Lucille sat on the edge of her bed, the room quiet except for the faint hum of the estate's mana circuits pulsing through the walls. Her fingers curled around the seed, warm, almost alive, but her thoughts were far from the present. The weight in her chest wasn't from the artifact she held, but from something buried far deeper.
Her mind drifted. Back ten years. To when she was just a child, before the cold calculations of legacy and power overtook everything. A time when she still adored the man who would one day become her greatest disappointment.
She had idolized her father back then.
The memory came easily, crisp and vivid, like the moment had waited patiently all these years to be remembered.
At ten years old, Lucille had looked up to her father like he was made of steel and lightning. The way the other clans respected him, the reverence in every bow, the hush in every meeting it stirred something in her. But what truly lit a fire in her was the way he trained. Alone. Without praise. Endurance training, weapon mastery, and meditation that lasted hours. That was the man she wanted to become: powerful and self-made.
That year marked the day she would be formally inducted into the inner Desmire line, a rite reserved only for those the head deemed worthy.
She remembered holding her mother's hand as they made their way through the estate. Her mother, Saria Desmire, had soft features and curvier build that mirrored Lucy's future self, but there was an inner fire in her that no one ever acknowledged. Where her father was ice and steel, Saria was warmth and iron. Kind but never weak. And that day, her mother had smiled at her with such pride, knowing exactly how much it meant to Lucille.
They descended beneath the estate, past the barriers only direct blood could cross. The underground quarter, a sanctum sealed from the world, housed the most sacred symbol of their family: the Crimson Tree.
It stood tall and haunting in the center of a glowing dome, its bark deep maroon, its leaves like bloodstained silk. Three fruits dangled from its branches like forbidden treasures, pulsing gently with power. The source of their strength… and their curse.
Lucille's father had knelt beside her, his expression uncharacteristically soft. He plucked one of the fruits, glistening and ripe, and offered it to her without a word.
She took it with trembling hands. Her heart raced as she bit into it.
Pain followed. Not physical alone, though that was excruciating, but magical, emotional, and spiritual. It felt as if her blood had been set on fire, every vein flooded with something alien. Her legs buckled. She screamed. But she didn't let go.
Saria had rushed forward, worry etched across her face, but her father had raised a hand.
"She must endure," he said calmly.
Lucille did. And when it passed, she opened her eyes to a world that looked brighter, sharper… clearer.
From that day, her real training began.
Her mornings were spent with her father, sparring until bruises coated her skin and breath came in ragged bursts. But her evenings, those belonged to her mother.
Saria was the one who taught her about the world beyond the estate, sitting cross-legged on woven mats in the moonlit study with a crystal map hovering between them.
"This," her mother had said, tapping the floating projection, "is Beacon City. It's ours. A place forged centuries ago by our ancestors to be a sanctuary, a blend of warcraft and innovation."
The city, as Saria explained, was both ancient and progressive. Though built with the tradition of their bloodline, samurai-inspired battalions, warrior rites, and honor duels, it had adapted to technology seamlessly. Mana circuits powered every structure. Artificial teleportation points had only recently been added to connect distant cities across the continent.
"Beacon City is safe," Saria continued, "because it's protected by the Desmire name. But don't confuse control with peace. Not everyone wants protection."
She showed her more.
"There's Almer, far to the west. A noble empire, obsessed with purity and bloodlines. Your father doesn't get along with them," Saria added with a smirk. "Too much pride. They think their path is the only path to strength."
Lucille listened wide-eyed.
"To the north," Saria continued, "Vintermoor — the Frozen Realm. A haven for all races. Elves, beastkin, outcasts. The cold keeps them honest."
Then there was Sah'Rael, the Desert Province.
"A land of shifting alliances and coin-based law. The rules change with every hand that holds power, but survive there and you earn your place."
Lastly, she pointed high above the map to a floating island — a ring of crystalline spires encircling a massive tree.
"That is Sylthraen — the Elven Haven. They rose above the wars. Literally. Built their home in the sky to avoid bloodshed and watch from afar. They rarely interfere."
Lucille had soaked it all in like sunlight. Back then, the world felt big, but she felt bigger. Her potential, her strength, made her feel like she belonged at the center of it.
For two years, she thrived. Her father's pride was subtle but present. He saw her talent — the way she wielded ice magic like an extension of her own body, and he began comparing her to Saria in more than just appearance.
Her mother was a powerful sorceress in her own right, though she'd never undergone the Desmire tree trial. She wasn't born into the family. She'd married into it, chosen by love, or so Lucille once believed.
Those days were good.
Even when Drex, her younger brother, ate the second fruit and tried to follow in her footsteps, she wasn't jealous. She watched him train, stumble, fall, and get up again, always with something to prove. He wasn't like her. He lacked the instincts, the fire, but he had a heart.
