The night was heavy, oppressive. Two moons—one bluish and peaceful, the other red and glowing like a bloodied eye—ruled over the sacred valley of Nareth. This was a world where magic vibrated in the air like a silent song. The Obrys Mountains shimmered beneath the mist, and the Clan of the Blood Flames, reclusive and proud, celebrated a rare birth: that of the child of Chief Kaen and his companion Serya. For generations, no child had been born with the pure ancestral light.
Serya, panting, her black hair soaked in sweat, her feverish blue eyes blazing, screamed in labor. The women of the clan chanted softly, calling upon the blessing of the elders. In her arms, a newborn with white hair—a rare and pure trait—opened deep, dark blue eyes for the first time. He did not cry. He observed.
But joy was short-lived.
A wave of black mana swept across the horizon. A crushing pressure made trees, houses, and hearts tremble. Kaen leapt from the room, sword strapped to his back, white hair whipping in the storm of mana. From his perch, he saw the first signs of the attack: enchanted spears, magical projectiles, and masked figures. A silent army—advanced, disciplined.
"They came to erase us," he whispered.
Before charging, Kaen faced a man in an iron mask—clearly a leader. They stared at each other.
"Kaen of the Flames, your blood has flowed too long. There is no place in this world for those who refuse to kneel."
"And you kill those who stand? Such courage."
Without another word, their swords clashed. A bloody dance began. Kaen cut down his foes at inhuman speed, his blade tracing arcs of fire in the night. He slid, pivoted, parried, countered. One against ten. One against twenty.
Meanwhile, in the house, Serya wrapped her son in a blessed cloth. She was weak, but her gaze burned.
"Nyra… take him. Hide him. Protect him."
Nyra, hair tied, face smudged with ash, nodded. She took the baby in her arms, held him tightly, and vanished into the sacred tunnels. Magical beasts haunted those depths, but she wasn't afraid. She was running for a life.
Footsteps followed her. Silent mana-hunters. She dodged a projectile, rolled, leaped. An arrow grazed her shoulder. Still, she held on.
She reached the lake, panting. The pagineur awaited—a semi-aquatic beast trained to flee battle with infants. She placed the baby into its vessel.
"Live, little one. And one day… remember."
Then she ran the other way, drawing enemies with her, a dagger in each hand.
And so ended the Clan of the Blood Flames.
The first thing Éric felt was light. Warm, thick, almost alive. It didn't just illuminate—it saturated every fiber of his tiny body. The air was laced with a bittersweet smell, between damp wood and scorched flesh. An invisible trail of ancient magic lingered.
Under his numbed fingers, he felt the rough weave of soaked cloth, salty and muddy—clinging to his skin like an organic cocoon.
A deep hum pulsed in his ears, like the universe itself was whispering ancient words through the beat of his newborn heart. Gentle ripples of water surrounded him like a calming rhythm. A faint warmth in his chest reminded him: he was alive. Painfully, yes—but undeniably.
And then came the thoughts—fragmented, absurd, but sharp:
"What the hell? I was supposed to be dead. This is death? Why am I so small? Oh great… I'm a baby, aren't I? Wonderful."
He felt confusion, terror, irony all at once. A scientist, reborn into the soft helpless body of an infant. There was no reason, no control, just raw experience.
Everything felt both immense and minuscule. His body too tight, his limbs too soft. Hunger gnawed at him like a cruel itch—sharp and unrelenting. "Sleep… or cry… or sleep… I don't even know anymore…"
Pain wasn't a stab—it was a dull, constant weight. His tiny muscles locked, his chest squeezed like under a boulder. And yet, deep in the fog of exhaustion, an ember of consciousness gleamed. He remembered dying. Remembered his name. Remembered that sterile hospital room.
"You won't have time to regret anything, Éric," he'd told himself back then. "Science is all you knew. And it killed you."
Now he was being reborn. In silence. In a body that wasn't his. In a magic he didn't yet understand.
He didn't know how long he drifted, cradled by the pagineur, rocked by the waves. But the semi-aquatic creature had brought him to a secluded bank, sheltered by tall grass and a silent forest. The night's mana still lingered in the air—dense and mystical. The two moons, one pale and bluish, the other red and vibrant, cast soft light on the water.
He was cold. Not a biting cold—but a humid, clingy cold that seeped into his bones. His tiny fingers curled instinctively, as if grasping for warmth. He wanted to cry, but even that seemed beyond his strength.
Then—crunching leaves. Footsteps.
"What the…"
Mira, brown-skinned, sturdy, her hair tied under a linen scarf, approached cautiously. A basket of roots dangled in her hand. What she found was no herb.
A wooden cradle, half-submerged at the lake's edge. A dead creature—large, scaled, mouth agape like a silent prayer—lay beside it. Mira paused, wary. Then—she heard a whimper.
She knelt, pulled apart the soaked cloth.
"By the moons… a baby?!"
Pale, trembling, lips parted, vision blurred. But alive.
"You're holding on, little one," she whispered. "We won't leave you here."
She held him against her chest. He was freezing, but breathing. A faint rune flickered on the cloth before fading. Mira frowned, but didn't hesitate. She turned and ran—to Stella's forge.
Stella opened the door before Mira even knocked, as if she'd sensed the mana. Tall, elegant, emerald-eyed. She took the child without a word, placed him on the kitchen table.
Her hands hovered above him. A green light flowed from her palms. The baby sighed, his tiny body relaxed. Éric's eyes opened a second time—and met hers.
That gaze… he'd never known one like it. Not even in his former life.
"He's alive. But marked," Stella murmured.
"Think he's from the Black Lake?" Mira asked, catching her breath.
"No. He's from farther. And he's crossed more than water."
Silence fell—reverent. The child finally slept. A tear slid down his cheek.
When Gaël came home—hammer in hand, arms coated in soot and sparks—he froze at the sight. He stepped closer, touched the baby. Warmth had returned. Breathing, steady.
"He has no one?"
"He has us," Stella replied.
Gaël nodded.
"Then that's enough."
And so the last child of the Blood Flames became Éric, adoptive son of a blacksmith and a mage with a boundless heart. And thus began a tale of pain, secrets, and fire.