The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Caspian estate, spilling golden light over polished stone floors and tapestries bearing our family's crimson sigil. The halls echoed with distant chatter—servants moving about, Julius sparring in the courtyard again, no doubt. At fourteen, my brother had already begun formal knight training. Father beamed with pride every time the flames of Julius's affinity flared around his sword.
I had no such expectations on me.
And that suited me just fine.
Since that day in the forest—since the pact—I had changed.
The beast no longer spoke. No presence, no voice, no cryptic whispers in the night. It was as if it had dissolved into the air the moment our agreement was sealed. But I knew it hadn't left me. I could feel it sometimes, like a current beneath my skin. My heart beat differently now—slower, deeper, like each thump echoed into a deeper chamber inside me.
No one else noticed, of course. I'd made sure of that.
I kept to myself. Observing. Reading. Listening.
And learning.
Veloria is not a forgiving world. It's ruled by strength—raw, political, supernatural. Awakened beings dominate the social ladder, and families like mine, the Caspians, cling to that ladder with bloodied hands. My father, Baron Alex Caspian, was once a D-rank Awakened with earth affinity, long since retired from frontline battles, but his legacy carries weight. And my brother Julius, with his rare affinity for fire, was quickly rising.
Me? I had no official affinity. At least, not one that had revealed itself. The beast had told me it would begin with puberty. That when my body changed, so too would the power sealed within. Until then, I was just a clever boy in a noble house—sharp-tongued and curious, but harmless.
Harmless was good. Harmless meant overlooked.
Still, I needed to prepare.
I began studying the power system of Veloria more intently. Not just the broad strokes—those were common knowledge—but the cracks between the rules, the exceptions, the loopholes. Every nation and race documented Awakened rankings, but the truth was… power was not so linear.
Yes, the official rankings went as follows:
F Rank: Equivalent to a trained athlete.
E Rank: Peak human capability.
D Rank: Superhuman feats—leaping rooftops, shattering stone.
C Rank: Enough to topple small buildings.
B Rank: Level entire fortresses.
A Rank: Carve through mountains.
S Rank: Annihilate cities.
SS Rank: Devastate entire regions.
SSS Rank: Level a country.
X Rank: Theoretical. Continental destruction.
But these numbers meant little without context. Elemental affinity, skill type, stamina, technique, battlefield awareness—all of it played a role. And then there were the rarer distinctions…
Innate skills: Abilities one is born with. These could not be copied or replicated, often unique to an individual and sometimes dormant for years.
Unique skills: Gained only under special, often traumatic, circumstances. Warped echoes of desire and need.
Lineage skills: Passed down through bloodlines, often tied to the element of the family's ancestral power.
And then, of course, there was affinity.
My brother, Julius, was said to possess high affinity for fire. He trained daily, sculpting his flames into spears and torrents, much to Father's delight. Fire was destructive, yes, but also prestigious. His power made sense.
Me? I wondered.
That beast beneath the trapdoor, its voice like collapsing mountains, had mentioned my powers would relate to blood. A derivative of water, perhaps. But the soul was involved too. It had said it would reside within mine. Did that mean I had dual affinity? Or something more abstract—something darker?
Soul magic was rare. Elusive. Many cultures feared it, called it heresy. But it wasn't inherently evil. Just… misunderstood. Necromancy, summoning, possession—these were all facets of the soul element.
If I did possess such an affinity, it made sense why the beast needed to bind itself to me in secrecy.
A shiver ran through me even as I stood still.
Lately, I had noticed… changes.
My senses had grown sharper. Not always. Just flickers. I'd hear whispers in the garden long before the servants arrived. I'd smell blood even if it was dried into the carpet. I once touched a bird's corpse and felt a pulse—not of life, but something colder. Residual, like memory. That scared me more than I wanted to admit.
I didn't tell anyone.
Not Father. Not even Julius.
Especially not Julius.
He wouldn't understand. He was simple. Brave, strong, and predictable. He lived by the blade, trained by the hour, and believed everything could be overcome with heat and steel.
But this power inside me—whatever it was—didn't feel like something I could cut my way through.
It felt… old. Hungering. Patient.
And it watched.
One night, about a week after the pact, I had woken up drenched in sweat. My room was cold, but I felt heat pulsing from my chest. I pulled back my shirt and found a mark—just a faint circle of runes above my heart. It disappeared by morning.
I checked the mirror every day since.
Nothing.
Yet.
The house was quiet tonight. Too quiet.
I stood by the window of the eastern wing, looking out at the same forest where everything had changed. I often returned there now, under the guise of wandering. Sometimes I sat near the old trapdoor, waiting. Hoping.
But the beast never answered.
A sudden knock startled me. It was too late for visitors.
I opened the door.
A servant stood pale-faced, eyes wide. "Young master Lysander," she said breathlessly, "you're to come to the great hall. Now."
"What happened?"
"It's the Baron. He… he received a letter. It's urgent."
"What kind of letter?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she just whispered: "Something is coming."
I followed her down the dark halls, my heart suddenly pounding—not with fear, but with something else.
The mark on my chest began to burn.
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