The doors of the temple exploded inward with a BOOM, splinters and stone shards ricocheting across the grand hall. Cold mist flowed in through the breach, curling around the pews and sacred carvings. At its center stood Eadric—his eyes calm, silver hair swaying gently in the bitter wind summoned by his presence. The worshipers of Nephralith turned in alarm, cloaked in their ceremonial robes, incense still trailing from their hands.
"What—?!"
"He's not one of us!"
"An intruder—kill him!"
A dozen of them rushed forward in a disorganized wave, swinging daggers and chanting protective verses that fizzled on their tongues. But Eadric didn't flinch. With a single breath, he raised his hand, ice crystals blooming from his palm like petals in reverse. SHING!SHING!SHING!—ten spears of pure ice manifested in the air, their jagged forms humming with mana.
Without hesitation, he sent them flying. CRACK!THWACK!SPLURT!
One struck a man directly in the head, the tip punching through his skull with a sharp crack. Blood sprayed outward in a fine red mist, hanging briefly in the air. Another impaled a woman through the chest, lifting her off her feet before she crumpled like cloth. Screams erupted in layers—some gurgled, some high-pitched, others choked with rage.
"You monster!" someone yelled.
Eadric said nothing. His eyes swept across the room, cold and clinical. Another wave came—more coordinated this time, their numbers bolstered from deeper within the temple. A line of zealots armed with cruel blades and desperation.
WHOOSH!CRACK!SCHLUK!
He moved like winter itself. Walls of ice rose to block their path, only to shatter and impale them as they climbed. One tried to chant a spell but coughed blood mid-incantation, an icicle bursting from her throat. Others died screaming, cursing him, cursing their god, begging for salvation that never came.
Soon, silence fell.
The air was heavy with mana, iron, and fear. Blood pooled across the marble floor, already freezing over in patches. Only one remained—the high priestess. She had collapsed near the altar, a jagged ice shard lodged in her thigh. She whimpered, clutching her robes with blood-soaked fingers.
Eadric stepped toward her, his boots crunching over shattered remains of pews and bodies. He knelt beside her, face unreadable.
"I'm not here for you," he said softly. "Well, not exactly."
She spat at him, lips trembling. "You'll… pay for this… fucking heretic."
"I've paid enough," he murmured, brushing aside a broken chain from her shoulder. "Tell me where it is. The relic. The one that holds a fragment of your god."
Her eyes widened.
Eadric's tone turned sharp, laced with frost. "Don't make me ask twice."
The silence stretched, broken only by the low, bitter muttering of the priestess as she spat curses under her breath, her eyes fixed on Eadric with quiet fury.
The priestess was breathing in shallow gasps, her hands slick with blood as she tried to crawl backward—away from him, from the pain, from whatever monster she thought he was. But Eadric didn't pursue. He simply raised his palm again, and the temperature dropped.
CRACKLE...SSSSHT—! A thin stream of glimmering ice threaded through the air, wrapping around the priestess's wrist like a snake. Her eyes widened just before she screamed.
The magic activated—not the kind that killed, but the kind that hurt. Pain bloomed across her skin in waves, sharp and unnatural, as if thousands of invisible needles were stabbing into every pore of her body.
She thrashed, shrieking and clawing at her own flesh, her voice echoing against the stone walls.
"Make it—MAKE IT STOP!"
Eadric stood calmly in the middle of the chaos, watching. "Then tell me. Where is the relic? You know what I came for. You know what it does."
The priestess sobbed, "You… don't…. understand… it's not meant…. for heretics… It's—"
Another twist of Eadric's fingers, and she howled again, her back arching from the floor. Blood dripped from her nose, her ears.
"I know exactly what it is," Eadric said coldly. "The Molt. A divine fragment that allows your god to manifest temporarily."
He knelt beside her again, his face close, his voice low. "But I don't need your god's divine revelation. I just need some answers. He paused, eyes locked on hers, letting the weight of his words settle. "So I'll ask one last time—where is it?"
