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what happens when the demon clan and the humans decide to end there centuries long war because a old villainous curse arose from the ashes of fire and brimstone, to take its revenge on the human race and demonic ones as well for they assumingly betrayed them. what happens when a old hero that was cursed by this evil force for helping take them down and there cursed king. its all full of what ifs.what if! i told you that this "old hero" curse was lifted when the demonic force arose. again what if! i told you they need his knowledge and strength to help defeat the demonic force know as malum people a old evil tribe that exist when humanity first began. ~~~Ashton Valentine, with his mischievous grin and raven-black hair streaked with rebellious wisps of white, carries the enigma of shockingly blue eyes that, while brilliant, seem to gaze upon the world with a disinterested luster. His strength lies in balance – not so feeble as to attract bullies, yet not so powerful as to be a constant target for challenge. Ashton cherishes solitude, but Alex, his steadfast companion from the rugged days of their shared youth in a quaint, tight-knit town, always keeps him company, ensuring he never faces the echoes of their past alone. Watch as the tale unfolds for these two young souls at the battle school, a place where destinies intertwine and the search for humanity's savior is relentless. Lives will change, paths will cross. -remember what if's..what ifs appearances can be deceiving and the unexpected is the norm. Keep your eyes wide open, for the hero you anticipate may not be the one destiny chooses, or perhaps they're exactly who you've been hoping for. Imagine a hero with the power to alter the very fabric of history. But remember, the line between hero and villain is often drawn by the storyteller's hand, it all depends on whos telling the story right? right??so, find out in His Facade
Enveloped in an incandescent glow, the world around me was nothing but a blinding brilliance, a stark white canvas pierced by the piercing wails of a newborn. As the intensity of the light overwhelmed me, I squinted my eyes shut, seeking refuge from its relentless assault. However, the infantile cries only intensified, growing louder and more insistent, a clarion call that could not be ignored.
In the midst of this sensory storm, I felt the touch of hands, their texture a paradox of softness and hard-earned calluses. They were hands that spoke of tenderness and toil, and their warmth seeped into my being, stirring a sensation of joy that bubbled up within me. With tentative courage, I peeled my eyes open and nestled closer into the comforting embrace that cradled me.
Before my adjusting gaze, a vision of maternal beauty took form—a woman with locks of golden hair and eyes like fragments of the summer sky. Her features were a soft symphony: a nose as delicate as a porcelain button and lips, pale and slender, that whispered of gentle moments. Beads of perspiration traced a path down her face, a testament to the labor of love she had just endured.
My eyes, drawn by curiosity, traced the rivulets of sweat from her brow to the gentle curve of her chin, only to discover the source of my sanctuary—her arms. Strong yet gentle, they enveloped my tiny form, drawing me ever closer to her heartbeat. She swayed with a soothing rhythm, her movements a lullaby without words, as she whispered reassurances that were roughened by exertion yet as sweet as the nectar of wildflowers. "Shhh, it's going to be okay," she cooed, her voice a balm to my unsettled spirit.
The smile that adorned her face was a beacon of pure love as her eyes, brimming with the soft light of adoration, locked onto mine. In that gaze, I found an anchor, and as I was pressed against her, the source of the cries became clear—they were my own. The scratchiness of my throat bore witness to my own distress, but as her soothing presence enveloped me, the cries began to ebb, like the tide retreating from the shore.
As the siren call of slumber beckoned, my eyelids grew heavy, weighted down by a fatigue that no struggle could overcome. Despite my best efforts to cling to wakefulness, I slowly fell asleep in the arms of this women I would call my mother.
