Elianne was only a child then — curious, headstrong, and full of questions no tutor could quite answer to her satisfaction. Though born into noble blood, it wasn't her father's political influence that shaped her the most.
It was her mother.
Lady Camellia Rosavelle, an esteemed High Enchantress of the Mage Tower, possessed a unique form of magic passed down through a forgotten Verdant bloodline. She could shape raw mana into living botanical forms — ethereal roots that coiled like serpents, petals that hovered like glowing embers before detonating on command, vines that danced in spirals of violet mana. Her unique skill, once revered among the arcanists, was known as Floramancy: Bloomwoven Veil.
Despite being married into nobility, Camellia never gave up her post. Her husband, Lord Albrecht Rosavelle, loved her far too deeply to clip her wings. He admired her brilliance, her strength — and let her pursue her passion with pride.
Until the day a summons came.
A mission — one the Mage Tower deemed critical. A heretic sect had been spreading dangerous demonological doctrines in secret, far from the eyes of the capital. Camellia, with her unique magical affinity and strategic prowess, was chosen to lead the strike.
That morning, she lifted Elianne high into the air, arms cradling her close under the warm golden sun that filtered through the garden canopy.
"My beautiful little flower," she said, smiling, her lips brushing Elianne's forehead. "Stay safe at home, and blossom into something radiant. Become a flower that will make the world stare in awe."
Then she left.
She never returned.
The news of her death shattered the household like glass dropped on marble. Mourning banners were raised across the Rosavelle estate. Elianne wept herself raw in her father's arms, her sobs wracking her small frame until she could barely breathe.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
She stopped eating. Stopped speaking. Locked herself in her room. No light entered. Not even her favorite books stirred her.
And one night, walking past her father's study, she heard something — a soft sound behind a slightly cracked door.
She peeked in.
Lord Albrecht, the unshakable nobleman, was hunched over his desk, shaking silently. His face was buried in his hands.
He was crying.
Elianne didn't say a word. She simply stood there, numb, watching the one person she thought was invincible break.
Later, staring at herself in the mirror, she almost didn't recognize her own reflection.
Her face had thinned. Her eyes sunken. She looked sick — brittle and lifeless.
But then her mother's voice echoed back to her. "Blossom into something radiant."
This… this wasn't what her mother wanted. She hadn't been raised to wither. Her mother wouldn't want to see her like this.
So Elianne rose.
She ate. Trained. Studied. Relearned everything she had let rot. She stepped into the garden again, this time with mana coursing through her hands — petals blooming from her fingertips, crackling with volatile life.
Her father noticed the change. And when he smiled again — truly smiled — it gave him something to live for too.
Years passed.
And Elianne grew. Into a vision of power and grace. The legacy of her mother incarnate.
But she also learned the truth.
Her mother's death had not been the result of simple misfortune.
One of those involved — an orchestrator behind the massacre — was a traitor from Astralis Academy. A man who dabbled in forbidden demonology and slipped away from justice like a shadow.
They called him the Crimson Apostle.
With the help of a trusted family bodyguard, Sir Halewyn, a battle-hardened knight with a vow of loyalty to House Rosavelle, Elianne began her hunt.
And now, she stood before that monster.
That same man.
When he dared to utter her mother's name, something inside her twisted with rage and revulsion.
How dare he!
A voice cut through the thick of battle.
"Lady Elianne. Don't let him provoke you."
She turned — breath catching.
"Mister Noctis...?"
Soren stood, one knee bent, hand on the scorched earth, his face pale but composed. He'd risen — awoken from unconsciousness. Though his posture wavered, his voice was clear. That familiar calm pulled her back from the edge of rage.
Elianne exhaled shakily and gave a firm nod.
She would not lose control again.
But the battle was far from over.
The Apostle's eyes gleamed with a violent zeal. He raised both hands, dark sigils flaring in the air — black and violet glyphs spiraling, pulsing like heartbeats. Then, without warning, a barrage of dark magic erupted from him. Blasts tore through the battlefield — arcs of void lightning, spears of cursed energy, shadowflames that ate through stone and steel.
They scattered — Vin rolled behind a charred pillar; Joran and Halewyn closed in from both flanks; Elianne raised a veil of vines as a shield.
