Elian took the ceremonial dagger in his hands. The cold metal reflected the wavering light of the candles, its blade seeming to absorb the crimson glow emanating from the rune before the altar. The rune throbbed, pulsing in vivid red as though it were a living heart. Its meaning was carved in silence, yet shouted in essence: Power.
He raised the dagger and, in a firm voice, intoned:
"To the North, I open the gate!"
The blade cut the air, tracing an inverted pentagram that flared momentarily in incandescent red. The flames of the candles trembled, and a cold wind swept through the small temple, as if something had answered the call.
Elian took two steps back, turned slowly counterclockwise, and advanced again. Now his eyes met another rune, blazing crimson, carved into the stone: Ascension.
He pointed the dagger toward it, and his voice echoed through the closed chamber:
"To the West, I summon the gods of dusk!"
Another inverted pentagram burned in the air with red light. The scent of iron and incense thickened, as though the room itself breathed.
Again, two steps back. His body turned. Elian's gaze fell upon the third rune: Knowledge. Its vibration was sharper, like a whisper against the ear.
"To the South, I summon the God who guides me!"
The inverted pentagram flared for an instant, and Elian's heart quickened. His arm trembled slightly — not from fear, but from the energy coursing through the chamber.
Once more, two steps back. His counterclockwise turn brought him to the fourth rune: Life and Death. The duality carved in the stone seemed to watch him, and for a fleeting moment, Elian felt as though the candles themselves wavered between extinguishing and burning brighter.
He advanced, steady, raising the dagger:
"To the East, I summon the Light that carries Darkness within it!"
Another inverted pentagram was drawn into the air, dissolving into shadows that crept along the walls.
Elian stepped back again and faced the altar. The silence was dense, heavy, broken only by the crackling of dragon's blood incense burning in the four corners.
Then he raised the dagger high. On the ceiling, carved in deep black, the six-pointed star glimmered faintly in the candlelight, tinged with the crimson glow seeping through the enchanted windows. The blade shone in answer.
Elian's voice, now stronger, reverberated through the temple:
"May the energy that flows over Heaven and Earth descend upon me! May my spirit and my being be nourished by the LIFE and DEATH that surround us. May POWER help me overcome my limits and my trials! May KNOWLEDGE keep me from falling from my ASCENSION!"
A chill coursed through the air. The candle flames wavered in unison, as though they had heard.
Elian drew a deep breath. The hand holding the dagger slowly lowered, the blade pointing directly at the altar, straight and firm, like the seal of an irrevocable vow.
"I, who bear the name of Elian, renounce my profane name. From this day forth, I assume the mystical name of Seth!"
His voice shook the air, but not his resolve.
"May my profane life remain outside this temple, and here may I be known as a new being!"
The runes ignited in sequence — Power, Ascension, Knowledge, Life and Death — each flaring like embers in answer to the invocation. The altar pulsed, and the entire room seemed to breathe with it.
Elian lifted his eyes toward Marduk, seeking final approval. The elder, who until then had only watched in silence, like a mountain unmoved by storm, gave a single nod. The gesture was brief, yet heavy with authority, and it was enough — Elian understood: he could proceed.
He turned once more to the altar. The candles flickered in the faint, imperceptible breeze winding through the chamber, and the dragon's blood incense smoldered in the corners, spilling thick, aromatic smoke that mingled with the crimson runes.
On the altar, a spare candle lay drowned in its own melted wax. Elian took it in hand, raising it like a torch.
In the cauldron rested the ritual mixture: coal black as night, shriveled herbs pungent and bitter, and a resin gleaming beneath the candlelight. A promise of fire waited for a spark.
Elian touched the flame to the first candle and began.
Before the candle to the left of the Demon Tiger's heart, he declared firmly:
"May this flame light my path."
Then, before the candle to the right of the heart, his voice rang deeper:
"May this flame transmute the negative energies cast upon me."
He moved to the first candle beside the gray tunic — his bond to family — and his words carried the weight of a plea:
"May this flame purify my being, banishing all the darkness that torments me."
To the candle on the right of the tunic, his arm steady despite the burden of its meaning:
"May the fire burn my enemies and protect those who wish me well."
Finally, completing the inverted triangle, he lit the base candle, and his voice thundered:
"May the infernal flame fall upon me, bringing protection against all who rise against me!"
