The night Astrael Ravenastra was born, Eldoria roared like it was pissed.
Lightning didn't just flash,it smashed the sky, turning Ravenfall Keep's spires into jagged silhouettes. Rain slammed the stone walls like it wanted to tear them down.
Inside the birthing chamber, the air stank of blood, sweat, and raw fear.
Lord Silas Ravenastra stood by the fireplace, his face carved from ice, silver eyes wide with a terror no war had ever pulled from him. His knuckles bled white against the mantel.
Across the room, Lyra, his daughter-in-law, fought a battle on sweat-soaked sheets. Her screams, hoarse and fading, drowned in the storm's fury.
The midwife, a grizzled woman with a face like old leather, held a tiny bundle. Her eyes weren't soft—they were grim, like she'd already written the kid off.
"Lord Silas," she said, voice cutting through the chaos. "He's breathing. Barely. Soul's weak. Won't last the night."
Lyra, pale as a ghost, pushed herself up on trembling arms. Her sapphire eyes burned with a mother's desperate fire.
"Give him to me," she rasped, the words a command despite her fading strength.
The midwife glanced at Silas. He gave a nod. She handed the bundle to Lyra too small, too fragile, wrapped in midnight silk.
The baby's skin was blue-tinged, his breaths weak flutters, like a moth caught in a web. Lyra's chest heaved, a sob choking her.
"No," she whispered, fierce as a blade. "You're not taking him."
Her gaze flicked to Kaelan, her husband, lurking in the shadows by the door.
His silver eyes, twins to his father's, were raw with pain. They locked eyes, a silent vow passing between them defiance, desperation, a shared refusal to let death win.
Kaelan stepped forward, hands shaking as he raised them over the baby. Ancient words spilled from his lips, ancient and heavy, like they were carved from graves.
Runes on his forearms glowed a sickly crimson-violet, casting twisted shadows.
Silas sucked in a breath. Forbidden magic. The kind that didn't just burn mana it burned life.
Lyra's tears fell as she watched Kaelan.
His face aged with every syllable, black hair graying at the edges.
She bent over the baby, lips brushing his cold ear. Her whisper was too soft for anyone to hear, a secret meant only for him.
A tear hit his cheek, searing hot against the icy skin.
Her trembling fingers found the necklace at her throat a plain chain, no jewels, just a raven-shaped pendant of dark metal that seemed to eat the light.
She fastened it around the baby's neck, the raven settling against his chest like a weight. A promise. A curse.
"ASTRAEL!" Lyra's voice cracked like the storm itself, raw and unyielding. "Your name is ASTRAEL RAVENASTRA!"
Kaelan's chant stumbled.
His eyes snapped to her, then to the baby's blue face. Something fierce flared in him defiance, not hope. His voice rose, hoarse and ragged, weaving Lyra's cry into the spell.
"...Astrael Ravenastra... spirit bound... breath reclaimed... LIFE ASCENDANT!"
He screamed the last word, slamming his palms together over the child.
A silent pulse of power hit like a shockwave.
The room shook, stones groaning in the Keep's ancient bones.
Crimson light flared, blinding, then died, plunging them back into gloom. Kaelan staggered, catching himself on the bedpost, his face gray, eyes hollow.
He looked a decade older, drained to the core.
Silence.
Just the storm's growl outside.
Then a cry.
Sharp, strong, alive. The baby's blue tinge faded, replaced by a healthy flush. Tiny fists waved, full of fight.
Lyra collapsed against the pillows, sobbing, kissing his dark hair. Kaelan managed a weak grin, leaning hard against the bedpost, his gaze locked on his son.
Silas moved, finally, his boots heavy on the stone. He stared at the baby,Astrael, then at Kaelan, who looked like he'd paid for that spell with years of his life.
His eyes lingered on the raven pendant, now dull, ordinary.
But Silas wasn't fooled. He'd felt the power, seen the cost etched into his son's face, heard the edge in Lyra's voice.
The storm eased.
Rain softened.
The heir lived.
But Silas felt a chill deeper than the night.
That pendant wasn't just metal.
It was a debt. A deal struck with something older than the Keep.
Death didn't lose easily, and the Ravenastras had just spit in its face.
Debts like that came due.
Always.
Silas stepped back, his silver eyes narrowing. "What did you do, Kaelan?" His voice was low, sharp, cutting through Lyra's soft sobs.
Kaelan didn't look up, still gripping the bedpost. "What I had to," he rasped.
"He's alive. That's enough."
"Enough?" Silas's laugh was bitter, short. "You used that magic. You know the price. And that"
He pointed at the raven pendant, voice dropping to a hiss. "What is it, Lyra?"
Lyra clutched Astrael tighter, her eyes fierce despite her exhaustion.
"His chance," she said. "Don't you dare judge us, Father. You'd have done the same."
Silas's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue, to demand answers, but the truth stopped him cold. He would have. For his blood. For the Ravenastra name. He turned away, staring into the dying fire.
"This isn't over," he muttered. "Whatever you bound him to… it'll come for him."
The midwife lingered, silent, her eyes flicking between them. She'd seen too much, heard too much.
"I'll speak of this to no one," she said, voice flat. "But the Keep knows. The stones felt it."
Kaelan nodded, barely. "Get out," he said, not unkindly.
She left without another word, her footsteps fading into the storm.
Lyra looked down at Astrael, her fingers tracing the pendant.
"You'll live," she whispered, a vow to herself as much as to him. "You'll be stronger than us. Stronger than this curse."
Kaelan sank to his knees beside her, his hand resting on hers. "We bought him time," he said, voice breaking. "But Father is right. It's not over."
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Meanwhile, beyond the Keep, beyond mortal sight…
The world shivered under an unseen pulse.
No signs marked the shift, but the mighty felt it a creeping dread, a whisper of chaos.
The Era of Strife was stirring, a war of the blessed and damned looming like a storm.
In a cavern beneath a shattered peak, a dragon rumbled, scales glinting. "The Weave frays. A spark ignites blessed or cursed, it'll burn us all."
In a storm-wreathed tower, a sorcerer's scrying pool churned with shadows. "An anomaly," they hissed. "Not of our fates. War comes."
In a hidden grove, druids gathered, their leader's eyes glowing. "The balance tilts. Something disrupts the weave. We must find it."
In the Church of Luminous Grace, the Pope stood before a crystal altar, flames flickering. "The era dawns," he intoned. "A chosen one or a heretic walks. We will judge it."
In the Abyssal Spire, the Demon Emperor grinned, claws tapping his throne. "A new pawn," he purred. "They will bow or burn. The Era of Strife is mine."
None knew of Astrael, the frail heir in a dying Keep. But the world felt his birth, and the storm was just beginning.
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In Astrael's mind, a flicker. A blue panel, cold and unbidden, sparked to life, like a glitch in reality.
[Initialization: Aetheric Codex.]