But it wasn't enough.
"Garron!!"
A howl of pain pierced the chaos as one of the shadowbolts struck Garron square in the side — his left abdomen blown through. He crumpled with a gasp, clutching the bleeding hole, unable to stand.
Soren's expression tightened.
He extended his awareness outward — mana rippling like invisible threads in a web, charting the space around him. Shapes flared in his mind's eye: positions, movements, energies. And then—
His left eye opened.
A surge of red — glowing like molten sigil — flooded his vision.
Slow down.Let it all slow down again...
Sloth responded.
The world lurched.
Time dilated.
Everything — every movement, every breath, every flick of cursed light — became molasses-slow. In this stretched moment, Soren moved — one step, two, weaving through the gaps in the Apostle's assault like a phantom in still water.
Elianne saw him — and understood.
She raised her trembling hand, and from the ground erupted a thick vine — wide as a tree trunk — shielding his advance. Another. Then another. Every few steps Soren made, she summoned another veil of living wood to cloak him. Each one made her whole body ache; her mana reserves burned low, her veins screaming in protest.
She coughed blood into her palm — but kept going.
Joran and Halewyn moved again, swords glinting as they lunged — but were both hurled back by a sweeping blast of dark energy, slamming into stone with sickening thuds. The Apostle wasn't letting anyone close.
Except—
He looks like he didn't sense him.
The Apostle froze.
Behind him — too close.
He turned, eyes widening.
There he was.The blind man.
In Soren's hand, the sword Elianne had passed to him gleamed with residual vine-like etchings. And he drove it forward — a clean, calculated thrust toward the Apostle's heart.
But—
Clang—!
The sword stopped, suspended in air.
Crimson Apostle had caught Soren's wrist with his own hand — now coated in corruptive dark energy. His grip tightened, and Soren's forearm blackened like rusted iron under corrosion. The smell of burning flesh curled in the air.
Elianne's eyes widened.
No—!
Joran cursed under his breath.Halewyn made to charge again, only to stumble, too far, too late.Even Garron, bleeding and barely conscious, growled in frustration.
For a heartbeat, they had hoped it work!
"Nice try," the Apostle hissed. "You think I didn't notice you creeping closer? I let you come. You die first — less trouble."
But Soren… laughed — a strained, hoarse sound, lips curled in a pained grimace as the burning crept up his arm.
A low, sharp exhale that built into a chuckle. As though something deep in him had been holding it back for just this moment.
"You think… this sword… was my plan?"
The Apostle frowned.
Soren abruptly opening his left eye! Glowed — brighter, crueler.
"I'm no warrior. I'm a mage."
And then the red eye — the Ruin — pulsed.
The Crimson Apostle stiffened. Something in that eye… that glow… that design… he felt he know about it!
"N-no... it can't be— That eye—"
But he didn't get to finish.
Because Soren whispered three words invocations.
A phrase Greed had given him, the key to releasing the dragonfire stored within.
He said the words are what he despises most, because they go against everything Greed stands for.
Release. Let go. UNBIND!
The Crimson Apostle barely had time to react.
A pulse beat out from Soren's left eye — deep, resonant, like the tolling of a war bell. Then came the crack — a spiderweb fracture splitting the air in front of him as if reality itself were splintering.
And then—
It erupted.
From the Eye of Ruin, a torrent of dragonfire exploded forth — a spiraling inferno of blood-red flame and black lightning, unnatural and overwhelming!
The Apostle's dark barrier flared instantly, a shimmering shield of sigils and shadowfire meant to repel any assault.
But it was useless.
Soren stood too close — point blank — leaving no room for the Apostle's barrier to fully manifest!
The shattered cracks Elianne had made moments before still spiderwebbed across the barrier's surface, weakening its integrity like fractures in thin ice.
As the torrent of dragonfire surged from the Eye of Ruin, it struck with brutal, unrelenting force — the barrier's fractured shield unable to hold, splintering and shattering instantly.
The Crimson Apostle's scream was swallowed whole by the inferno.
Engulfed.
The world burned white-hot.
And in the center of the storm stood the blind mage, unmoving — his left eye blazing wide open.