Blood and Broken Bones
"So the runt kills the giant? That's rich ."
His smile turned deadly. "Let the fools sing his name. Let them call him savior."
His voice dropped to a whisper, ice sharp and cruel: "We'll remind 'em what blood really built this world."
The air cracked.
Kaelvron's fury exploded—fast and brutal.
The first punch slammed into Morda's ribs with the force of a god's hammer.
Morda gritted his teeth, stifling a grunt.
Kaelvron's fists and elbows moved in a cruel, practiced rhythm—a brutal dance choreographed through years of hate.
Garruk roared and charged like a wounded animal but was caught mid-swing and slammed hard against the stone wall, breath whooshing from his lungs.
Veyren, the cold-eyed ghost, barely moved—skin tight over bones, eyes dead and empty behind his curtain of greasy hair. When Kaelvron's fist came at him, Veyren didn't flinch. His voice was hollow, barely a whisper, "Always the fucking loser."
Kaelvron crushed the dagger Veyren thrust out with a sickening snap of bone.
Torvahn's screams filled the room as Kaelvron grabbed his throat and slammed him face-first into the floor with a sickening crack.
Each strike wasn't just violence—it was a lesson.
Kaelvron was the storm, and they were the broken debris.
Morda's mind flickered with memories—nights spent curled in shadows, broken, begging for mercy that never came.
"You're weak. Worthless. You'll never be good enough."
Blood mixed with tears on Morda's battered face as he whispered, "Why… why do you hate us so much?"
Kaelvron's eyes burned cold and hard.
"I don't hate you," he said, voice a razor. "I hate weakness."
He turned away, leaving them broken but alive—souls cracked and bodies bruised, the echoes of his madness carved deep into their bones.
Grief and Resolve
The chill of early dawn clung to the air as Naelira stepped lightly through the narrow streets of the Draeven village. The world still whispered with sleep, but inside the modest stone house at the edge of town, Rigorus sat alone, shadows folding into his pale skin.
His gaze was distant, unfocused — like a man haunted by a storm raging beneath calm waters.
Naelira paused at the door, her soft footsteps barely stirring the dust.
"Rigorus," she called gently.
He didn't respond at first.
She stepped inside, the scent of herbs and dried fruit clinging to her—a warm reminder of the life beyond his walls.
"Why do you lock yourself away?" she asked softly, voice threading through the silence.
He looked up, eyes heavy but steady.
"Because it's easier than facing them."
Naelira settled beside him, pulling from her satchel a small wooden box.
"I brought you something," she said, opening it to reveal a cluster of pale pills.
"These will help steady the wildness inside you," she explained. "The aura you struggle to control."
He touched one, hesitation flickering in his eyes.
"Do you really think I can tame this... this curse?"
Naelira's gaze was steady. "It's not a curse, Rigorus. It's a part of you — powerful, yes, but not something that owns you."
He shook his head slowly, voice rough. "Every time I lose control, I hurt the people I care about. Liora... Mother... even you."
Her hand brushed his arm, warm and grounding. "You're not alone in this. I'm here. We all are."
He exhaled a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes it feels like this anger will swallow me whole."
Naelira's eyes softened. "Then we fight it together. One step at a time."
For a moment, the weight around his shoulders lifted—just enough for a spark of something like hope to flicker.
Outside, the first light of morning bled into the sky, washing the world in cold gold.
The Chosen and the Condemned
The sun barely pierced the horizon, casting long shadows over the dusty village road as the imperial convoy creaked into view. Golden banners bearing the Varkhain phoenix fluttered arrogantly, announcing the Radiant House's arrival like a thunderclap.
Inside the village inn, Prince Draxis lounged in regal repose, his sharp gaze barely hiding disdain for the rough land outside. Beside him, Princess Sylvara moved with quiet grace, eyes flickering with curiosity and something deeper — a calculating intelligence that missed nothing.
Outside, the imperial guards spilled into the streets, their boots pounding cobblestones with the certainty of conquerors. The air thickened with their pride and contempt.
"Step aside, peasants," barked a grizzled sergeant, shoving a farmer so hard he stumbled into his cart. "You're lucky to breathe the same air as the Varkhains."
A group of merchants whispered in fear as a pair of guards swaggered past, their swords clinking ominously.
Then came the moment that shattered the uneasy silence.
A scrawny boy, no more than ten, darted through the crowd, accidentally bumping into one of the guards.
The man's eyes flashed with brutal rage.
"What the fuck was that?" he snarled. "Watch where you're going, you little shit."
The boy stammered an apology, shrinking back, but the guard's hand was already on his dagger.
Steel gleamed in the early light, aimed for a child.
Before the blade could fall—
A sudden gust ripped through the street, carrying with it an unnatural chill.
The boy vanished.
The guard's arm sliced through empty air.
Across the street, Rigorus stood silently.
White hair tousled by the breeze, the single fused blade on his back radiating an eerie yin-yang aura — light and dark entwined in perfect balance.
"Back off," Rigorus said softly, voice steady yet carrying the weight of a coming storm.
The guard spat, stepping forward with a sneer. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
Before the man could draw his weapon again, a crimson halo bloomed behind Rigorus's head — the Mourning Halo igniting the air with whispers of sorrow and rage.
The temperature dropped sharply; the villagers recoiled.
The guards charged as one — a coordinated wave of steel and fury.
But Rigorus moved like a tempest, each strike precise and measured.
Blades shattered against his fused sword; limbs were twisted and thrown with devastating grace.
The fight dragged out — slow, punishing, and overwhelmingly one-sided.
The guards' arrogance turned to terror as their bodies were flung and broken.
One guard tried to cry out, but his voice choked into sobs.
Thirty guards lay battered, some unconscious, others gasping — none dead, spared by Rigorus's restraint.
A sudden hush fell over the village square.
Heads turned.
The murmur of the crowd dimmed as two figures stepped down from the inn's grand entrance.
The first was Prince Draxis Varkhain — tall and imposing, draped in a cloak of molten gold embroidered with the Varkhain phoenix, his silver-gold hair gleaming like sunlight caught in blades. His eyes burned amber, sharp and commanding, radiating the unyielding authority of a born sovereign.
Beside him was Princess Sylvara Varkhain — regal and statuesque, her raven-black hair cascading in perfect waves, framed by a crown of woven celestial silver. Her robes shimmered like the night sky, embroidered with threads that caught the light in subtle flashes of starlight. Her eyes, pale and piercing, seemed to see through souls, carrying the weight of ancient power and cold intellect.
Wherever they moved, the air thickened, as if the very atmosphere bent to their will — conversations faltered, common folk bowed instinctively, and even the hardened guards straightened under their gaze.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Look—it's the Radiant House."
"They say the king's children carry the blood of gods."
"Respect, or suffer the wrath."
Draxis's gaze swept the crowd, lingering on Rigorus with a mix of appraisal and suspicion.
Sylvara's eyes narrowed, curious yet unreadable.
The tension crackled.
The two royal siblings were more than nobles — they were living storms, the beating heart of the empire's iron will.
"What the hell is going on here?" Draxis demanded, his voice slicing through the silence.
Sylvara's gaze never left Rigorus.
"Savior or sinner," she murmured, "he's not like the others."
Draxis's jaw clenched.
"This one could be either our greatest asset or our worst nightmare