The room was dimly lit, the only source of light being a floating, flickering orb hovering above a grand, round obsidian table. Seven chairs encircled it—six already occupied. The air hung heavy with silence, thick with unspoken power. Shadows clung to the stone walls like frightened ghosts.
At the head of the table sat a man with a sharp jawline and eyes like shards of black glass. His hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his dark crimson coat gave him a regal yet sinister air. His name was Kaelric, and though he smiled often, the smile never reached his eyes.
He folded his hands calmly and leaned forward, his gaze fixed on the only woman in the room.
Across from him sat a pale, thin lady with silver hair that flowed like a river of moonlight. Her eyes were blind white—but not empty. They shimmered faintly with a foggy glow, like clouds hiding lightning. She was dressed in tattered layers of grey and deep violet, and a small ceramic bowl rested in front of her, filled not with water or liquid, but with a swirling, semi-transparent gas that seemed to breathe.
Kaelric spoke, his voice smooth but cold, like a knife sliding across silk.
"Tell me, Seer… what do you see in the future?"
The woman inhaled slowly, her breath hitching as if something ancient stirred within her chest. Her blind eyes flickered. Her hands hovered over the gas, fingers trembling—not with fear, but with effort. The gas spun faster, spiraling into patterns only she could understand.
She leaned in, peering through the mist, and then froze.
Her voice came out as a whisper, dry and brittle like cracked stone:
"I see blood… and betrayal. I see George… George will kill you."
The words hung in the air like venom.
But Kaelric only laughed—low at first, then louder, echoing unnaturally around the room. The others didn't move. They had seen this before.
He tilted his head and sneered, eyes narrowing.
"You speak of fate like it is yours to command."
He rose slowly, stepping toward her with deliberate calm.
"But I see the future better than you ever could."
Without warning, Kaelric raised his hand. Dark veins lit up beneath his skin like cracks of lightning. Strange symbols glowed along his arms—ancient, forbidden runes.
Then, with a swift gesture, he cast the spell.
The air exploded in silence. A pulse of cold magic hit the Seer squarely in the chest. Her eyes widened for a split second—but no scream came. Her body arched backward, and then collapsed into the chair, lifeless.
Her bowl shattered on the ground. The gas hissed out like a dying breath.
Kaelric slowly returned to his seat, brushing nonexistent dust off his coat. He looked around at the remaining five.
"Now then," he said, smiling again. "Shall we continue?"
Then, quieter—colder:
"Tonight... I will kill George."
The five remaining members at the table sat still, not daring to flinch.
Kaelric walked a few paces, his boots clicking softly against the polished stone, then turned his back on the council.
"And when I give the word…"
His voice carried a razor edge.
"You will attack Venrier Academy. Leave no student standing. No tree breathing. No memory alive."
One of the members—a hunched man with a metal jaw—nodded silently. Another, a woman cloaked in serpents, gave a twisted smile.
Kaelric didn't wait for further response.
He raised his hand, and in a flash of dark light, vanished.
---
The night sky stretched above like a black ocean, broken only by a swollen crimson moon. In the middle of a desolate field stood Kaelric—alone, tall, his coat billowing in the chill wind. Around him, black magic spiraled upward like smoke from a cursed fire.
His hands glowed with energy, runes burning brighter than before, the air warping around them. With each step, the ground beneath him cracked and shivered as if nature itself rejected his presence.
A small cottage stood in the distance.
It looked simple, peaceful—too peaceful.
Its walls were made of aged wood, with moss creeping up the corners and a single candle flickering in the window.
Kaelric approached slowly, calmly, his footsteps silent now. The black magic around his hands pulsed with intensity, but he kept them lowered—waiting. He stood before the door and stared at it, almost as if it might open on its own in fear.
But it didn't.
So he raised one hand—and pushed it open.
It didn't creak. It didn't resist. It simply opened, welcoming in the darkness.
Kaelric stepped inside.
The wooden floor creaked softly beneath his boots. The shadows behind him curled and twisted, eager to leap. But he raised a hand—and they froze.
A voice echoed from the corridor.
Strong. Low. Unshaken.
"If you want to kill my son…"
A figure stepped into view—tall, broad-shouldered, a living mountain of resolve.
"…you'll have to get through me."
The man was older—perhaps in his late forties—but he stood tall. His hair was black streaked with grey, swept back behind his ears, and a thick scar cut down his left cheek. His eyes were steel grey, sharp as a blade.
He wore a battle-worn coat over a dark tunic, and strapped across his back was a blade—ancient, its hilt etched with golden runes, humming faintly with restrained power.
This was no ordinary man.
This was Thorne Arkwright—once a general in the War of Seven Realms. Now just a father.
Kaelric stopped in the middle of the corridor. The shadows behind him curled and hissed.
"Thorne Arkwright... I was hoping the boy would be alone."
Thorne narrowed his eyes.
"He isn't a boy anymore. And he'll be ready for you."
"But first, you'll deal with me."
The candles in the corridor flickered and blew out.
Darkness fell.
Kaelric struck first—black lightning tearing through the air. Thorne countered, his sword flashing with golden energy. Magic and steel collided. The floor cracked. The house shook. Thorne summoned glowing roots to bind Kaelric, but Kaelric turned them black and crushed them to dust.
They clashed again and again.
Thorne was powerful, relentless.
But Kaelric was something else—an abyss wrapped in a man's skin.
Kaelric whispered a forbidden word. A massive wave of dark magic struck Thorne's barrier and shattered it. The old warrior was hurled back through the wall into the next room, coughing blood, barely standing.
Kaelric walked slowly into the ruined room.
"You fought well," he said softly.
"For a man clinging to a lost cause."
Thorne smiled through the pain.
"If I bought my son even a minute more… then I've already won."
Kaelric's expression darkened. He raised his foot and planted it on Thorne's throat.
"No. You've lost."
And pressed down.
Thorne Arkwright died without a cry.
---
Kaelric moved deeper into the house.
He opened the final door—and stopped.
The bedroom was bathed in soft silver light. Runes covered the floor. A glowing shield pulsed gently around a cradle in the center of the room. A woman stood before it—her arms raised, her hair singed, her eyes filled with determination.
She was young but worn. Her auburn braid was frayed. Her long robe, soaked with magic, clung to her trembling form.
Kaelric's voice echoed through the room.
"Do you think that shield can protect it… from me?"
The woman didn't look at him.
She stared at the baby.
"No," she whispered.
"But it can protect it… from me."
Kaelric stepped forward.
"What?"
She smiled sadly—just once.
Then slammed her palms to the floor.
A surge of radiant energy burst out from her body.
The entire house was erased in an instant.
Walls, ceiling, floor—vanished into white. Kaelric's black magic screamed as it was obliterated. The light consumed everything.
---
And when the blast faded…
There was silence.
No Kaelric.
No woman.
No house.
Only ashes and broken earth.
Except—at the center—stood a bed.
A single cradle.
Untouched.
And in it, a crying baby.
The shield around him flickered and faded.
The baby's fists clenched, and he wailed.
And then, in the stillness…
His left eye shifted.
A glow pulsed in his pupil.
A shape appeared.
A dragon.
Coiled and burning.
Born not to be protected…
…but to rise