Year of Idite, 1164
The first pale light of dawn crept through the tall windows of Count Caelum Thorne's study, casting thin slashes of gold across ancient books, maps, and dark wood. The air smelled of ink, parchment, and faintly of lavender oil.
Caelum sat at his desk, a quill poised between long fingers, the glimmer of magical runes shifting subtly across the letters he was scribing. His dark blue hair spilled over one shoulder, and his teal eyes flicked up instinctively a heartbeat before the doors burst open without warning.
"Caelum!"
The frantic voice barely registered before she appeared—Lilith, now eight years old, small bare feet slapping against the floor, her nightdress tangled, her breathing ragged.
But it was not her panic that made Caelum rise so swiftly.
It was her hair.
The once snow-white strands—the mark she had received after her birth—had turned to brilliant crimson that she normally inherited from her mother, the color of freshly spilled blood. The fiery strands caught the dawnlight, almost glowing, as her wide ruby-red eyes filled with confusion and terror.
"Caelum—!" she gasped, stumbling toward him, her small hands trembling as she clutched fistfuls of her own hair. "What—what's happening to me? I—I woke up like this! I don't understand—!"
She was near tears, her voice cracked and breathless, panic rising like a tide. "I—I didn't do any spells—I didn't touch anything! Is this… am I sick?"
In two strides Caelum reached her, his gloved hands gently taking hold of her trembling wrists. His expression, calm as winter glass, flickered with something rare—something almost tender beneath the marble mask.
"Lilith. Breathe."
She gasped, her chest heaving, her lip quivering. Her eyes searched his face desperately, clinging to him as though he could undo whatever horror had befallen her.
"I'm—am I dying?" she whispered. "Is it some sort of curse? Did I—?"
"No." His voice was steady, a grounding force in her storm of fear. "You are not dying."
He guided her gently to sit in the high-backed chair near the hearth, kneeling before her with quiet patience. For a moment, only the crackle of the fireplace filled the silence.
Caelum hesitated for a split second, then reached for her hand, his voice hushed and heavy. "My lady… this is something I should not tell you for I am not your father, nor mother. However, since you came to me first, I will calm you down so you can hear the rest of the story from your parents."
Her lips parted, confused.
Caelum's voice came out calm and collected. "When the Duchess gave birth to you, you did not cry out. You were born to die, and you nearly did. I heard your parents went to see every healer, every priest to save you, but none managed. "
She stared, breath caught.
"It was the Goddess of Chaos who saved you," he continued, his voice in a soft whisper. "She gave you life. She healed you in secret, in the dark, when none of the other gods would."
Lilith's throat tightened. "But… I thought she was—bad. The stories—"
"The stories are lies," Caelum said softly, his teal eyes steady on hers. "The truth is in your blood, my lady. She saved you. That's why your once crimson hair turned white—a mark of the Goddess of Chaos. By her blood, you were reborn and became hers. But it was a magic too great for your body to carry all at once. It's taken years for your soul and body to adjust… and now your hair has returned back to its original color, next will be your eyes."
The girl's small hands trembled in her lap. "But… you tought me that every deal has a consequence..."
Caelum stayed silent for a moment before speaking slowly while looking into her eyes. "You are hers, Lilith. She claimed you as her own child. And in time, you will understand the meaning of it. "
Tears clung to her lashes. "So… I'm not dying?"
Caelum shook his head. "No. You are adjusting."
She exhaled in a ragged breath, then buried her face against Caelum's chest. Caelum gently held her, his thoughts already racing far beyond the walls of the manor.
Year of Idite, 1166
The golden light of the setting sun slanted through the high windows of the old library, casting long, amber shadows over rows of ancient tomes and velvet drapes. Lilith von Silford, now ten years old, stood at the center of a carefully drawn magic circle etched in chalk and silver dust. Her lively crimson hair cascaded down her back like molten silk, her emerald eyes fixed in focused concentration as she whispered the old words Caelum had taught her.
Before her, the air shimmered faintly—tendrils of water rising from a silver bowl, threading together in midair until they formed the shape of a fragile glass flower. It pulsed, flickered, and then dissolved in a fine mist.
Lilith sighed, brushing her hair back, her brow damp with effort.
Hidden behind the half-closed library door, Elias watched her with wide eyes.
At eight years old, Elias bore the family's mark in his own way—his crimson-red hair curling softly at the edges, his amber eyes glowing faintly in the fading light. He was smaller, slighter than his sister, but his expression was filled with something unmistakable: awe.
She looked so graceful, so certain—her hands weaving through the air like a dancer's, her voice steady and clear as she shaped magic into reality. He hugged himself, unnoticed, leaning against the doorframe, a small smile curling at his lips.
She was everything he wanted to be.
Strong. Brave. Magical.
But he… he wasn't.
Elias turned away quietly before she could see him, his heart pulling in a strange, heavy way. He didn't want to be a burden. He didn't want to always be the younger brother who needed protecting.
The sky had deepened to indigo by the time he reached the forgotten chapel, the one hidden behind the east wing of the manor—sealed to most, known only to most trusted. His fingers trembled as he pushed the heavy door open, the old iron hinges groaning softly.
The air inside was cold. The statue of Akasha loomed in the candlelight—her face carved in stone: sorrow, fury, serenity, madness.
Elias swallowed hard.
He stepped forward, each footfall echoing softly on the ancient flagstones. He didn't understand everything about the Goddess of Chaos. He only knew that his family whispered her name in secret, that his sister's magic came from something older and darker than the other churches spoke of.
