The old priest's voice trembled, his frail hands clutching the staff of his order. His robes were simple, but the weight of centuries seemed stitched into every thread. Before him, seated in silence, were the two pale-haired children — their crimson eyes fixed on him with a curiosity that felt far older than their years.
"Now… do you understand what mana is, your highnesses?" the priest asked, his voice hoarse, yet heavy with reverence and fear.
He did not wait for an answer. His gaze lifted toward the cathedral's high windows, where faint streaks of morning light filtered through.
"Mana is not a gift of the heavens," he said, his tone rising as though each word clawed at his throat. "It is the scar of our sin. The wound in the sky, torn seven centuries past, bleeds still into our world. That wound, that abyss, is what you call mana."
He tapped the butt of his staff against the stone floor, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in the silence.
"It is unseen, yet it suffocates the air. It is unheard, yet it whispers in the minds of the weak. It is unfelt, yet it corrodes the flesh and twists the soul. And still—" his voice broke, then rose, sharp as a knife, "—we dare to wield it!"
The priest's eyes were wide now, burning with zeal.
"Know this, your highnesses: every flame summoned, every stone shifted, every breath of wind conjured is not power freely given. It is a bargain. A bargain struck not with gods, but with the abyss itself! And the abyss never gives without taking in return."
He leaned forward, his aged frame trembling as though the words themselves drained him.
"You will awaken soon. And when you do… remember: your element is not your own. It is the abyss choosing its vessel. Never forget this truth, or it will consume you as it has consumed countless before."
Silence followed. The children's red eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, unblinking, unreadable.
The priest swallowed hard, lowering his gaze to the floor, as if afraid to look too long at the young heirs.
The old priest's voice trembled, his frail hands clutching the staff of his order. His robes were simple, but the weight of centuries seemed stitched into every thread. Before him, seated in silence, were the two pale-haired children — their crimson eyes fixed on him with a curiosity that felt far older than their years.
"Now… do you understand what mana is, your highnesses?" the priest asked, his voice hoarse, yet heavy with reverence and fear.
He did not wait for an answer. His gaze lifted toward the cathedral's high windows, where faint streaks of morning light filtered through.
"Mana is not a gift of the heavens," he said, his tone rising as though each word clawed at his throat. "It is the scar of our sin. The wound in the sky, torn seven centuries past, bleeds still into our world. That wound, that abyss, is what you call mana."
He tapped the butt of his staff against the stone floor, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in the silence.
"It is unseen, yet it suffocates the air. It is unheard, yet it whispers in the minds of the weak. It is unfelt, yet it corrodes the flesh and twists the soul. And still—" his voice broke, then rose, sharp as a knife, "—we dare to wield it!"
The priest's eyes were wide now, burning with zeal.
"Know this, your highnesses: every flame summoned, every stone shifted, every breath of wind conjured is not power freely given. It is a bargain. A bargain struck not with gods, but with the abyss itself! And the abyss never gives without taking in return."
He leaned forward, his aged frame trembling as though the words themselves drained him.
"You will awaken soon. And when you do… remember: your element is not your own. It is the abyss choosing its vessel. Never forget this truth, or it will consume you as it has consumed countless before."
Silence followed. The children's red eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, unblinking, unreadable.
The priest swallowed hard, lowering his gaze to the floor, as if afraid to look too long at the young heirs.
Then, the energetic twin,Eric leaned forward, his small hands clenched into fists, crimson eyes wide with excitement rather than fear.
"So what you're saying is…" he grinned, teeth flashing, "when I awaken, I'll have the abyss's power inside me? That's amazing!"
"Your Highness!" the priest gasped, horror flaring in his old eyes. "Do not treat this curse as a blessing. Mana is a chain! A poison! To embrace it blindly is to offer your soul to the abyss!"
But the boy only smirked, restless energy practically crackling around him. "If the abyss is so strong, then I'll just be stronger. Stronger than the abyss itself!"
At that, the detached twin,edward finally stirred. His red eyes lifted slowly, expression calm, voice soft but cutting, like a blade sliding through silk.
"Foolish,"
Eric whipped his head toward his brother, scowling. "What was that for?"
Edward held his gaze, unblinking. "You can't be stronger than the abyss. Because the abyss doesn't fight. It waits. It swallows. Always."
The words echoed with an eerie certainty, so cold and final that even the priest shivered. For a moment, the silence of the cathedral returned — but now it was sharper, heavier, as though the shadows themselves leaned closer to listen.
The old priest's hand trembled around his staff. He bowed his head quickly, voice low, almost desperate.
"Your Highnesses… never forget. The abyss chose humanity once. It may choose again."