In the veiled cradle of existence, before mortal memories began, there thrived a civilization older than the stars themselves. They were called the Magistrals, divine mortal beings born of the world's first breath and the last whisper of dying suns. These beings lived in harmony with the cosmic essence known as the Threnoides—an enigmatic force that bound all creation together.
The Threnoides were the essence of all things, the soul of existence itself, and they held three eternal natures: Devour, the power to decay and consume; Flourish, the power to nurture and create; and Amalgority, the power to weave the very threads of reality. The Magistrals were the chosen stewards of these forces, guiding the rise and fall of civilizations across the cosmos, their purpose as eternal as the endless night above.
The Magistrals devoted their lives to the mastery of Threnoides, refining their spirits through arduous cultivation. Among the many lineages, there existed the noblest of them all: the line of Draelik, known for their resilience and unyielding will. Draelik himself stood as the paragon of his line, a figure of power and solemn grace.
Draelik was a tall figure, statuesque and adorned in flowing garments that shimmered like woven constellations. His hair was the color of molten obsidian, cascading over broad shoulders, and his eyes burned with the quiet fury of dying stars. His features bore the harsh lines of a warrior tempered by cosmic storms, yet there was a dignity in his bearing that spoke of unwavering resolve.
Though Draelik was born of noble blood, he alone could not channel Threnoides directly. He relied upon ancient Gloves of Arkanis—artifacts of celestial design that allowed him to command the forces of creation and decay indirectly. Unlike others whose souls resonated naturally with the Threnoides, Draelik's powers were coarse and unrefined, a testament to his relentless determination in the face of cosmic indifference.
In the heart of Draelik's world was his daughter, Nyxara, a maiden of radiant beauty and luminous spirit. At sixteen, Nyxara had become the envy and admiration of the Magistrals. Her laughter was said to ease the weight of centuries, and her mastery over the Threnoides—particularly the Flourish aspect—was without equal. Whispers spoke of her uncanny ability to touch upon the Amalgority—a power so rare it had not been seen in millennia.
But where beauty and power gather, so too does jealousy take root. The nobility who had long vied for Nyxara's favor found their advances spurned, their ambitions denied by the gentle firmness of her refusal. They could not abide her independence, nor could they endure the shame of their rejection.
One evening, as Draelik returned to his palace—a vast structure of crystal and starlight—he found Nyxara's chambers empty. Panic seized his heart as he called for his daughter, but only silence answered. A maid, trembling in the moonlight, confessed that Nyxara had gone to the royal palace and had not returned.
With dread clawing at his chest, Draelik donned his Gloves of Arkanis and chanted the words that would warp the distance between him and the royal halls:"Arkanis Shift."
The world shivered around him, and in the next instant, he stood before the towering gates of the royal palace. The night was heavy with an unnatural stillness, and the air tasted of dread.
He moved with purpose, striding through gilded halls lit by the cold glow of imprisoned stars. In the palace's depths, he found a sealed chamber—a room where reality itself bent under the weight of an ancient barrier. The sigils etched into the floor flickered with malevolent light, sealing Nyxara within.
Draelik forced open the door, and what he found within hollowed his heart.
The chamber was lit by a single flickering lamp, its light casting long, trembling shadows.
And there she was—Nyxara, the child of his heart, his soul's joy—brutalized.
Her slender body was bound to the cold stone wall by chains of starlight—Threnoide seals that pulsed with a sickly red glow. Her hair hung limp, a curtain of silver streaked with blood and sweat. Her eyes, those bright amethyst gems, were open but glassy, unseeing.
Her small, delicate frame bore the marks of violent violation—bruises, cuts, and the raw, weeping ruin of what should have been a place of innocence. Blood trailed down her thighs in ragged rivulets, pooling beneath her feet like a sacrificial offering.
The scent of her suffering filled the room, thick and iron-sweet.
Draelik's breath hitched in his throat, a strangled sound that was neither scream nor sob.
He fell to his knees, the gloves of Arkanis Shift dimming as his hands pressed against the cold stone floor.
"Nyxara…" he whispered, his voice breaking beneath the weight of her name.
A maid—trembling, eyes wide with horror—stood in the doorway behind him. Her voice was a broken murmur.
"She… she never returned from the royal audience, my lord. They… they… trapped her here."
The words were unnecessary. The truth was written in the ruin of her body.
Draelik's tears fell freely, tracing lines of grief down his face.
His daughter—his beloved star—was gone. Stolen by the lust and envy of those who had no right to even speak her name.
He rose, one trembling breath at a time. The gloves on his hands whispered of power and vengeance, but for a moment, all he could do was stare at her broken form.
And in that moment, something inside him died—a light snuffed out, replaced by a darkness as cold and endless as the void between stars.
[End of Chapter 145]
****************************************