The sun had already vanished beyond the horizon when Elder Marduk entered Elian's chamber to witness the consecration of his first altar.
It was the night of the Crimson Full Moon—known to the ancients as the Blood Moon. High above, its deep red hung like an omen, recalling flesh and incarnate blood, draping the earth in a glow of mystery and sanctity. Its light was not merely beautiful; it was unsettling, as though the sky itself watched in silence what was about to unfold.
The chill of night slipped through the cracks of the building, carrying with it a damp wind that bore the distant whisper of leaves. Few clouds moved sluggishly across the heavens, yet none dared obscure the crimson eye that illuminated Cainã. The land was bathed in red, as though the whole world had been washed in blood.
Marduk wore ceremonial vestments suited for the hour. Though the presence of an Elder was not required for a simple rite of consecration, he would permit no improvised shortcuts. Decorum was tradition's marrow. His robe was entirely black, heavy, embroidered with qliphothic symbols that seemed to pulse in the glow of the candles. Upon his chest hung an inverted triangular pendant, its point turned downward—not the emblem of the Order, but a far older sigil, representing the flow of the sacred into the profane, the descent of energy that corrupts and shapes.
Iolanda was present as well, and as a disciple already advanced, she dressed in a manner mirroring her father. Her black robe shimmered in the trembling firelight, though at her neck she bore a different pendant: a triangle pointing upward, symbol of receptivity. The gesture was not aesthetic but philosophical—energy received and transmuted, the positive force deformed, reconfigured by the Qliphoth.
It must be said: in the silence of that chamber, there was no space for human categories of good and evil, right and wrong. In the language of magic, positive and negative were not moral judgments, but complementary flows—necessary to sustain the life that breathes, grows, decays, and is reborn.
Elian, the heart of the ritual, was clothed differently. His robe bore no embroidery, no ornament. Red. Simple, yet heavy with symbolism. The red of life, of blood that pulses and spills; the red of beginnings. In the tradition of the Dark Throne, red was never mere color—it was the reminder that every magical path begins with sacrifice.
He stood before the altar he and Iolanda had prepared with care before Elder Marduk's arrival. The air was thick with the heavy smoke of dragon's blood incense burning at the four corners of the shrine. Its scent was bittersweet, metallic, reminiscent of heated iron, seeping into every breath, consecrating the moment.
The altar itself was a synthesis of life, death, and power. In the upper left corner rested a Black Mirror, forty centimeters across, its surface reflecting only darkness, as though it devoured the light around it. Beside it, in macabre contrast, lay the blackened heart of the Demon Tiger Elian had slain on the road to Askov. The petrified flesh still throbbed with a resonance of life, every fiber a memory of battle, a symbol of conquest and blood.
To the right of the heart rose the symbol of the Dark Throne—carved from enchanted black stone. It did not gleam with elemental hues, but vibrated with raw arcane energy, latent, awaiting invocation. It was a reminder that the Order stood not by chance, but on foundations carved from the abyss.
Beneath, aligned with ritual precision, lay the coins of the world of men: six golden Solars, six silver Coronas, six copper Cêntimos. Gold, silver, and bronze—the cycle of wealth and labor, the material tether binding magical power to mortal life.
At the center, however, lay Elian's true bond. The gray tunic Maria had sewn with her own hands. Simple cloth, patched in places, yet more precious than any treasure. Along its collar, the initials of his parents and siblings were stitched with uneven thread, almost childlike, but steeped in love. When Iolanda had asked what object he would choose as his link to the physical world, Elian had not hesitated. That tunic was the thread binding him to life, to memory, to the vow never to forget his family.
Beside this sacred relic of memory rested a small iron cauldron, holding scarcely a liter. In it, essences, herbs, and offerings would be burned—the fire transmuting all into smoke that would rise to the unseen.
On the lower tier of the altar, arranged with ritual symmetry, were the offerings: to the left, fresh fruit—apple, pear—and still-warm bread, its aroma mingling with incense. At the center, a silver chalice of wine, crimson as blood, shimmered beneath the candlelight. To the right, a ritual blade, its polished surface catching the light in threatening flashes, poised to spill the sacrifice that would bind blood to will.
The candles completed the scene. Two burned steadily beside the Demon Tiger's heart, while three more formed an inverted triangle above the gray tunic, its tip pointing downward—the symbol of energy descending through worlds. Their flames flickered in reddish tones, molded by the Carmine Moon that leaked through the chamber's hidden seams.
Everything was in its place. Each object, each flame, each breath composed a tableau not merely physical. The room was no longer a dormitory; it was a liminal space, a frontier between the visible and the unseen.
The door shut with a dry click, and the last glimmer of the blood moon's crimson was cut off, as if the world itself had severed Elian from the outside. The chamber, now transfigured into a personal temple, plunged into deep darkness. Only the altar's trembling candles shed their light, shaping shadows that slithered across the rune-carved walls.
Within, there was no longer a room. There was only the sanctuary where Elian would perform every private rite, the threshold where his body would remain while his soul dared to descend into the tunnels of the Qliphoth.
Marduk's grave voice broke the silence, echoing like a weight down Elian's spine:
— Are you ready, Elian? — he asked, standing just behind. His shadow, stretched by the flames, loomed larger than his body. — And have you chosen your magical name?
The "magical name," Elian thought before replying. It was no mere title. It was a veil, a purpose, a mask separating the mundane Elian from the mystical one. Within this space he could not be what he was outside. The name would be the thread binding him to the Dark Throne's egregore, the bridge tying him to qliphothic forces. Not a nickname, but a seal.
The chamber, scarcely three meters wide, seemed to expand and contract at once, compressing his chest with its living gloom. The candles burned low, spitting red-tinged flames over the altar. The Demon Tiger's heart seemed to pulse with the fire, and Maria's gray tunic shimmered as though woven of memory itself.
Elian turned. He met Marduk's crimson gaze and only nodded, firm, wordless.
— Then begin, — Iolanda said at his side. Her voice was calm, yet solemn, like a sentence pronounced.
Elian drew a long breath. The air reeked of iron, incense, and smoke. He approached the altar, his steps muffled by the black rug. His fingers brushed his dimensional ring, a pale gleam flaring in his hands. A small grimoire emerged, heavy, its leather cover marked by runes that seemed to vibrate in silence.
He opened it. Its pages creaked like bones being turned. He leafed carefully until he found the passage Iolanda had marked earlier that day. The letters, written in dark ink, seemed to shift in the candlelight, as though breathing.
Iolanda had taught him every word, every pause, every breath. Yet even for him, mind of an adult in a child's body, memorization alone was impossible. That was why she entrusted him with the grimoire—not as a crutch, but as a tool.
Elian raised the book before the altar. His shadow, cast upon the wall, doubled him, making him larger, older, almost another being.
Silence awaited. The temple awaited. The Qliphoth awaited.