Thousands of years later...
Flickering torchlight painted grotesque shadows on moss-covered stones. The air, thick with incense and the metallic tang of old blood, suffocated the silence. A dozen cloaked cultists, their faces obscured but their eyes alight with avarice, formed a circle around a raised altar. Their leader, an Archon whose authority was absolute, chanted in a guttural, forgotten tongue.
On the altar, a coffin lay shrouded in darkness, bound by tarnished chains, ancient symbols carved into the stone beneath. A heavy, ornate cloth concealed it entirely. A nervous cultist whispered, "Are you certain this is wise, Archon? To awaken such power..."
The Archon's voice, a low growl laced with arrogance, cut through the air. "Silence. We control the ritual. We control the summoning. He will be bound to our will. He will be our weapon." His inner thoughts, however, betrayed a deeper ambition:
Soon, all the land will kneel before us. Macellion will be the key.
Another cultist voiced a concern. "But the legends... they speak of his untamable nature." His own mind wrestled:
Untamable... or simply waiting for the right hand to guide him? Such power, such grace... to be the one to master it, to possess it...
The Archon dismissed their fears. "Legends are just stories, Brother. We have the knowledge, the power, to bend him to our purpose. He has been dormant for centuries. He will be weak, disoriented. He will be ours."
He raised a ceremonial dagger, its blade glinting, and declared, "By the blood of the fallen, by the power of the ancient ones, we summon you! Rise! Rise and serve!"
He plunged the dagger into the altar. A surge of dark energy erupted, making the torches flicker wildly. The chains binding the figure rattled and strained. A cultist gasped, "The energy... it's unlike anything I've ever felt." His thoughts were a dizzying mix of awe and anticipation:
This is it. The culmination of years of study, of devotion. We are on the verge of greatness. And to witness his awakening... to be so close to such a legendary being...
Cracks spiderwebbed across the stone floor, and the air crackled with static. The cultists struggled, their faces contorted in effort. The Archon exclaimed, "Almost there... almost ours..."
A blinding light burst forth, causing the cloth to billow and tear. The temple shuddered violently, chunks of stone raining down from the ceiling. A cultist cried out, terrified yet awestruck, "He's awakening! The beauty... it's blinding!"
His mind reeled: Gods... he's even more magnificent than the legends described. His skin like moonlight, his features carved by the divine. To simply gaze upon him... to have him stand before us... A shiver, not entirely of fear, traced its way down his spine.
The coffin opened, and a figure rose from it, revealing the figure. An ethereal beauty emerged, a face of sculpted perfection framed by dark, flowing hair. The light intensified, illuminating him with an otherworldly glow. Each cultist felt an undeniable pull, a primal fascination with the unfolding vision. Their breath hitched, their eyes wide with a mixture of reverence and a more carnal desire.
He's perfect. More than perfect. To have such a being at our command... to touch that power, that form... it would be ecstasy.
He will be mine to direct, to shape.
When the last shred of cloth vanished, the figure stood tall and proud, his eyes glowing crimson with an unnerving, silent power. He exuded an aura of alertness, a predatory awareness that sent shivers down the cultists' spines.
The Archon knelt, a complex cocktail of awe, possessiveness, and dark yearning in his gaze. "Welcome back, Lord Macellion. We are your servants, the Keepers of the Flame. We have brought you back to restore balance to this world, under our guidance."
Macellion surveyed the cultists with a cold, calculating gaze. He remained silent, but his eyes seemed to pierce their very souls, seeing their hidden desires: not just to wield his power, but to own him, to possess his very being, to dominate his ethereal form.
A profound flicker of utter disgust crossed his face, a revulsion so deep it chilled the very air.
He raises his hand slightly, and a wave of unseen energy throws the cultists back against the walls. Their screams are cut short as they are silenced by his overwhelming presence.
...
The air was thick with tension, the ground beneath his feet cold and unforgiving. A sea of faces surrounded him, their expressions a chilling mix of anger, disappointment, and something akin to hunger. He was bound tightly to a rough-hewn wooden post, the ropes digging painfully into his wrists, restricting any movement.
