Thunder rolled across the heavens, shaking the night sky like the growl of an ancient beast. Lightning tore the clouds apart, flashing over the marble spires of Eldrath—the holy capital of the Seven Thrones.
The storm was not what made the bells toll.
Their iron voices rang through the city in waves, echoing off every stone tower and every trembling heart. The sound was no hymn of celebration. It was warning. Dread.
And above it all, rising like a wound in the heavens, was the crimson moon.
The Blood Moon.
Its light drenched Eldrath in red, staining the statues of saints and the banners of kings with the color of fresh blood. It was an omen no prayer could silence.
---
Inside the marble sanctum at the city's heart, the storm was muffled. Yet the air was no calmer.
The Sanctum of Virtue—the holiest place in the empire—shook with unease. Candles flickered inside its great hall, guttering one by one though no wind touched them. The mosaics of angels on the walls seemed to watch with grim silence as the night dragged on.
Midwives whispered hurried prayers, their hands slick with sweat, their voices trembling.
A child was being born beneath the Blood Moon.
The mother's cries rang sharp against the stone. Her voice cracked, fading into silence. Then another cry rose—thin, piercing, alive.
The child.
The sound carried like a blade through the chamber. For a heartbeat, everything else fell silent.
---
"Bring him to the light," the High Priest commanded.
His voice shook, betraying fear even as he tried to steady it. He was an old man, robed in white and gold, a crown of iron thorns upon his brow. He had studied prophecy all his life, and tonight, his faith wavered.
The midwife holding the infant froze. She had heard the stories. She knew what the Blood Moon meant.
Still, she obeyed.
She carried the child closer to the stained glass window, where crimson light poured through the image of the Seven Thrones. Her arms trembled as the glow washed over the infant's skin.
The baby wailed. And then—it began.
---
A mark flared across the child's shoulder. A burning brand in the shape of a raging flame.
Wrath.
Gasps broke from the chamber. The midwives stumbled back, one dropping her rosary beads.
Before their shock could settle, another mark ignited—cold and green, spiraling around his wrist like a serpent.
Envy.
One after another, they came.
A searing golden sigil over his heart. Pride.
A violet shimmer along his throat. Lust.
A sickly glow at his stomach. Gluttony.
A dull black stain across his leg. Sloth.
And finally, a jagged mark gleaming with greedy hunger on his palm. Greed.
Seven.
All seven.
---
The High Priest staggered back, his hands gripping the altar for support. His voice cracked.
"Impossible. No mortal can bear them all."
But the marks did not fade.
Instead, their glow twisted together, bleeding into one another. They formed a ring around the infant's body, a circle of writhing shadow and light. A halo, not of holiness, but of sin.
The marble beneath the child shuddered. Cracks raced across the floor like lightning.
A sudden wind howled through the sealed chamber. Scrolls tore from their shelves. Sacred relics clattered to the ground. Every candle went out in a rush of smoke.
The infant no longer cried.
When the light dimmed at last, he lay silent, his tiny chest rising and falling.
Slowly, his eyes opened.
Black as midnight, threaded with swirling silver.
Eyes that did not belong to any mortal child.
---
The midwife dropped to her knees. She clutched her rosary tight, her lips pale.
"Your Holiness," she whispered, voice breaking. "What… what is he?"
The High Priest's lips quivered. He stared at the child, at the living circle of sin burning across his flesh.
His voice was heavy, a death sentence in itself.
"The Heir of Sin," he said. "The one who will unmake fate itself."
----
The years passed.
The Blood Moon faded from memory for most of Eldrath. Priests called it a trial of faith, nobles whispered of curses, and peasants told stories to frighten their children.
But none forgot the name spoken that night.
The Heir of Sin.
Kael Draven.
---
Seventeen years later, the prophecy's child was no longer a secret.
Chains rattled in the dark.
In the deepest pit of Eldrath's prison, a boy knelt in the gloom. His wrists were bound, heavy iron biting deep into his skin. His head was bowed, dark hair hanging in his face, his body scarred by years of pursuit and capture.
