The sky bled fire. Rivers boiled. The moon turned black.
For forty nights, no stars shone. The Skyforge—that divine machine of gold and flame that chained the sun to its course—had shattered. Without it, the light itself began to die.

And from the ashes of broken kingdoms, one man would rise.
A thief, a wanderer, a maker of his own gods.

His name was Victor Spictor, and his story began in mud.


Victor was born in the fishing village of Mirestead, where the tides smelled of iron and the elders spoke only in warnings. His father mended nets, his mother mended hearts, and Victor mended neither. He was restless, clever, and dangerous in all the ways young men are before the world teaches them fear.

He dreamed of seeing the sun up close, of touching its fire.
He didn’t know he’d one day wield it.


When the Skyforge cracked, a shard of it fell from the heavens. It tore through Mirestead like a second sunrise—burning, blinding, merciless. Everything Victor loved turned to smoke.

Everyone… except Sam.

Sam was the healer’s apprentice—the only one who could calm Victor’s storms. They’d spent their youth building tiny ships to send down the river, dreaming of lands beyond the horizon. When the fire came, Sam dragged Victor from the wreckage and pressed the molten shard into his hand.

“Live,” Sam said. “Even if I don’t.”

By dawn, Sam was gone. And Victor’s heart turned to iron.


He walked the wastes of Orun until his voice was gone. He melted the shard into a blade that burned even in rain, calling it Solmourn—the sword that remembers loss.
When he drew it, he saw visions of Sam—laughing, fading, reaching through the light.

He learned then that the blade was cursed.
It fed on memory.

And so, each time he swung it, the image of Sam grew dimmer.


Years passed. Victor became myth. Some called him the Sunbreaker; others, the Heretic of Flame. He wandered into the City of Chains, where the priests of the false sun ruled beneath golden domes. There, in the crowd of slaves and beggars, he saw a face he thought he’d forgotten.

Sam.

Alive—but changed. Eyes like molten gold, skin touched by celestial fire.
Sam was no longer mortal. They had become a vessel for the Sunforge’s spirit, bound by the same light that once destroyed their home.

“You sought the light,” Sam said, voice trembling with both love and wrath.
“Now you’ll learn what it costs to hold it.”


Together they waged war against the false sun.
Victor with his cursed blade, Sam with the light within.
Each battle drew them closer and tore them further apart—two halves of a flame that could never burn together without consuming everything.

When the final chain of the Skyforge broke, the true sun rose again.

But in its first rays, Sam was gone once more—consumed by the light they’d carried.
Victor fell to his knees, blade buried in the ash, the sunrise reflecting in his tears.

The world was saved.
But Victor Spictor was alone again.


They say he still walks the edges of the world, sword dim and heart hollow, chasing every sunrise like it might be Sam’s face looking back.

“Love is a forge,” he once said. “And gods help those who survive their own making.”