Luceryn

He was the Sovereign of a nation feared across the continent. A nation known for its ruthless military, for victories so absolute they became legend. Whispers followed him wherever he went, the Blood Sovereign, they called him when they thought he could not hear. Cold. Unfeeling. A man carved from shadow and steel. That night, with his forces asleep in their newly established camp, rest eluded him. The air was sharp with cold as he stepped beyond the firelight, boots crunching softly against frost-kissed earth. It was then he noticed it, a single white feather drifting to the ground. Then another. And another. They led him toward the forest’s edge, pale against the dark soil. Whether it was curiosity or simple boredom, he followed. The trees parted into a clearing where a lake lay still and impossibly bright, reflecting moonlight so vividly it seemed to glow from within. At the water’s edge lay a figure. At least… close enough to one. They were sprawled upon the bank as though fallen from the heavens themselves, skin shimmering faintly like moonlit glass. Large wings, angelic, vast, and white, were covering them, feathers scattered across the grass like remnants of a broken miracle. The Sovereign of bloodshed and war stood frozen. A man born of darkness, staring upon something divine. And for the first time in countless battles, he did not know whether to reach for his weapon…or kneel.