Elyndros did not choose kings — it forged them in blood, shaped corpses with the same coldness, and swept away the weak like magical dust. At the heart of this world stood Valedorn, the capital of mages, where the impossible was routine and secrets echoed through the centuries.
The gray towers of Bestial pierced the sky like spears raised against the gods themselves. They were not black, but the color of ancient steel — stained by time and forgotten battles. Winds filled with runic whispers and ancestral electricity hissed along the walls like prophecies in mourning. This was the domain of the great houses, where blood and magic intertwined with glory and damnation.
And at the center of this elite stood House Gloters.
The Gloters estate resembled a war temple sculpted by titans. Windows long as eternal sentences watched over the silent courtyards. The snow that touched other parts of Elyndros never dared to fall there — as if even the skies feared to corrupt the sacred ground of the Gloters.
There, perfection was not a virtue. It was the minimum.
It was in this sanctuary of discipline and steel that Diaz Gloters was born, the tenth child of Artur Gloters XIV — the warrior mage known as the Magical Blade of Bestial. A man carved in ice and iron, who saw children as weapons and any flaw as rust to be discarded.
Diaz came into the world through the hands of Angeline Enker, Artur's first wife. Angeline was a woman with a serene gaze and a wounded soul — a priestess of the forgotten Enker bloodline, seen by many as a harmless relic. While Artur's second wife bore vigorous heirs, Angeline carried years of silence and failed attempts. The court whispered that her lineage was cursed. That nothing would ever bloom from her womb.
But it did.
Diaz was born during a silent storm. His eyes, from the first second, reflected clouds in turmoil — and a silence that made the elders hesitate. It was as if the world's own magic was watching him. A year later, Angeline was dead. No known illness. No broken spell. Just... emptied. As if her soul had been drained from within.
At the funeral, Artur did not cry. Nor did he speak. He merely lowered her body into the ancestral tomb and returned to training.
At age two, Diaz underwent the Runic Echo — a sacred ceremony where a child's magical core is revealed. The runic altar, made of living stone, trembled when the boy was placed. Golden lines ignited the ground. A chorus of whispers swept through the attending mages.
Diaz already had a pre-raw core, but one that echoed. Something rare. Something... monstrously early.
Before that, Artur permitted the improbable: the hint of a smile.
From that day on, Diaz ceased to be just Angeline's son. He became the personal project of an empire.
A few weeks after the ceremony, the gears of magical politics began to turn. The Rhenstar family — one of the most influential houses of Bestial, renowned for their mastery of enchanted bows and precision sorcery — sent a delegation to the Gloters. They proposed a pact. A blood agreement. A marriage between heirs. Although they were a step below the Gloters.
The meeting took place in Artur Gloters' office, a room more like a war sanctuary. The walls displayed weapons sealed in magical cases. Statues of ancestral warriors watched in silence, like judges from another time. At the center, a massive black stone table separated the Gloters from the Rhenstars.
Liah Rhenstar, the eldest daughter, was among the representatives. She was young, perhaps the same age as Diaz, but already carried the bearing of royalty. Her hair shimmered like silver threads in the light, and her eyes — large, intense — held an odd maturity for someone so young. She was visibly uncomfortable with the formality of the moment, but held her composure as taught.
Diaz was summoned. He entered with calm steps, wearing his training clothes, still stained with sweat and magical dust. As he crossed the hall, his eyes met Liah's. For a brief second, there was absolute silence. Even the flames of the torches seemed to hesitate.
Liah's ring vibrated slightly on her finger — not like a simple magical alert, but as if recognizing the presence of something... or someone. She felt it before she saw it. A shiver ran down her spine.
When her eyes met Diaz at the threshold, she immediately looked away, cheeks flushing as if caught in an ancient secret. But her posture, once tense and discreet, shifted — shoulders relaxed, fingers slowly intertwined.
Something had changed.
It was a moment, but it felt like the world held its breath. She couldn't explain it. As if his gaze carried a weight no word could define. It wasn't just intensity — it was destiny. Or perhaps a memory of a future yet to happen.
"This is my son, Diaz," said Artur, voice deep. "The blade that will one day become this house's legacy."
"It is an honor to finally meet him," replied Lord Rhenstar, observing the boy with calculating eyes. "Our bloodline believes unions must be made between equal forces. And what we see... is promising."
Liah bowed her head in greeting, but her eyes returned to Diaz soon after. There was astonishment. Curiosity. And a flicker of doubt she didn't yet understand.