But beneath the torn fabric of his shirt, faint light glowed. Marks carved into his flesh—not by blade, not by fire, but by something older than both.
Seven marks.
Still alive.
Still burning.
---
Above him, the city roared.
Tens of thousands had gathered in the square outside. They shouted, cursed, cheered, and prayed. Mothers lifted their children to see. Merchants closed their shops. Drunkards sang over the din. All had come to watch the same thing.
The monster's execution.
The bells rang again, just as they had seventeen years ago. Their toll shook the city walls, spreading the message.
The Heir of Sin would die tonight.
---
The cell door groaned open.
A hooded inquisitor stepped inside, a torch casting long shadows against the walls. He wore the sigil of the Church of Pure Flame on his chest, and his hand rested easily on the hilt of his blade.
His voice was sharp, practiced, certain.
"Kael Draven," he said. "Born beneath curse. Your very breath defies the will of the gods. Tonight you are unmade. Do you have any last words?"
---
For a moment, there was no reply.
Then Kael lifted his head.
His eyes caught the light—black, threaded with silver, swirling like storm clouds. He studied the man, unhurried, almost curious.
"Last words?" His voice was rough, but steady. A faint smile curved his lips. "You've made a mistake."
The inquisitor's mouth twisted. "Mistake?"
Kael lowered his gaze to the chains binding his wrists. The iron links were humming, as if they too sensed what was coming.
"You thought these marks were curses."
---
A red flare seared through the dark.
The sigil of Wrath ignited across his shoulder, fire crawling down his arms in jagged patterns. The stone beneath him hissed as it cracked.
Heat filled the chamber.
The inquisitor took a step back, eyes narrowing.
"They're not curses," Kael said softly. His voice had changed—stronger, deeper, resonant, as if something else spoke through him.
"They're keys."
---
The iron shattered. Chains fell in glowing fragments to the ground.
The inquisitor staggered back, torchlight shaking.
Kael rose to his full height. Flames licked across his knuckles.
"Wrath gives me strength," he whispered.
Then his pupils thinned into slits. The sigil of Envy burned bright along his wrist. Kael's gaze pierced the inquisitor, cutting through flesh and bone, reading the frantic pulse of his heart, the weakness in his stance, the fear twisting in his chest.
"Envy shows me everything you hide."
The man's hand trembled against his sword hilt.
---
Then Pride came alive.
The mark blazed gold. Kael raised his head, and the inquisitor froze as if invisible chains bound him. His knees buckled. He fell with a crash, kneeling on the stone floor.
Kael's words were quiet, but carried with the weight of command.
"Pride makes you kneel."
The man's lips shook. He tried to resist, but could not rise.
---
Above them, the crowd's chants faltered. Screams broke out as the ground itself quaked. The prison shook as if the city's foundations had turned against their builders. Dust rained down. The bells overhead clanged wildly, discordant, as though the tower itself feared to fall.
Kael walked past the kneeling inquisitor, boots crunching over shattered stone. He did not look back.
The heavy doors at the end of the corridor burst outward at his touch. They slammed into the walls, bending the iron hinges.
Wind howled through the hall, carrying ash and embers that danced like fireflies around him.
---
And then—daylight.
For the first time in years, Kael Draven stepped beyond stone walls.
The crimson sky hung overhead, painted with storm clouds and the faint shadow of the Blood Moon. Its light bathed the square in blood.
The crowd went silent. Tens of thousands stared at the figure standing in the broken prison gates.
The boy who should have been dead.
The boy who carried all seven sins.
---
Kael tilted his head back, letting the air fill his lungs. His marks pulsed in unison, alive, almost singing.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"They said I'd die young," he murmured, just loud enough for the silence to carry his words. A thin smile touched his lips. "Let's see how long fate can keep up."
And with that, Kael Draven stepped forward.
The crowd broke. People screamed, trampled, fled. Priests fell to their knees, clutching their relics. Soldiers scrambled to form a wall, but their hands shook on their spears.
The Heir of Sin had risen.
And his war against destiny had begun.
To be continued...