The circle was complete. Elian held the candle alight and, with a firm motion, tilted it over the cauldron. The fire caught instantly, devouring the coal and herbs. A sharp crack followed, then scarlet flames danced like serpents, casting monstrous shadows across the temple walls.
His voice rose, solemn and defiant, as the fire roared in answer:
"By the mystical name of Seth, I declare the portals open! I summon all beings — spirits or entities, angels or demons, creatures of light or darkness — to bear witness to the consecration of my altar!"
The walls seemed to shudder, the air grew heavy, and even the candles leaned inward, as if drawn toward the center in recognition of the call.
Elian seized the ceremonial dagger once more. The blade gleamed with crimson reflections, thirsty for fire. He thrust it through the cauldron's flames, its tip glowing with live embers.
His voice broke the silence like a vow:
"I purify and consecrate this blade in the name of Lucifer!"
The fire cracked violently, answering the invocation.
Elian's gaze fell to his small left hand. The dagger in his other hand felt heavier than ever, and for an instant he hesitated. The cut would be simple, but the act carried the weight of an eternal bond. His eyes drifted to the gray tunic resting at the altar's center, stitched with love by Maria's hands and marked with his siblings' initials. That was his tether to life, his reminder he could not falter. His resolve hardened.
The blade fell. Pain surged through his arm like thunder as the dagger split his flesh. Fresh blood spilled, dripping directly onto the petrified Demon Tiger's heart.
"In my mystical name, I consecrate and offer my blood, that you, Arianrhod, may be sanctified! Let the gods bear witness to our covenant, and let our fates be entwined!"
At once, a bluish-silver light burst from the dead heart. The glow pulsed like breath, and slowly the dark stone flushed into living red, like fresh flesh. The cauldron answered first: its flames twisted and writhed as though celebrating the arrival of a greater presence.
The candles melted at an unnatural pace, wax streaming in molten rivers. Then, in the windowless room, without air or draft, a wind began to stir. Not a common wind, but a spiral current, as though the very atmosphere had opened a path for divinity.
Elian's gaze clung to the heart until it changed. Before him, an ethereal maiden emerged. Her long hair flowed like silver tides, and a veil concealed her face. Behind her rose a radiant wheel, like a full crimson moon interwoven with the cold gleam of silver and blood.
Iolanda and Marduk exchanged a tense look. It was not common for consecration to summon a humanoid form. Something was moving beyond control.
The world tilted beneath Elian's feet. His vision blurred, the roar of phantom chants and wind swelling until unbearable. He tried to fix on Iolanda, to anchor himself, but her image was already dissolving before his eyes.
"Elian!" Iolanda rushed to him, trying to hold him before his body struck the cold floor.
Marduk advanced with deliberate weight, as if he had foreseen this. He gathered Elian's fragile body into his arms and laid him on the bed adjoining the ritual chamber.
"It has begun," his grave voice broke the silence. "He has been drawn into the next tunnel."
Iolanda gave no reply. She merely followed her father in silence, her gaze fixed upon the boy's still body.
★★★
"Wake up, son. It's time to get up." The soft, tender voice cut through the darkness like a whisper of spring.
Elian struggled to rise, still dazed, his mind fogged by the abrupt passage. His body felt heavy, as though trapped between worlds. When at last his eyes opened, the sight before him stole his breath.
A woman stood there. Her face was achingly familiar, yet distant as an ancient dream. Her serene smile, eyes gleaming with tenderness, arms open in welcome. It was as though time itself had halted, years of absence erased in an instant.
"Happy birthday, son!" she said, wrapping him in a warm embrace that for a moment dissolved all the cold that had corroded him.
Beside her, a firm man of paternal bearing inclined slightly, his deep voice echoing like a memory that had never faded:
"Happy birthday, son!"
Elian's heart clenched tighter. That sound, that presence… he knew, he remembered. It could not be mistaken.
And then, before he could react, a child's clear, crystalline voice rang from behind them. A brief laugh, pure, followed by small arms wrapping tightly around him:
"Happy birthday, Rodrigo!"
His chest burst open with pain and hope all at once. The name — Rodrigo. The embrace. The voice.
He could not hold back the whisper that escaped him, trembling, as though his heart were about to shatter:
"Luciana?"