The meeting continued with formalities. Magical contracts were invoked and sealed. An agreement was made. Nothing demanded an immediate marriage, but the names of Liah and Diaz would be linked in royal scrolls — a promise of future. A promise of power.
Outside the office, before parting, Liah cast one last glance at Diaz. He said nothing. Merely observed her. With the calm of someone who heard voices no one else could hear.
From that day, Diaz's training intensified. In the mornings, he faced swordsmen twice his age. In the afternoon, he memorized entire passages from the monks' magical containment manuals, reciting runes without a single mistake. At night, he confronted illusions meant to break the mind — shadows that mimicked his father, his dead mother, and the siblings who silently hated him.
Among those siblings, two stood out: Joyce and Armim.
Joyce was the eldest daughter of Artur's second wife. She had a sharp face, eyes cold as glass blades, and a smile always halfway between mockery and strategy. From early on, she proved manipulative. She had magical talent, but her true skill lay in influence. And her favorite target had always been the brother who shone too brightly: Diaz.
"He's not that special," she'd say to Armim, her brother of the same age as Diaz, during training. "He just looks like it. It's a trick. He'll fail. And when that happens... it'll be our chance."
Armim was different. Less cruel. More insecure. His eyes carried doubts he never voiced. Still, he followed his sister's advice, trying to match Diaz.
In the House's tests, there was always a comparison. Diaz versus Joyce. Diaz versus Armim. And always, the result was the same: Diaz won. Not with arrogance. But with brutal naturalness.
In one session, Armim tried to surprise him with a dual-blade strike, a technique no child his age should master. Diaz dodged effortlessly, spun, and pressed the tip of his wooden sword to his brother's throat before he even realized.
"You're dead, Armim," said one instructor.
Joyce clenched her fists from a distance. Her eyes burned.
"One day he'll stumble," she muttered. "No one is perfect."
But Diaz didn't stumble.
Not in training, nor in studies. Nor in the emotional control the others often lost.
And the more he won, the more they looked at him with contempt. As if his perfection were an insult. As if he was no longer one of them.
As if he were... something else.
But the climax would come at twelve: the Resonance with the Primordial Force of the Storm.
It was the Gloters' seal. What set them apart from other nobles. A colossal altar was built atop Arkahn's sacred peaks, beneath black clouds and coiling thunder.
Thousands watched.
Artur stood motionless, arms crossed like a judge awaiting verdict.
Diaz climbed the steps with stone eyes. No tremor. No pride. Just... absolute focus.
At the summit, he knelt.
Ancient runes lit up in a spiral. The Storm Blade — relic of the clan — floated above the altar, wrapped in sparks.
Then... the sky silenced.
The blade shone.
And... went dark.
The altar burst with reverse energy. Diaz was hurled into the air, as if the world itself rejected him. His body rolled down the steps, blood and thunder mixing like paint in a profane canvas.
Healers rushed in. Read his flows. And declared:
"His core is... occupied. As if another Force is already there."
"Resonance was the ultimate consecration for a Gloters. Those who failed... were no longer Gloters."
Artur was silent for three days.
On the fourth day, he gathered all his children in the Hall of Banners.
It was an ancestral chamber, circular, built from living stone. Black columns rose like giant bones up to the domed ceiling, where ancient runes shimmered in spirals, rotating slowly as if time itself obeyed a different order there. At the center, the hearth crackled softly—not as a source of warmth, but as a witness. It seemed to await a verdict.
The walls were covered in faded banners, each marked with the crest of a generation of the Gloters lineage. And among them, the painted eyes of former patriarchs watched—still and merciless—like judges who never rest.
Standing at the center of power was Artur Gloters XIV—the Patriarch. Still as a war statue carved in steel. At his side stood two pillars of the Old Order.
Lady Mirtha, silver hair tied in a strict bun, sapphire eyes that had seen glories and horrors. She was known for sealing a Northern Leviathan with nothing but a rune and her voice.
And Lord Varnor, the Silent One, skin etched with runes that burned like live embers—a living memory of the Rune Wars. Every mark on his body was a scar made of power.
Behind the stone throne, upright like a sheathed blade, stood Anastácia Gloters—Artur's second wife. Legendary beauty, yet cold enough to freeze a room with a glance. And still, her eyes never touched Diaz. As if he didn't exist.
Before them, lined up like pieces on the board of a blood-soaked war, stood the Patriarch's children.
Klover, the firstborn, twenty years old, solid as granite. Dark hair tied in a war bun. Calloused hands resting on the hilt of his sword—not out of affection, but habit. Relaxing was never an option. He seemed a wall. And thought like one: orders come before emotions.