"You betrayed us!" a voice roared from the crowd, the sound amplified by the open space. The accusation hung in the air, heavy and condemning. "You were supposed to protect us, to guide us. But you only thought of yourself, of your own desires!"
Was I really being selfish? he thought, his mind reeling, desperately searching for justification. Couldn't I just give my master a proper burial? A peaceful place, hidden away from the world, where he could finally rest? Why do you all want his body so badly? What secrets do you think it holds? The questions swirled within him, unanswered and unsettling.
His silent turmoil was lost in the rising tide of the crowd's fury. They surged forward, a wave of bodies and hatred, each brandishing a sword that glinted menacingly in the fading light. He squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. He braced for the inevitable, for the agonizing pain he knew was coming. The first sword plunged into his chest, a searing, white-hot agony that stole his breath. Then came another, and another, each thrust a fresh wave of torment, a brutal punctuation to his perceived betrayal.
He woke with a violent gasp, his body slick with cold sweat, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and the phantom pain of the swords still echoed in his chest. He clutched his shirt, feeling the lingering sensation of the wounds. The sky outside was still dark, he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling.
Unable to fall back asleep, Yixing decided to start his day early. He went through his morning routine, but the dream's images haunted him with every step. He headed to the academy.
...
The sun cast long shadows across the ancient stone floor of Professor Vance's history class. The topic of the day: the economic policies of the Kingdom of Traes. A topic, it seemed, designed to lull even the most attentive student into a state of blissful boredom.
Yixing, Ben, and Carlos were certainly doing their part to contribute to the general atmosphere of academic apathy.
"I'm telling you," Yixing whispered, sketching idly in the margins of his textbook, "Eldorian silk is vastly overrated. Give me a good bolt of Veridian linen any day."
Ben, who was meticulously sharpening his charcoal pencils, snorted. "You're such a philistine, Yixing. It's not just about the fabric, it's about the craftsmanship, the artistry, the history!"
Carlos adjusted his spectacles and chimed in, "Frankly, I find both fabrics impractical. Give me a sturdy wool. Warm, durable, and resistant to goblin attacks."
Yixing and Ben exchanged exasperated glances. "Goblin attacks?" Yixing scoffed. "Carlos, we live in the Academy, not the borderlands."
"One can never be too prepared," Carlos insisted, his voice laced with unwavering conviction.
Their hushed bickering escalated, punctuated by stifled giggles and exaggerated gestures. Professor Vance, who possessed the uncanny ability to hear a pin drop in a hurricane, finally reached her limit.
"Mr. Yixing, Mr. Ben, Mr. Carlos," she said, her voice a low, dangerous rumble that silenced the entire classroom. "Would you care to share your insights on the Eldorian trade routes with the rest of us?"
The three friends exchanged sheepish glances. "Uh, no, Professor Vance," Yixing mumbled, his face flushing.
"Then perhaps you would prefer to spend the rest of the hour in the library, contemplating the virtues of silence?" Professor Vance suggested, her eyes narrowed.
The three friends quickly subsided, muttering apologies under their breath. Just as Professor Vance was about to resume her lecture, a hand shot up in the back of the classroom. It was Ria, a quiet, unassuming student with a sharp mind and an insatiable curiosity.
"Professor Vance," Ria asked, her voice clear and steady, "I was wondering, did the Kingdom of Eldoria have any legends or myths about figures of great power or beauty? Someone like... Macellion Mallory?"
A collective gasp rippled through the classroom. Macellion Mallory was a name whispered in hushed tones, a figure shrouded in mystery and controversy.
Professor Vance, however, seemed intrigued by Ria's question. She paused for a moment, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "Ah, Macellion Mallory," she said, her voice taking on a more reverent tone. "A figure whose name still evokes awe and terror, even after all these centuries."
