Caelan stood in silence for a long while, the echo of his heartbeat nearly drowned out by the silent thrumming of mana all around him. He had stumbled upon something ancient, something the world had clearly forgotten—perhaps intentionally. Something unknown to the world, unnamed in its annals, untouched by even legend.
The Runic Heart Core pulsed faintly atop its pedestal, as though aware of his presence. The rhythmic beat of it, slow and deliberate, disturbed him in ways he could not name. It was like standing in a cathedral built by time itself, where mana was prayer and stone was the altar.
He exhaled and stepped forward, ungloved fingers drawing a small cut across his palm. A single drop of blood fell onto the Runic Heart. The moment it touched the surface, the runes ignited—brilliant violet and silver lines spider-webbing across the surface, the pulse quickening with violent intensity.
He took a step back as the cavern rumbled.
Behind him, the casket shuddered, the silver bands uncoiling like living metal, each rune dissolving into particles of light. Caelan's hand went to his dagger—not in fear, but in instinct.
The casket opened.
Inside lay a woman around twenty years of age. Not decayed, not preserved—alive. Or something near enough. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, with veins glowing faintly with residual mana. Her dark hair spread like ink across the velvet lining of the casket. A faint aura clung to her—cold, immense, and utterly still. In her right hand rested a longsword, elegant and ancient, its blade engraved with runes so faint they seemed to flicker just beneath the surface.
But it was her chest that caught Caelan's breath.
Where her heart should have been, there was a hollow slot—smooth-edged and perfectly shaped to fit the Runic Heart Core. It looked almost surgical in precision, unnatural in its presence, as though her very existence had been constructed around the void.
He turned slowly, eyes flicking to the pulsing artifact still glowing atop the pedestal. He stepped forward gingerly, fingers curling around the Heart with a reverence he hadn't known he could feel. It was warm now, almost eager.
Caelan carried it back to the casket and, with slow precision, placed the Runic Heart into the hollow.
The reaction was immediate.
A surge of magic burst outward, nearly knocking him off his feet. The hollow sealed shut with a hiss of energy as flesh knit seamlessly over the artifact. Then came the aura—black and violent, spilling from her form like an eruption of volcanic lava that flooded the cavern with impossible weight.
He staggered back, hand shielding his eyes from the brightness—or was it darkness?—radiating from her.
The woman's body arched with sudden life, as if a thousand circuits were connecting at once. Her limbs twitched, then steadied. Her sword hand flexed instinctively, gripping the hilt with terrifying purpose.
And then—her eyes snapped open.
They were crimson. Deep red, glowing with dangerous vitality. Caelan's breath hitched as she pushed herself into a sitting position.
The sword in her hand came alive as well, runes along its blade sparking to life. She rose from the casket in a fluid motion, her eyes scanning the chamber like a predator awakening to a world it had forgotten.
Caelan's instinct screamed. He stepped back quickly, heart leaping into his throat. The aura pouring off her could easily crush an unprepared soul, and now that her sword was drawn and her body fully active, he feared an attack.
But she didn't strike.
Instead, her gaze locked on him—and she froze.
Then she moved.
She stepped from the casket, clad in a robe of black and silver threads that shimmered with ancient embroidery. The cloth clung to her like a second skin, as if it had always been part of her body, not formed or summoned, but waiting. Her expression softened, her eyes never leaving his.
And then—she knelt.
One knee to the stone, head bowed low, blade resting at her side. Not in threat. In offering.
The cavern pulsed with silence again, but now it held breathless anticipation.
The woman slowly raised her head, red eyes glowing beneath the cavern's dim light. Caelan narrowed his eyes, voice low but firm as he asked, "What are you?"
Her voice, when it came, was calm and measured. "I am a homunculus, forged through arcane synthesis and bound to the command of the one whose blood flows through the Runic Heart Core. Should that person perish, I will also perish, for the bond is life-bound."
Her tone was not mechanical, not rehearsed—it held presence. Intelligence.
"I was designed to serve my wielder," she continued, rising slowly to her feet but keeping her posture deferential. "My body is artificial but alive. I possess both a mana core and sword aura, fused within me at inception. I am both mage and warrior. I was designed to wage wars and protect empires."
Caelan remained quiet for a moment, then took the journal from the pedestal and held it out for her to see. The ancient cover, marked with the emblem of a tower crumbling into stars, reflected the faint light of the chamber.
"Do you recognize this?" he asked, voice quiet but intense. "Do you know who created you? Or understand the theories in the journal left here?"
The woman shook her head. "I have fragments of understanding. Instinctual knowledge. But the identity of my creator or knowledge of this journal is unknown to me. My memories are sealed or never given. I only know purpose."
He looked at her thoughtfully. "What's your name?"
She paused, almost as if startled by the question. "I… was never given one."
Caelan exhaled. "Then I'll give you one. From this day, you'll be called Seraphine."
Her eyes widened faintly. The name seemed to settle into her with strange finality, as though completing something long left open.
She bowed her head slightly. "I am Seraphine. I serve."
Caelan gave a nod. "Then stand."
She rose smoothly, silent as shadow.
She extended one hand, touching the center of her chest. A glowing symbol appeared, shimmering with layered runes.
Caelan's eyes narrowed slightly as he met her gaze. "And your core affinity? What is it?"
She looked down briefly, then lifted her hand once more to her chest. The runes at her sternum glowed faintly as she spoke.
"My core affinity… is anti-magic."
Caelan's breath caught in his throat. The air itself seemed to still.
Anti-magic.
The ultimate counterforce. The negation of all sorcery, the undoing of enchantment, the natural predator of every magical being.
He took a step back, studying her more closely now. "Do you understand what that means, Seraphine? That power... it changes everything."
She met his gaze. "I understand what I am capable of. I exist to be used."
Caelan shook his head slowly. "No. Not used. Directed," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "You're not just a weapon. You're a legacy—a spark of something bigger. And that means you and I have work to do. You weren't made to be buried. You were made to change the world."
She didn't speak, but something in her expression shifted—almost imperceptibly. A flicker of thought, of recognition.
And Caelan, for all his preparation and planning, found himself unprepared for what came next.
And as he stared at her, mind racing. What had he awakened?
Something old.
Something dangerous.
And now—his.