"Awaken, and bring those hounds to ash."
A void stretched before me—an endless sea of stellar dust where oceans of stars twisted into the faint silhouette of a colossal figure, bathed in a mysterious light. Not a sun, but a radiance without a natural source, sharing its unnatural warmth.
Its aura drew me like a moth to flame. I took each step without doubt, though I could not fathom why I approached this alien existence.
"Where am I? What happened to me? Did everyone reach safety?" The questions swirled in the deep silence, yet the only certainty was the chill embracing me. Place, wakefulness, even existence—all were questions without answers.
I willed motion, and it followed, but wrong—like thought traveling through another's perception before reshaping into what I hesitantly called my body.
Then a deep, alien cry shattered the silence. The light vanished.
Wisps of dark matter lashed from the shadows, tendrils of eldritch smoke coiling around me. Monstrous claws slashed and carved. Each strike turned flesh to smoke, consuming me from within. I could not scream, could not move. Only pain remained, and the void staring back—until sight itself was taken.
When my eyes flickered open again, I lay in a realm of shadows. Above, stars gleamed beside black voids that drank the light. They illuminated a narrow path to a gothic castle of impossible geometry—towers twisting with every blink, foundations defying reason. It was the only solid thing in this nightmare.
Each step tightened my chest. Only then did I realize I had not breathed. Skin ice-cold, heart silent as the grave. Yet I marched on, compelled.
As the spires blotted out the starred sky, a formless voice—wearied, ancient—called from within.
"You were chosen, but not yet called, Silent One."
I raised a chilled hand to knock. The heavy door answered with a shrill, mocking laugh.
"Who chose me?" I demanded. "And why?"
"So that you may be my instrument," the voice rumbled, quaking the darkness. "I will make use of you."
"Why would I obey? What would you have me do?"
"Because it is my will—and your future—to bring death to the deserving."
"Death," I echoed, the word ash on my tongue.
"Oh yes," the voice purred. "You will do wonderfully. But not yet. Be on your way."
Silver light leaked through fissures in the starlit canopy. Where it touched my skin, it burned.
Agony hurled me backward onto the ground. Darkness deepened; flowing smoke pooled into black mire, rising, snaking across my flesh, adhering like tar.
The pain was exquisite—acid on flesh, torment in mind. Flashes assaulted me: the governor's pleading eyes as my blade ended him, guards' wet screams, cursed blood on my hands. Every killing replayed in merciless detail.
Torment swelled until consciousness fled, scorched into my core.
When the burning light faded, sight returned. I was free of the void, free of the alien domain.
The silver glow reshaped into the cold face of the moon. I floated in deep, tossing waters, limbs sluggish. The burning was gone, replaced by cool, unchanging mist clinging like a shroud.
As panic receded and reason flickered, the water churned. Strong arms hauled me upward, turning me face-to-face with my rescuer.
A towering man: golden-honey eyes, sharp scar from cheek to neck, long black hair pushed behind pointed ears. Imposing, yet he cradled me gently.
Dread crystallized as I glimpsed my own dangling, pudgy limbs.
*Am I… a child?*
The thought escaped as an infantile wail. Tears followed.
"There, there," he murmured, voice deep and soothing. "Your father is here. You took quite the tumble into the lake."
He inspected me, swaddled me in his jacket, and strode toward shore.
Maybe this was my punishment.
For the blood on my hands. For the ash I left behind.
Banished to this new world, overwhelmed by colors too bright, sounds too sharp, sensations flooding a fragile infant mind.
"Help… Salu… Merrina… please…" My pleas warped into ceaseless cries.
He pressed me to his chest. His heartbeat steadied me; struggle melted into dull coos beneath his gentle embrace.
Time blurred with exhaustion claiming me again and again. Brief clarity brought rustic trusses overhead, crackling hearth, and an aura gentler than summer sun.
I woke to labored breathing and watchful eyes. Figures hovered, faces pale. Some stumbled back, murmuring prayers; others fled. A warm hand held my tiny one.
Then darkness washed over the room. My hair blackened to pitch; steel-blue eyes became golden rings around endless voids. Ears sharpened to points. My first cry shattered every glass pane.
My father rushed forward, shielding the exhausted woman and the bundle in her arms.
"Send for the crone!" he bellowed. "And a raven to the Archduke—quickly!"
The crone arrived, hobbling, muttering incantations. Her assessment broke her; she collapsed to her knees.
"Accursed child," she spat, eyes wild. "The gods have turned their gaze away. Discard this worthless husk before he dooms us all!"
She seized a scalpel and lunged.
An oppressive, maleficent aura pressed against me—utterly unlike the warmth of my parents. Instinct surged. My unsteady infant hand rose from the swaddling, desperate to shield myself.
When a golden light flared out of Lyon's hands, enveloping his body in radiant hue.
In that same heartbeat, Lyon moved. One strike disarmed the crone and pierced her chest; the force sent her flying, corpse slamming against the door in a bloodied heap.
A weak cough from the woman drew him back. The golden light surrounding me faded as he turned.
"Are you alright, Enna?" he whispered, returning to her side and gently closing my tiny raised hand in his own.
"Hold him, Lyon," she pleaded faintly. "Hold him and keep him safe."
Instead, he scooped her up and carried us both from the bloodied room.
My eyes grew heavy again, body cold despite surrounding warmth.
When I woke once more, true warmth enveloped me. Hunger gnawed, yet calm had settled.
I knew her—she was my mother, holding me close, singing a soft, wordless lullaby. Her face remained fuzzy, but she radiated a gentle glow, like Salu once had.
I reached out, tiny fingers grasping air. Limbs felt alien, unresponsive. Confusion bred frustration, then rage—at this helpless form.
Yet her song soothed. Scenes flickered: the towering man cradling me by firelight; the woman nursing me with weary smiles. Slowly, meaning emerged from the flood of faces, voices, scents.
"Did a name come to you when you pulled him from the lake?" she asked, as I clung tightly to her.
"I would not rob you of the privilege," he answered, feeding another log to the hearth. Dusting his hands, he returned to her side, kissing her forehead, then mine.
"Your family has its traditions. Would you not honor them?"
"Enna," he said softly, "you and my son are my family. Whatever name you hold in your heart will be his, and I will love him by no other."
"Then… I would name him Roen."
"Roen," Lyon repeated, smiling. "Roen von Hrunting. Are you certain, my dear?"
"I am. I want to name him after the man who brought my beloved home—at the cost of his own life. He saved the most precious thing in my world. Let our son carry his name."
Lyon's eyes shone. "Were that old buzzard here, he'd turn beet red. It is a lovely name. It will suit our little Roen when he grows into it."