Yixing, who had been doodling absentmindedly in his notebook, suddenly sat up straight, his ears perked. Macellion Mallory? He had been so engrossed in his silly banter with Ben and Carlos that he had almost missed it.
Ben and Carlos exchanged knowing glances, a mixture of amusement and exasperation in their eyes. "Here we go again," Ben whispered, nudging Carlos in the ribs.
Yixing ignored them, his attention completely focused on Professor Vance.
"Macellion Mallory," Professor Vance continued, "was said to possess a beauty that could rival the gods themselves. They say his features were sculpted to perfection, with a delicate jawline, high cheekbones, and a nose that was both strong and elegant. His eyes, dark and intense, held a depth that could be both captivating and unsettling. Some claimed that they could see into your very soul."
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. "He also said to possess immense power, a power that could be used for both good and evil. Some believed that he was a benevolent ruler, a protector of the weak and a champion of justice. Others believed that he was ruthless, a power-hungry monster who would stop at nothing to satisfy himself."
Professor Vance leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And then, of course, there is Elar "Ethelios" Mallory. Macellion's closest confidante, his most trusted advisor, and perhaps... something more."
She paused, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mystery. "Some say that Elar was Macellion's lover, his soulmate, the only person who truly understood him. Others say that Elar was Macellion's rival, his enemy, a power-hungry schemer who plotted to usurp his throne."
Professor Vance straightened up, her voice returning to its normal volume. "The truth, as always, is likely far more complex. The relationship between Macellion and Elar remains one of the greatest mysteries of our time. And it is a mystery that continues to fascinate and intrigue us, even after all these centuries."
Yixing was completely captivated. He had come to class expecting to be bored by a lecture on the economic policies of the Kingdom of Eldoria.
Professor Vance leaned against the edge of her desk, her arms crossed, a thoughtful expression on her face. "And so," she said, her voice echoing slightly in the suddenly silent classroom, "we arrive at the most controversial aspect of Macellion Mallory's legacy: Ethelios."
A hush fell over the room. Even Ben and Carlos, who had been exchanging whispered jokes about the merits of goblin-resistant wool, fell silent, sensing the shift in the atmosphere.
"After Macellion's disappearance – or demise, depending on which historical account you subscribe to – Elar, his closest confidante, advisor, and some say, even more than that, made a decision that sent shockwaves through the known world. He claimed Macellion's last name as his own."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the classroom. Ria, the quiet student who had sparked the discussion in the first place, raised her hand. "Professor Vance, wasn't that considered sacrilegious at the time? To take the name of a figure so revered, so powerful?"
Professor Vance nodded, her expression grave. "Indeed, Ria. Many saw it as an act of blatant arrogance, a usurpation of Macellion's legacy. They accused Elar of seeking to capitalize on Macellion's fame, to claim his power for himself."
Aeron, the cynical student who always seemed to have a dissenting opinion, scoffed. "Sounds like a power grab to me. Macellion was gone, so Elar swooped in to take his place. Classic."
Professor Vance fixed Aeron with a sharp look. "That is one interpretation, Aeron. But there are others. Some argue that Elar took Macellion's name out of a sense of duty, believing that it was the only way to preserve his master's ideals, to continue his work."
Yixing, who had been listening intently, his initial boredom completely forgotten, leaned forward in his seat. "But if Elar truly wanted to honor Macellion, why not simply continue his work under his own name? Why take on Macellion's identity?"
Professor Vance smiled, pleased by Yixing's insightful question. "Ah, Yixing, that is the question that has plagued historians for centuries. Some believe that Elar was driven by a deep, almost obsessive admiration for Macellion. They suggest that he saw Macellion as the ideal ruler, the perfect embodiment of power and wisdom, and that he sought him in every way possible."
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. "Others, however, offer a far darker interpretation. They claim that Elar was secretly jealous of Macellion, that he resented his power and his fame, and that he saw taking his name as a way to finally surpass him, to erase his own identity and become the one and only Macellion Mallory."