The priestess whimpered but clenched her teeth.
Fine, he thought. No more brute force.
Eadric's eyes glowed faintly, a soft hum of mental energy building around his temples. "Let's loosen your tongue a bit." He reached into her mind—not to control it, but to persuade it, weaving threads of suggestive magic that softened her resistance like melting snow.
Her pupils dilated, the sharp tension in her face melting away. The hostility drained from her eyes, replaced by a calm, glassy stillness. Her shoulders loosened, lips parting slightly as the magic settled over her mind—gentle but firm, like warm water seeping into cold stone. Under its influence, resistance gave way to quiet compliance, and the truth hovered just behind her tongue.
"I… I can show you," she muttered, voice dull and empty. "I'll… I'll take you to it."
He released the ice restraints. She crumpled but did not resist. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet with trembling legs, guided more by magic than will. Blood stained her robes, her movements jerky like a puppet dancing through pain.
Eadric followed in silence as she led him behind the altar. She placed her palm on an ancient symbol engraved into the wall. CLUNK… GRRRR… The stone shifted, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness.
"A secret chamber," she whispered. "We were told to never bring outsiders here…"
Eadric stepped past her into the shadows, his hand glowing with soft blue light to illuminate the path. His voice was calm but unrelenting.
"Good thing I'm not just any outsider."
The narrow staircase opened into a cold, cavernous chamber beneath the temple, where shadows clung to the walls like living things. The air was thick with dust and a faint, acrid scent—like burnt incense mixed with something metallic and old.
At the center of the room stood an altar carved from obsidian stone, slick and polished to a mirror sheen. Hovering just above it was the relic—a single, massive scale, black as midnight but shimmering with iridescent veins of color that twisted and danced beneath its surface like liquid rainbows. It pulsed softly with a dark, ominous light.
Eadric's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, the faint glow from his palm casting eerie reflections on the relic's glossy surface. This was it—the Molt of Nephralith, one of the few remaining fragments of the god's divine essence. The heart of their faith and power, now within his grasp.
A low hum vibrated through the air, almost alive, as if the scale itself breathed.
Eadric knelt and ran a gloved finger near the relic, careful not to touch it directly. He could feel the raw power radiating off it—cold, suffocating, yet intoxicating. This was no mere artifact; it was a living shard of a god.
He knew exactly how to wield it—but not without cost.
A deep breath escaped him as memories of forbidden rituals flickered through his mind. Using the Molt demanded a sacrifice—a price bloodied and steep, one that weighed heavily on any who dared summon such power.
With a subtle gesture, Eadric summoned his magic hourglass. It materialized in the air beside him with a faint shimmer, sands glowing softly within the delicate glass. TICK… TICK…
He watched the sands slip steadily, calculating how much time remained before reinforcements would reach the temple—still a few hours, just enough to complete what he came for.
Eadric's gaze returned to the relic, steady and unyielding.
He whispered under his breath, "This ends tonight."
As the last grains of sand slipped quietly through the hourglass, the chamber seemed to hold its breath alongside him—waiting.
Eadric's hands glowed icy blue as he uttered a sharp command. Immediately, a chilling magic wrapped around the priestess like invisible shackles, binding her tightly. She dropped to her knees but fought fiercely, thrashing and twisting to break free. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, and her eyes blazed with defiance.
"No! I won't do your bidding!" she spat, struggling against the magical chains that forced her limbs to obey.
Despite her desperate efforts, her arms rose slowly, trembling, controlled by a force stronger than her own will. Her fingers began to trace faint symbols on the cold stone altar beneath her, and her lips quivered as she tried to resist the incantations spilling from her mouth. The battle between her spirit and Eadric's magic was visible in every strained movement and anguished expression.
The ritual itself was simple. It required only two elements: the divine relic hovering above the altar—a massive black scale shimmering with dark energy—and a living sacrifice to awaken its power.
