recognition.
He reaches forward with one shaking, void-wreathed hand and presses it against Talyen’s forehead.
A burst of searing, black flame erupts in a sigil—a twisted starburst, smoking with cosmic ink.
For a brief instant, the symbol of a blackhand burns onto Talyens head as his eyes flash white.
- "Now you see it," Valekith whispers, voice trembling through dimensions.
- "What I have saw all along."
His smile wavers.
- "We were never the architects... only the fractured remains of a cosmos which has long-since forgotten us."
Then his body is folded into the singularity.
Bone, thought, memory—dragged through a pinhole in space. His scream bends light. His form elongates, warps, and vanishes into a speck smaller than dust.
A final soundless implosion—a black flash—and Valekith is gone.
The Light that Remains
Silence.
From the stillness, a breath.
Eyes flutter open. Guy.
He lies upon the obsidian ground, his limbs trembling, skin kissed by ash and starlight.
Over him, Talyen kneels, tears of molten radiance streaming down his cheeks, each drop sizzling on the dark stone. His hands tremble as they touch Guy’s face.
- "I'm so fucking sorry... but you must hear my words Guy.
- Find me again, in my dreams or beyond them, you have to find me again.
- Wherever I am, wherever I... Wherever we go"
His form shifts through Talyen, Terra, Typhon, Lumina as he struggles to maintain control.
- "In that hollow place between thought and light, beyond even where the light of the stars dare not touch.
- Please, please.. find me old friend.
- In that hollow place.. we may walk together again, with all that is left".
Darkness envelops and light falls. There is only a brief moment of consciousness.
The eclipsed sun the only thing present in the sky, Guys form unraveling into threads, then light, and then thought.
He feels as though once he felt emotion, pain, feeling, he looks for anything, but there is no up, no down, no stars nor sky, only the soft drift of continuum, and the pulsing, unfeeling sensation that he is being watched by countless eyes.
A feeling that he has known since before he took his first breath, since before he first bled, since before he was born...
He is not alone, no one was ever alone. This world and the planes beyond them were never on their own.
Only the steady eternal presence of gravity hums. His mind collapses in on itself, again, and again, and again, until nothing makes sense. Because there is nothing to make sense of... in singularity.
The Black Flash and Awakening
As the energy reached its peak, everything vanished into a singular black flash. Light, noise, thought—obliterated.
When vision returned, the Sunsations—Kairus, Shanara, Zyla, Professor Endsworth, Reverend Fishbourne, Losk, and Josu—awoke in a Bastilian infirmary, bruised, broken, but alive.
END.
Legacy & Aftermath
The death toll was catastrophic.
- Throk was incinerated by a bolt of radiant light flicked from the fingers of Malekith.
- Septimus Lucien was incinerated into ash by a collapsing star which Malekith summoned.
- Simmeon's head imploded by Valekith's psychic scream.
- Tatsujiro Kazuo's head imploded by Valekith's psychic scream.
- Tormund Brightblade's head imploded by Valekith's psychic scream.
- Ramune Leone's head imploded by Valekith's psychic scream.
- Exarch Kaolin's head imploded by Valekith's psychic scream.
- Exarch Maar succumbed to his wounds sustained in fighting Malekith.
- Avatar Terra was shattered into fractured stone as his elemental essence was consumed by Valekith's elemental apocrypha.
- Avatar Typhon was dissolved into sea foam and mist as his elemental essence was consumed by Valekith's elemental apocrypha.
- Obadiah Clay was scorched to cinder as Valekith pulled the sun toward the material world.
- Lucien Ice was scorched to cinder as Valekith pulled the sun toward the material world.
- Selena was scorched to cinder as Valekith pulled the sun toward the material world.
- Blizz was scorched to cinder as Valekith pulled the sun toward the material world.
- Seraphis was scorched to cinder as Valekith pulled the sun toward the material world. He died clawing his way toward a downed Solandir, in a desperate attempt to save his bretheren.
- Solandir was scorched to cinder as Valekith pulled the sun toward the material world. He died cursing Valekith's name.
- Hoshiko succumbed to her mortal wounds after Reverend Irving Fishbourne mistakenly pulled her through the temporal effect of Valekith's aura, breaking her spine.
- Vidarr Lonestorm was reduced to a necrotized husk by the temporal rift aura of Valekith.
- Emperor Ezekiel sacrificed his angelic form to stop the sun from collapsing into the material world.
It was only with these brave sacrifices that the reign of Valekith's terror upon the prime plane would be finally severed...
