SHACKLES OF THE ABYSS

  The sky burned with celestial fire. Twin moons—one crimson, the other a cold, haunting blue—loomed over the battlefield, their light casting eerie shadows on the war-ravaged land. The air pulsed with raw magic, thick as mist, woven from the clash of sorcery and steel.

  And at the center of it all—him.

  The warrior-mage stood defiant, his body etched with glowing sigils, his battle-worn blade crackling with untamed energy. The ground beneath his feet trembled, responding to the sheer force of his will. His enemies, an unholy convergence of monstrous warlords and arcane tyrants, surrounded him like vultures circling a dying god.

  Blood—his own, his enemies’—painted his face. His breath came in ragged bursts, his once-majestic armor fractured, yet he still stood. A lone force against the inevitable.

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  Above, a vast rift tore through the heavens, unveiling an abyss deeper than space itself. Something stirred within it—something ancient. Something watching.

  Then came the chains.

  They slithered from the void like vipers, forged from reality itself, wrapping around his limbs, his throat, his very essence. He struggled, roaring against the unnatural pull, but they held fast. Not even his magic could sever them.

  A voice—cold, cosmic, terrible—rippled through existence.

  “You were never meant to be free.”

  His knees buckled. The battlefield around him blurred. His enemies no longer mattered. The war no longer mattered. Only the chains. Only the abyss.

  And as he was wrenched into the unknown, the last thing he saw was the twin moons dimming, as if mourning the fall of their chosen.