The priesthood of Nephralith had used it for generations, offering lives to receive divine revelations. But never their own. The sacrifices were always chosen from among the devout—loyal believers who gave themselves willingly, convinced their death would bring honor and truth. The priests merely guided the ritual, untouched by its cost.
But not tonight… tonight, the priestess was to be that sacrifice.
Eadric watched coldly as she chanted the words, each syllable forced through clenched teeth. The runes glowed faintly beneath her hands, pulsing with growing energy. Despite the apparent ease of the ritual, the priestess's resistance made every moment feel heavy with tension. Her whole body trembled, sweat beading on her forehead, but her hands continued their slow, unwilling work.
"This isn't what the god wants," she gasped between spells, voice raw with pain and desperation. "You're twisting this ritual… using me."
Eadric's gaze was unyielding. "Your beliefs don't matter. This ritual must be completed, with or without your consent. You will either finish it or die trying to resist it."
The priestess's legs shook violently, and she tried to curl inward, as if to protect herself from the cold magic clawing at her will. But the magic forced her forward, commanding every fiber of her being. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, searching for some sign of mercy, but there was none.
Tears streamed down the priestess's pale cheeks, her body trembling violently, but her hands moved on—forced by Eadric's unyielding magic. Somewhere behind her eyes was a scream, a desperate plea for death instead of betrayal.
She would have taken her own life if she could—anything to stop what was coming. But the spell held her like iron shackles, her will overridden, her limbs no longer her own. With a final, trembling gesture, she inscribed a complex rune atop the glowing magic circle etched beneath the altar's cold stone.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the first words came out broken—barely a whisper, stuttering through clenched teeth and sobs. Her voice trembled, each syllable dragged from her throat against her will.
Then, slowly, it steadied. Her voice dropped into a dark, eerie chant, the words curling like smoke through the heavy air. Suddenly, the rune flared with a blinding light. The very ground beneath them trembled as an ominous glow pulsed from the relic hovering above the altar—the Molt of Nephralith.
A deep rumble echoed through the temple walls, and shadows danced wildly in the flickering light. The priestess's form began to waver, her edges blurring as if she were dissolving.
In a moment both haunting and surreal, her body transformed into a swirling red mist. The fog coiled and surged upward, drawn inexorably toward the relic's iridescent surface. With a final shudder, the priestess vanished, absorbed entirely into the glowing scale.
Silence fell, heavy and complete. Only the faint hum of dark magic lingering in the air.
Eadric tightened his focus—the ritual was nearly complete, and soon he will get answers.
As the heavy, oppressive silence settled over the chamber, thickening the air like smoke. From the heart of the altar, where the Molt of Nephralith hovered, a dark aura began to pulse and ripple. It grew, fierce and alive, radiating a malevolent energy that sent a chill crawling beneath Eadric's skin.
The glossy black scale shimmered, veins of iridescent red swirling beneath its surface, casting eerie shadows across the walls.
Suddenly, the relic exhaled—a dense fog, black as night streaked with deep crimson, rose slowly, coiling and twisting like serpents awakening from a long slumber. The mist thickened, pulsing with an unnatural life, and began to solidify, taking shape before Eadric's eyes.
From the shifting fog emerged a towering figure, its body still half-formed, a mass of writhing black mist. Twin eyes, glowing red like burning coals, opened within the darkness—followed by a wide, gaping mouth lined with rows upon rows of jagged, needle-like fangs. It grinned with something ancient and hungry, its presence pressing down on the air like a curse given form.
The god of Nephralith had descended.
"Why have you summoned me?" the voice hissed, low and hollow, echoing unnervingly in the chamber. It was a voice older than time itself, filled with disdain and raw power.
Eadric met the gaze without faltering, his stance calm and unwavering despite the god's overwhelming presence. The deity's eyes narrowed, recognizing that Eadric was no worshiper, no believer—an intruder unworthy of reverence. Fury crackled through the air like lightning as the god's form pulsed with rage.
"Foolish mortal," it growled, "You dare call upon me, yet you bear no allegiance. What do you seek?"
