The tragedy in Blackvale was not a single, isolated event. It was the first spark in a wildfire of fear that swept across the Ten Kingdoms. On the very night Liora was born, and in the two days that followed, similar scenes played out in villages and cities from the snowy peaks of Frosthold to the southern ports of Sunstone.
In a fishing village on the coast, a boy was born with eyes the color of deep amber, glowing like embers. The local priest declared it a sign of a demon, and the parents, terrified of their neighbors, wrapped the child in a net and gave him to the guards themselves.
In the capital city of the central kingdom, a noblewoman gave birth to twin girls. Their eyes were a piercing, luminous silver. The nobleman, a powerful lord, tried to hide them, but a servant reported the birth for the reward. That night, the entire household was surrounded by royal knights. The twins were taken, and the noble family was disgraced.
The mages and the knights had a system for this. The knights were the hunters, the collectors. Their orders were simple: find the marked children and bring them to the designated locations. Most of these children were sent to the knights' fortified outposts. But the special ones the ones with the most vibrant colors, or those who showed other strange signs were sent directly to the mages.
Their destination was often an old, repurposed building known as the "Sanctuary of Studies." It was a grim, stone fortress built into the side of a mountain, where the air was cold and the windows were small and barred.
The Voice in the Dark
This was where they brought Liora. The journey had been long, and the knight who carried her, a young man named Ser Evander, felt a growing sickness in his stomach with every mile. The baby had not cried. She had just stared at him with those impossible violet eyes, and he felt she could see straight into his soul.
He carried her now through the dark, echoing halls of the Sanctuary. The air smelled of dust, old magic, and something else… something metallic and cold. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that looked like grasping hands. He was following another knight to the "Holding Wing," a place he had never been.
As they passed a particularly dark corridor, a voice, smooth as oil and cold as ice, slithered out from the shadows of a doorway.
"Stop."
The knights froze. From the dark room, a tall, thin figure emerged. He was a High Mage, his robes the color of dried blood, his face pale and sharp. His eyes, a flat and calculating grey, fixed on the bundle in Evander's arms.
"Bring the child to me," the mage said. It was not a request.
Evander's companion nudged him forward. Swallowing hard, Evander stepped into the mage's study. The room was cluttered with strange instruments, bubbling potions, and shelves lined with jars containing things Evander did not want to identify.
"I am Ser Evander of the Order of the Sacred Blade," he announced, his voice echoing a little in the quiet room. "We have brought the marked child from Blackvale, as commanded."
The mage ignored him, his attention entirely on Liora. He leaned close, and a long, pale finger reached out to gently brush the baby's cheek. Liora did not flinch. She just stared back.
"Violet," the mage whispered, a hint of fascination in his voice. "The color of storm and sorrow. A rare specimen. Leave her. You are dismissed."
Evander had to force himself to place the baby on a cold stone table in the center of the room. As he turned to leave, he saw the mage pulling on a pair of silver gloves, his gaze fixed on Liora with the focus of a scientist about to dissect a rare insect. Evander hurried out, the mage's chilling focus burning itself into his memory.
A Soldier's Doubt
For the next few days, Ser Evander could not shake the feeling. The mother's screams, the father's broken pleas, the baby's silent stare, and finally, the mage's cold fascination—it all played over and over in his mind. This was not protection. This was not justice. This felt like something much darker.
He finally gathered his courage and went to see Captain Rykard. He found him in the training yard, sharpening his greatsword with methodical strokes.
"Captain," Evander began, his voice tight. "A word?"
Rykard did not look up. "Speak."
"It's about the children, sir. The marked ones." Evander took a deep breath. "I… I question the path we are on. Are we certain they are a threat? They are just infants. What I saw in the Sanctuary… it didn't feel like we were saving the world. It felt… cruel."
The sharpening stopped. Rykard slowly lifted his head, and his eyes were like chips of flint. The friendly, if stern, commander was gone, replaced by the unyielding agent of the crown.
"Your feelings are not required, soldier," Rykard said, his voice low and dangerous. "Your duty is. The King and the High Mages have declared these children a blight. Our order was founded on obedience. We are the shield that guards the realms of men, and a shield does not question the hand that wields it."
He stood up, his large frame towering over Evander. "This is your only warning, Evander. Do your duty and bury your doubts. Or, I will find someone who can. The next time you question our orders, you will not be wearing that armor. You will be in chains. Do I make myself clear?"
Evander felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He saw the absolute conviction in Rykard's eyes and knew there was no room for debate. The machine of the kingdom was in motion, and he was just a single, small gear. If he resisted, he would be crushed and replaced.
"Yes, Captain," he muttered, looking down at the ground. "Perfectly clear."
As he walked away, he knew he was trapped. He was part of something terrible, and the weight of it, like the weight of those violet eyes, would haunt him forever.