A chill ran down Yixing's spine. The idea that Elar's actions could have been motivated by jealousy and resentment was unsettling. He had always imagined Elar as a loyal and devoted follower of Macellion, but the possibility that he harbored darker feelings was intriguing.
Professor Vance continued, "The truth, as always, is likely far more complex. Elar was a multifaceted individual, and his motivations were likely a tangled web of admiration, ambition, duty, and perhaps even..."
She glanced at Yixing, a knowing glint in her eyes.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the class. As the students began to gather their belongings, Yixing remained in his seat, the professor's words lingered in his mind.
Ben clapped him on the shoulder, a teasing grin on his face. "Someone's got a crush on a dead historical figure," he teased.
Yixing rolled his eyes,"Shut up, Ben. I'm just interested in the history."
Carlos, ever the voice of reason, adjusted his spectacles and said, "Well, whatever your reasons, Yixing, it seems like you've finally found something to focus on in this class."
...
Eons had passed since the name Macellion Mallory was first etched into the annals of history, a name now more legend than truth. Time, a relentless sculptor, had worn away the sharp edges of his story, leaving behind a mosaic of conflicting tales – a figure of immense beauty and terrible power, both revered and reviled.
Yixing traced a finger across the faded ink of the tome, his brow furrowed in concentration. The book, bound in cracked leather and smelling faintly of decay, was a collection of fragmented historical accounts, poems, and supposed eyewitness testimonies surrounding the figures of Macellion and Elar. One passage, written in florid prose, described Macellion as an "angel of unparalleled beauty, whose very presence could inspire both devotion and madness."
Another, scrawled in a hasty hand and stained with what appeared to be dried blood, painted him as a "tyrant of insatiable hunger, whose thirst for power knew no bounds."
He flipped through the pages, landing on a particularly intriguing illustration. It depicted Macellion standing beside Elar, though both of their bodies face the front the illustration of Elar's head was facing Macellion's direction. Macellion was portrayed as a figure of almost blinding radiance, his features sharp and aristocratic, his eyes filled with an unsettling intensity. Elar, in contrast, was depicted as more grounded, his expression thoughtful and serene. The caption beneath the illustration read: "Bound by Fate, Divided by Fate."
A nearby passage caught his eye:
"The enigma of Macellion Mallory lies not in his deeds, but in the perception of those who witnessed them. Some saw a savior, a beacon of hope in a world. They spoke of his willingness to sacrifice everything for the greater good. Others saw a monster, a being of pure, unadulterated power, who wielded his abilities with ruthless abandon. They whispered of his cruelty, his insatiable ambition, his willingness to crush anyone who stood in his path. The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between, lost in the mists of time and the biases of mortal men."
Yixing paused, his mind buzzing with questions. The conflicting accounts were maddening. Was Macellion a savior, or a creation of chaos? Was he a selfless hero, or a power-hungry monster?
He continued to read, his eyes devouring every word, every sentence, every fragment of information he could find. He stumbled upon a poem, that seemed to offer a glimpse into Macellion's inner turmoil:
"A gilded cage, a heart of stone,
A crown of thorns, a throne alone.
To wield such power, a heavy cost,
A soul consumed, a battle lost.
The whispers rise, the shadows creep,
While beauty hides the secrets deep.
A godlike face, a mortal plight,
Macellion Mallory, lost to the night."
-Ethelios
Ethelios
So it's Elar, right?
The poem resonated with Yixing, hinting at a deeper complexity beneath Macellion's legendary status. It suggested that Macellion was not simply a hero or a villain, but a flawed and tormented individual, burdened by the weight of his own power.
As the hours passed, Yixing became increasingly engrossed in the tome, losing himself in the labyrinthine world of Macellion and Elar.
...
The training grounds buzzed with activity. The clang of steel on steel, the shouts of instructors, and the heavy breathing of students filled the air. Sweat glistened on foreheads and soaked through training uniforms as the students of the academy honed their swordsmanship.