Eadric's voice was steady, resolute. "I seek the truth. Are you the one who cursed my grandson, Alaric? The one who marked him?"
The god's glare deepened, the oppressive aura thickening as it recoiled at the question. But Eadric stood firm, his magical defenses rising like an invisible shield. The entity before him was no full descent—merely an apparition, a fragment of Nephralith's will summoned through the relic. Its power was vast, but incomplete—only enough to speak, not to strike.
Eadric was no ordinary man. As the most powerful magician on the continent, his presence was fortified by countless layers of enchantment. No divine fury, not even from a god's shade, could break him.
For a long moment, only the crackle of arcane energy filled the air as god and mage stood locked in a tense standoff. The silence stretched, heavy and brittle, until the god finally spoke—its voice a low, thunderous rumble that shook the stones beneath their feet.
"You seek answers," it growled, each word laced with weight. "Then you must offer payment."
Eadric's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "Take my mana. Take the secrets I've gathered. Take my life's years. Whatever the price is—what do you want?"
The god's gaze swept over the offered sacrifices but remained unimpressed, as if they were mere trinkets compared to what it desired. Then, with a cruel smile, the god's voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "I want something more... painful. A memory. One you cherish."
Eadric's breath hitched. "Which memory?" he asked sharply, suspicion creeping into his tone.
The god chuckled darkly. "It matters not. Even if you recall it now, it will fade—lost forever in the fog of your mind."
A cold fury flared inside Eadric. This was no simple request; it was an insult. "It's not just a memory," he spat, voice trembling. "It's a part of me—something I can't just give away."
The god shrugged with a mocking ease, as if amused by the mortal's stubbornness. "Truth demands sacrifice. If you want answers, you must give a truth in return."
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. Then, with a reluctant nod, Eadric finally spoke, his voice heavy but resolute. "Fine, take whatever you want."
Without warning, the god's form shifted, extending a misty claw that reached toward Eadric's mind. The sensation was like icy fingers ripping through his very soul. A sharp stab of pain, then a sudden emptiness—something vital had been torn away.
Eadric staggered, blinking to steady himself. His voice was cold, steady, devoid of hesitation. "Speak," he commanded. "Even though I don't know what you took, you'd better speak now."
The temple fell into a heavy silence after Eadric's cold demand, the oppressive air thick with anticipation. The black and red fog that had birthed the god's terrible form still writhed gently above the altar, pulsing with eerie life.
The god's crimson eyes fixed on Eadric with a mix of amusement and impatience before it finally spoke—its voice low, sharp, and biting like a blade scraping stone.
"I am not the one who cursed this child, Alaric," the god said plainly, as if dismissing an absurd rumor. "Such petty cruelty is beneath me. I would not waste my power on something so trivial." Its tone was scornful, full of disdain.
Eadric's heart quickened. "Then who?" he demanded, voice echoing in the still temple.
The god's dark form shifted, a shadow within shadows. "The mark upon the boy's flesh is the work of a far older, far crueler entity—one that has existed in this world long before my time, long before the birth of gods such as myself." It paused, eyes narrowing. "I will not speak its true name. You will only hear its title: Dream-Eater."
Eadric's breath caught, a chill crawling up his spine. The implication settled like a stone in his gut. The Dream-Eater—an ancient, malevolent force—had targeted Alaric. This was no random curse but a premeditated, relentless hunt spanning beyond time itself.
The god's voice took on a sharp edge, irritation flickering through its crimson glare. "The Dream-Eater plants its seeds deep within the souls of the unborn. It moves between the fragile threads of time, weaving where none should be."
Eadric swallowed hard, pressing forward despite the dread settling in his chest. "Tell me the true name," he urged, "so I can fight it."
The god's amusement twisted into menace. "You ask for a truth far heavier than any memory," it warned. "The price is greater still."
For a long moment, Eadric weighed the cost. The memories he'd lost were unknown to him—he didn't know which pieces of himself had been stolen, so he felt no clear emptiness yet. Still, the weight of what might be gone pressed on him. Could he bear more? The god's challenge hung in the air, a dark offer with no guarantees.
