The Shattering of the Light Bridge

For three long years the war raged—man against Titan, dragon against dragon, the earth itself groaning beneath their fury. And in the hidden dark, the hammer Toradhcairn was forged, a weapon unholy, a union of star-metal and the Words of Power stolen by deceit. It was the doom of all things, and yet it gleamed in Ulric’s hand as though wrought for him alone.

At last came the day of reckoning. Upon the plain of Aeluin’s Span, where the Light Bridge rose like a thread of glory between realms, the armies of the world converged. Dragons of the Great Light circled the heavens, their scales burning with radiance; the remnants of the Titans stood as mountains incarnate, their faces solemn with grief; and before them, clothed in banners of black and crimson, Ulric and the hosts of men advanced, wrath in their eyes.

Ulric raised his voice, his words poisoned with memory. He spoke of the kings burned in Malenor, their crowns molten upon their bones, their ashes scattered across the marble floor. His cry was not for peace, but for vengeance. In his hand, Toradhcairn drank the sun itself, its surface shimmering with the spells it had consumed.

And the world was drowned in war.

For three days and three nights the battle raged, the very skies torn open by fire and storm. Dragons plummeted from the heavens, their wings broken and their bodies burning as they struck the earth. Titans fell like mountains shattering, their blood becoming rivers, their bones becoming hills. Men died by tens of thousands, their cries rising like a tide of anguish that shook the bridge itself.

The first wells of Aeluin ran red, filled to the brim with blood, their waters forever cursed and crimson to this day.

At last, Ulric rose above the ruin, borne upon the back of the nameless dragon, whose eyes burned with hate eternal. They soared to the heart of the bridge, where its central pillar shone brighter than dawn, a beacon tying light to dark, heaven to earth. There Ulric raised Toradhcairn, and upon his lips fell words that were never meant for mortal tongue—the Words of Creation, twisted and torn from the Titans by deceit.

When hammer struck stone, the world itself shuddered.

The pillar cracked. From its heart spread fractures of brilliance, veins of burning light that raced across the span. The bridge screamed—a sound like the rending of the sky—and then, with a radiance no mortal eye could bear, it burst.

A sun was born and died in a single breath.

No soul was spared. Dragons, Titans, men—all were consumed in that cataclysmic light. The plain was scoured to ash, the rivers boiled away, the sky darkened. And when silence fell, the world was changed forever. The Light Bridge was no more. The realms of light and dark, once bound, lay forever sundered.

The Shattering had come, and with it the age of ruin.