Yixing, Ben, and Carlos stood in a triangle, their practice swords flashing in the afternoon sun. Yixing, nimble and quick, danced around Carlos's powerful strikes. Ben, with his methodical precision, waited for an opening, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
"Ha! Almost had you that time, Yixing," Carlos grunted, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Carlos," Yixing retorted, parrying another blow. "And last I checked, we're wielding swords, not tossing horseshoes."
Ben chuckled, stepping into the fray. "Enough chatter, you two. Let's see some real skill." He lunged at Yixing, forcing him to backpedal.
The three sparred for several minutes, their movements a blur of controlled aggression. The air crackled with energy as they pushed each other to their limits. Finally, with a well-timed feint and a swift strike, Yixing disarmed Carlos.
"Yield!" Carlos exclaimed, raising his hands in mock surrender.
"Not bad, Yixing," Ben conceded, sheathing his sword. "You're getting faster."
Yixing grinned, accepting the compliment. "Practice makes perfect, my friends. And I intend to be very perfect."
They paused to catch their breath, grabbing water skins from the side of the training grounds. As they drank, Yixing couldn't help but bring up the topic that had been consuming his thoughts since the museum trip.
"So," he began, casually, "what do you guys think about Macellion Mallory?"
Ben groaned dramatically. "Oh, not this again. Are you still hung up on that ancient hottie? Seriously, Yixing, he's been dead for centuries. Get over it."
"I'm not hung up!" Yixing protested, his cheeks flushing. "I'm just… curious. I mean, the history books make him sound like some kind of demigod. They say his beauty was unparalleled, yes, but also that his powers were immense. He stopped the Divine Annihilation, for crying out loud! They say he could command the elements, heal the sick, and even raise the dead. It sounds so… exaggerated."
"Exaggerated? Please," Ben rolled his eyes. "It's history, Yixing. They always embellish things. Besides, who knows if he was even that good-looking? Maybe he had a face like a goblin and just used his powers to make everyone think he was beautiful. You're crushing on a ghost, a legend. It's ridiculous."
Carlos, who had been silent until now, chimed in. "I'm more interested in Elar. The guy threw away everything for Macellion. His city, his reputation, his life. That's some serious dedication."
"Yeah, but he walked the path of darkness!" Ben exclaimed. "Don't admire him too much, Carlos."
Carlos shrugged. "I'm not saying it was right, but you have to admire the commitment. And the history books didn't make it sound like a master and disciple relationship, either."
Ben raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh? So what are you implying, Carlos? That Elar and Macellion were… more than friends?"
"Well…" Carlos trailed off, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Let's just say, I wouldn't be surprised if they were sharing more than just battlefield strategies."
Yixing groaned. "Guys, come on! This is serious history we're talking about."
"Serious history with a side of scandalous romance!" Ben cackled, elbowing Yixing in the ribs. "Admit it, Yixing, you're picturing Macellion sweeping you off your feet, aren't you?"
"Shut up!" Yixing retorted, shoving Ben away. "I'm not picturing anything. I just want to understand what really happened."
Their banter was cut short by a sharp whistle. Their instructor, Master Li, stood at the edge of the training grounds, his face a mask of disapproval.
"Enough chatter!" he barked, his voice booming across the field. "You are here to train, not gossip about historical figures. One hundred laps around the grounds! Now move!"
Yixing, Ben, and Carlos exchanged a look of dismay. One hundred laps? That was going to be brutal.
"Thanks a lot, Yixing," Ben grumbled, as they began to run. "Your ancient crush just earned us a whole lot of pain."
"Hey, it's not my fault you guys have such vivid imaginations," Yixing retorted, trying to keep pace.
"Just wait until we catch you reading about Macellion's powers again," Carlos wheezed, struggling to keep up. "We're going to make you run a thousand laps."
Despite the grueling exercise, Yixing couldn't help but smile. Even with the teasing and the extra laps, he wouldn't trade his friends for anything. And as he ran, he couldn't shake the feeling that his fascination with Elar and Macellion was leading him somewhere.