He stepped back slowly, voice steady but firm. "I've learned enough for now."
The tension shattered as the distant sound of approaching footsteps and warhorns echoed through the temple's outer halls—the reinforcements had arrived exactly when Eadric had predicted.
Without a word, he summoned a shimmering portal with a flick of his hand. The black and red fog curled and thickened in the god's presence, its gaze lingering on Eadric before he stepped through the portal.
Eadric carefully ensured that no trace of his mana or presence remained.
But the god's voice echoed behind him, cold and laced with dark certainty. "You've amused me, mage. Now, it is you who bears the curse, not the boy— and my mark does not fade so easily."
And with that, the god's eyes narrowed, watching as the mage vanished into the swirling portal, the heavy weight of those words trailing behind like a shadow.
**
[Vaelminia Kingdom, Argentvale Dukedom, Sothastirith Region, Solara CXV AH.]
Alaric sat alone in his dimly lit chamber, the heavy silence pressing in on him like a second skin. The world outside buzzed with whispers—about the cursed child, about his birth and the rumors that clung to him like shadows. But Alaric paid no mind to the gossip.
They don't understand. None of it matters. Avalon is all that matters now.
Since his birth, he'd heard the murmurs. The ceremony that should have been a celebration felt more like a sentence. Yet the only thing burning in his mind was the promise Viviane made—the promise of access to Avalon. She had agreed to grant it, but no word had come since.
Frustration tightened his chest. If she won't reach out, then I must act on my own.
He glanced down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. The undeveloped mana core within him pulsed faintly, strange and unfamiliar. There was a mark embedded deep inside it—something tied to the ritual that had brought him back to life.
His confinement was both prison and sanctuary. Officially, he was still sick, and thus kept isolated. But the truth was he was healed, though no one knew how to explain it. When his mother tried to stay by his side, he insisted with quiet firmness, "Please, let me sleep alone. I need to rest if I'm going to get better."
She had hesitated but finally agreed, unaware that his sickness was only a veil for what he was really fighting.
Now, in the solitude of his room, Alaric closed his eyes and reached deep within himself, searching for the faint pulse of mana. Slowly, carefully, he gathered it, trying to coax it into his core.
It's slow. Too slow. That mark... it won't let me grow.
He opened his eyes and whispered, "I won't give up. Not now. Not ever."
Night after night, he repeated the ritual, stubborn and silent, driven by a single truth.
I am not cursed.
Weeks slipped by, each night folding into the next with little to show for his efforts.
The mark within his mana core had not disappeared—it had transformed, shifting into something vast and wild, a surge of raw mana that both terrified and fascinated him. Still, progress eluded him.
Alaric's restless energy settled into quiet focus. The strange flickers of erratic behavior faded, replaced by a calm determination. Even Camilla, the maid who once kept her distance, now moved with an ease around him that hadn't been there before. She obeyed his simple requests without question—fetching water, clearing his chamber—and in those small acts, an unspoken bond began to grow.
She understands I'm not the child they whisper about. Not really.
Though he said little, Alaric trusted Camilla in ways he couldn't explain, and she responded with silent care, respecting the fragile space he guarded so fiercely.
Each night, he knelt by the faint glow of his mana core, drawing in the surge, trying to tame it, to shape it into something controllable. Yet the power resisted, slipping through his fingers like smoke.
Why won't you listen? Why won't you grow?
Frustration prickled beneath his calm exterior, but Alaric refused to falter. I am the Tower of Avalon's mage. I can do this.
One evening, after another fruitless attempt, he pushed himself up and whispered to the empty room, "Maybe strength isn't just about mana."
He folded his arms and looked out the window toward the distant horizon. I need to learn more about this world, understand its rules before I can master it.
Though the path was uncertain, Alaric's resolve was ironclad. The mark was gone, replaced by something greater. Now, it was time to grow in other ways.
He is a Tower of Avalon's mage, its protector.