He dropped to his knees, his little hands pressed together awkwardly. The silence pressed down on him.
"I… I don't know if you can hear me," he whispered, voice shaking. "But I'm Elias. Lilith's brother."
The shadows seemed to shift, the candle flames dancing oddly.
"She's really special, amazing," Elias continued, his words tumbling out in a hurried breath. "And I don't want her to worry about me. I don't want to be weak, a burden..."
His hands tightened. "I don't need to be great. I just… I just want to be strong enough to stand beside her."
The wind—though there should have been none—stirred faintly through the chapel, lifting the edges of his hair.
A single candle flickered bright red for a heartbeat, then steadied.
Elias lifted his head, eyes wide, breath caught. He could feel it—something warm and cold at once brushing across his skin, something vast and ancient that didn't speak in words but in feeling.
Not rejection.
Not scorn.
Something closer to… approval. Or perhaps amusement.
The sensation passed as quickly as it had come, leaving only the hushed crackle of wax and flame.
Elias exhaled shakily, rising to his feet, still wide-eyed but steadier. He didn't know what he'd expected—fire, visions, thunder? But somehow, he felt… different.
As he left the chapel, his fingers brushing the old stone door, the moonlight caught on his amber eyes, which glowed faintly in the dark.
He did not know it yet, but Chaos had heard him. And deep beneath the veil of mortal sight, something ancient stirred—its gaze resting lightly upon the boy who prayed not for glory, but for the strength to protect.
And that… was enough.
Hours later, the manor was silent beneath the weight of midnight. The moon, bloated and silver, hung high above the mist-veiled grounds, casting an eerie glow across the blackened windows and ancient stone.
In his bed chamber, Count Caelum Thorne awoke with a sharp breath—his teal eyes snapping open, cold sweat on his brow. He sat upright, his long dark blue hair falling loose over his shoulders, breath shallow as the last threads of the vision clung to him.
He had seen Her.
The Goddess of Chaos, wrapped in shadows and blood, her face whispering truths too old for mortal memory. But one message burned clearer than all:
The boy. The brother. Bring him.
And the offering—a heart, still beating, wrenched from the flesh of a monster.
Caelum rose, his hands already moving with practiced precision as he donned the ceremonial black mantle embroidered with blood red twin moons. The Emissary of Chaos did not disobey when She called.
After all preparations were finished it was already far into the night.
The moonlight streamed through the shattered stained glass high above, turning the hidden chapel's cracked stones into veins of silver and ash. The statue of Akasha, her face showing eternal contradiction, loomed in the flickering glow of black candles.
At Caelum's side stood Elias von Silford, his crimson hair straight and shining, his amber eyes wide but unwavering. He had not asked questions when Caelum woke him and led him here. There was something in the boy—a quiet hunger, a desire to matter, to be worthy—that resonated with the Goddess's call.
In the young boy's hands rested the offering: the still-beating heart of a monster, driven mad by the amount of miasma, slain at Caelum's hand just hours before, pulsing wet and red against silver ceremonial cloth.
"Do you trust me, Elias?" Caelum murmured, his voice low, as he knelt to meet the boy's gaze.
Elias swallowed hard, but nodded. "Yes."
"Good." Caelum's expression remained unreadable, but his voice softened ever so slightly. "She has summoned you. Tonight, you will meet Her. You will not be harmed. But you must not fear Her."
The boy gripped the heart tighter, breath misting in the cold air. His straight crimson hair caught the moonlight like liquid flame.
The ritual began.
Caelum's voice filled the chapel, ancient words rolling from his tongue—language older than kingdoms, spoken before the world was split by war, miasma and false words from gods. The air grew thick, shadows pooling unnaturally in front of the statue of the Goddess.
The heart, at Caelum's instruction, was placed at the foot of the statue, on an ancient ritual altar.
Elias, trembling but determined, knelt as Caelum gave him a ceremonial dagger, Her dagger. Taking a deep breath, he raised the dagger above his head before stabbing the beating heart with it. The blood poured out to the altar, covering the hidden ancient letters carved into it.
The wind stirred violently. The candles flared black-red. The earth itself seemed to hum.
And then—She came.
The air in the chapel split. For a breathless moment, the Goddess of Chaos manifested. Not in full form, but in shifting shadows and burning red eyes that swirled within the dark. A voice—Her voice—echoed through the chapel, the marrow of the stone, and through the soul of the boy:
"I hear you, little one. You will not be weak for you are Mine, as is your sister. Two threads, one fate. If that is what you wish."
Elias's answer was quick and precise, "I—I do! Please. Give me the power to stand next to my sister. I will be—no, I am your devoted follower. For you saved her."
"Then kneel before me and close your eyes."
Elias did as he was told and closed his eyes. He then gasped as something unseen, cold and burning at once, touched his forehead. His vision blurred as the Goddess's voice rang through the chapel one last time.
"I give you the power to manipulate light and shadow. This power belonged to my beloved. If used masterfully, you can level cities with it. Caelum, I will send one of my creatures so they can train him. You know what to do."
Caelum's answer came swift, "Yes, Mother."
And then all was still.
The wind ceased. The shadows withdrew. The candles guttered out, leaving only moonlight.
Caelum exhaled slowly, his hands steady as he touched Elias's shoulder. "It is done," he murmured. "Congratulations, young master. She has granted you your wish."
The boy shivered, not from cold—but from something deeper. Yet in his amber eyes, something new burned: a flicker of power. Of connection. He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he would never be the same.