At fifteen, Lucille Desmire had finally reached the age where she could officially register with the Adventurers' Guild. For someone born into a warrior bloodline like hers, it was more than a milestone; it was a rite of passage. Her father had filled out the paperwork himself, his signature like a seal of destiny.
From that moment, every morning was an adventure. She'd leave with her mother at dawn, her weapon strapped to her back and eagerness in her step. The city gates welcomed them out, and the wild beyond gave her something she couldn't get within Beacon City's wall, experience, danger, and the thrill of combat.
Monsters fell to her blade. Some with ease, others with a fight. But all of them taught her something. And at the end of each day, she'd return to the estate and push open the heavy doors to her father's office, still in her gear, sometimes with dirt on her cheeks or blood on her sleeves.
He'd be there — always in his white training robes — seated at his desk, brushing ink across ancient scrolls or meditating in silence. Sometimes he'd look up and listen with a faint nod as she spoke, recounting the monsters she'd slain or how her magic felt that day. Other times, he'd barely react. He was busy, she told herself. She understood. And because she loved him, she didn't get upset.
She continued training with her younger brother Drex, who looked up to her with admiration and determination. Like their father, Drex wielded wind magic — not for flashy gusts, but to sharpen the edge of his weapon strikes. He chose the axe and sword as his tools of war, powerful and direct, and their father approved. They sparred often, and Lucy did her best to help him keep up, even when she outpaced him easily.
Life was good.
Or so it seemed.
Then, something changed.
Her father, in one of his increasingly brief conversations with her, handed down a new responsibility. She was to lead a team of young adventurers — other teens, all around her age. They'd be entering low-level dungeons together, learning to fight as a unit. She was to guide them, protect them, sharpen them.
It was an honor. Or a test. Maybe both.
Her mother, however, wasn't happy. Saria pulled her aside the day before their first dungeon run and whispered her concerns. "She's not ready. Not like that. She leads with instinct, not discipline." But her words never carried weight in the Desmire halls. Her father dismissed her gently but firmly. "She needs to stop babying the child," he said. "This is the only way to bring out her potential."
So Lucille led.
The first few trips were simple — goblins, traps, formations. Her team bonded quickly, though some still struggled. She was beginning to find her rhythm.
Until that day.
Something was wrong from the start. The estate's underground tree — the Crimson Tree — had begun pulsing. The crimson light beneath the estate's inner quarters flared at irregular intervals, like it was alive and… breathing. Red light poured upward through cracks in the ground, unsettling even the hardened guards.
At first, her father ignored it. "The tree reacts to bloodlines. Nothing more," he said. But when it didn't stop, he grew silent — distant.
And that same day, Lucy's team entered a new dungeon. One supposedly cleared weeks ago.
It should've been safe.
But it wasn't.
From the moment they crossed the threshold, something was off. The air was heavier. The light dimmer. And then… chaos.
The orcs were already there — more than a dozen, brutish and armed. They attacked without hesitation.
Lucille had drawn her weapon, prepared to fight… but her body wouldn't move.
Her fingers trembled.
Her legs locked in place.
And suddenly her veins began to glow — thin, crimson lines streaking up her arms and throat, pulsing in sync with the tree beneath the estate. Her chest burned. Her limbs ached. It felt like her blood was screaming.
All around her, the scene was a nightmare. One of the boys took a hammer to the side. Another was dragged by two orcs, screaming, before being split down the middle. The sounds of steel, bone, and terror filled the chamber.
Lucy stood frozen, teeth clenched, eyes wide. Her instincts cried out, her training begged her to move — but her body betrayed her.
And then one of the orcs saw her.
It broke from the pack, a massive thing with a blunt mace stained with blood. Its heavy footsteps echoed through the room, each one closing the distance between them.
Lucy wanted to scream.
Her hands wouldn't lift.
Her breath was shallow. Her knees were giving out.
Why? she thought. Why now? Why here?
She felt it — a wet warmth trickling down her leg. Humiliation gripped her as tightly as fear.
Just as the orc raised its weapon to strike her down—
A flash of silver light.
A clean slice through the air.
The orc's head rolled clean off, blood spraying like a fountain across her face and chest. She gasped, blinking through the red. In front of her stood Drex — chest heaving, sword in hand, red lines glowing faintly along his arms and collarbone.
He looked back over his shoulder at her.
"I've got you this time, sis," he said, managing a tired grin. "So please… just tell Father how cool I looked."
He turned just in time to parry another orc's blade, his stance solid despite the fear in his eyes. Behind them, the remaining children rallied, forming up and charging toward the clustered orcs. They fought together, like they were trained to — like they had no choice.
But Lucy?
Lucy could only watch.
Her fists trembled.
Her heart pounded.
Her shame drowned her.
Why can't I move?Why now?I'm not weak… I'm not…
But something inside her whispered otherwise. Something darker. Something alive.
And far beneath the dungeon floor, the tree pulsed again.
Red.
Hungry.
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