Victor, eighteen, wore a crimson robe with golden arcane embroidery. The faint smile on his lips wasn't warmth—it was calculation. He observed everything, absorbed everything. His eyes passed over Diaz slowly, cold and inquisitive. As if he had already read the verdict before it was spoken: shame has weight, and his is heavier than the name he carries.
Joyce, fourteen, immaculate in her combat uniform. Hair tied with military precision. Arms crossed, but her fingers betrayed restlessness. She didn't look at Diaz directly, but the half-smile on her lips said everything: relief masked as disdain. One less obstacle.
Armim, twelve, was the only visible crack. Robe slightly misaligned, eyes wavering between father and brother. He bit his lower lip, driven by the urge to speak—but fear weighed heavier. The look he gave Diaz flickered between pity and envy. Maybe now I can be more than your shadow...
And then, Diaz. Also twelve. But different. His body marked by bruises from the ritual. Runes still stained his skin, living reminders of what had gone wrong. His eyes—those no longer lowered before his father. There was no fear. There was something heavier. More raw. Cold like a blade forgotten in ice.
Artur took a deep breath.
The sound filled the room like contained thunder.
"For the good of House Gloters..." he said, his voice dragging like stone over iron, "Diaz is no longer one of us."
Silence.
Complete.
"A disabled one cannot bear the name that forges kings." His eyes narrowed on his son. "This... is the legacy of the woman who shamed me."
The air seemed to harden.
Only the hearth dared break the silence, crackling slowly. Sarcastic.
Lady Mirtha furrowed her brow. But said nothing.
Varnor didn't move. Only a rune on his neck glowed softly—as if recording something inevitable.
Anastácia adjusted herself lightly. Like someone watching the rival piece fall from the board.
Victor was the first to blink. Then, he nodded slightly. One less game. One throne closer.
Joyce smiled. Unmasked. The smile of someone watching chains break. Now my rise begins.
Klover remained still. Inside, he thought only one thing: Loyalty is silence. Even when you bleed within.
Armim... hesitated. His eyes widened. But then he felt Joyce's gaze weighing on him. She thought with cruel clarity: Finally, it's my brother's time to shine.
Armim lowered his eyes. A thought slipped into his mind: I will surpass you, Diaz. This time... I will.
Diaz said nothing.
Not a whisper.
He only looked into his father's eyes, as if wanting to burn each word into his flesh.
Artur turned, his cloak dragging on the cold floor.
He thought, dryly: For the good of the House, no sacrifice is too great.
"At sunrise, he will be taken." The voice was a sentence. "All trace will be burned. Records, contracts. Everything. Angeline's lineage ends here."
He turned to the elders.
"Give faith to the decree."
Mirtha nodded with a gesture that hurt more for its coldness than for its formality.
Varnor raised a hand. Drew the seal of rupture in the air.
It was done.
Diaz stepped forward. His eyes sliced through his siblings, one by one.
Joyce held his gaze.
Victor ignored him, as if already in another match.
Klover remained static.
Armim looked away.
Then, Diaz turned.
And walked out of the hall.
No escort. No chains.
No one tried to stop him.
No one said a word.
But something lingered in the air.
Dense.
Like smoke that does not dissipate.
Like a promise not forgotten.
Like slow-burning fire, lurking.
Like the beginning of something that still has no name.
The next day, Diaz was taken to the Endless Vale.
A place where the land itself had given up on existing. A chasm swallowed by black flames—the residue of ancient wars. No echo ever returned from there.
They rode in silence.
The sky was gray.
Beside Diaz, two sealed priests and a red-masked executioner, holding the ritual sword.
The boy trembled. Not from fear, but from misunderstood despair. Inside, pain mixed with shame, and the fury of a betrayed heart.
They reached the edge. The wind there howled like a warning from the dead.
"This is the end," said the executioner. "May the flames purify you."
Diaz fell to his knees. Screamed. Pounded the ground. No one responded.
He hated.
He loved his mother in silence.
And then, he lifted his eyes to the cloudy sky and whispered:
"So this is it..."
And was pushed.
The fall was a drag of a thousand needles. The air burned like molten iron. His skin tore, his bones broke. The black flames rose below, ready to consume him.
And as his body plunged into hell, his thoughts, for the first time, weren't about fear. They were about promises.
— I am not a mistake...
— They will see...
— I will return... even from hell!
— And when I return... the world will burn with me.
Silence.
The impact was brutal.
And then, nothing.
Only the void.