In the sprawling land of Eldorian, where five distinct races—the Humarein, Iskirian, Aetherian, Kayn, and my own, the Drakarian—coexist, I was born into the very heart of the Drakarian Royal Family. My grandfather, King Harald Sigurdsoon, commands the throne. My mother, Edna Sigurdsoon, is his eldest daughter, and my father, Reingard Thorranson, serves as the esteemed Royal Guard Commander. As a noble, I inherited the distinctive Crimson Blood Hair, a trait unique to Drakarian nobility, just like my mother and my grandfather.
My grandfather, King Harald, never had a son, but he was blessed with three remarkable daughters from his marriage to my grandmother, Getrude. Even with her long, crimson hair elegantly streaked with silver, framing a face softened by age, Getrude remained captivating. Her gentle smile held a hidden warmth, and her mature figure, an alluring hourglass shape with generous hips and still-ample breasts, spoke of a vibrant youth that had gracefully settled, a beauty that drew admiration. Her pale crimson eyes shone with a comforting, knowing kindness. She immediately pulled me into a tight hug when I saw her.
Among her daughters, my mother, Edna, was the eldest. Her long crimson hair, always tied in a simple yet elegant knot, framed a serene, intelligent face — calm, composed, with a gaze that carried both warmth and quiet authority. Her body was striking: tall, with softly flowing curves shaped by time and grace — wide, feminine hips and full, natural breasts that filled her robes with understated allure. She carried herself like a noblewoman: refined without effort, sensual without trying. There was something hypnotic about the way she moved — every step measured, every gesture delicate, like she existed slightly apart from the world's noise. I often saw her cast a weary but loving look at her younger sister, Allana, always ready with a scolding word for her antics.
Then came Allana, whose piercing gaze and sharp features spoke of a keen, almost mischievous mind. Her crimson hair, often falling in a severe, elegant braid, seemed barely able to contain her restless energy, accentuating a strikingly athletic yet curvaceous build. She boasted the largest breasts among her sisters, making her beauty bold and commanding, and her eyes held a perpetual glint of amusement, especially when teasing Valerie.
And finally, Valerie, with a perpetually gentle, almost shy smile, and crimson locks that always seemed to catch the light around her slender, almost delicate frame. Her youthful beauty was refined, with subtly defined hips and modest, yet perfectly formed breasts, hinting at a quiet brilliance within. Even then, she often seemed to brace herself for Allana's playful jabs, a quiet target for her elder sister's energy.
The Drakarian are known as a race of Dragons, said to be the direct descendants of the ancient Dragon Jogard, who, legend claims, slumbers within Mt. Surt. Or, at least, that's what the elders whisper. For over a century, Jogard has remained unseen, his presence a silent guardian over our lands. While we Drakarian don't possess wings or breathe fire like our ancient ancestors, we are gifted with incredibly solid bodies, superb physical abilities, and the iconic horns we inherited from the dragons. Our capital, the City of Eldr, lies nestled peacefully at the feet of the towering 8,000-meter-tall Mt. Surt, a tranquil country in the shadow of the colossal peak.
It was in this serene land that I, Venator Sigurdsoon, was born, marked as the King's heir. The day of my birth My grandfather, King Harald Sigurdsoon, was a truly mighty king, standing at three meters tall. His Drakarian royal blood was evident in his strong, commanding body and long crimson hair that flowed past his shoulders, adorned by a magnificent, braided crimson beard reaching his chest. A pair of curled horns framed his powerful face, where sharp, crimson eyes held a respected authority. He was feared by enemies for his destructive Fire Bind, said to be capable of obliterating an entire army, yet within the castle, he was known as a gentle, playful king to his family and friends, much like myself. A loving father, he delighted in teasing his three daughters, his eyes often twinkling with warmth and amusement., respected by all – celebrated this auspicious occasion by throwing a grand feast, publicly announcing me as his successor. Everyone who came cheered loudly, acknowledging my destiny.
Years passed quickly in the peaceful City of Eldr. Then came my fifth birthday, another occasion for a grand feast, but one that held even deeper significance. In Eldorian, when children reach five years of age, their souls mature, and they are blessed by nature to bear a bind with an element: water, fire, wind, or earth. This ancient tradition predates the very birth of the five great races, stretching back to a time when Eldorian was inhabited by elves, mythical creatures, angels, and demons. The elves, gifted in communicating with spirits, asked these beings to forever protect their descendants. From this plea, we were born: the Aetherian, keepers of the sky; the Iskirian, guardians of Lake Eden's beauty; the Kayn, inventors of the future; and the Drakarian, protectors of the flames. Whispers even claim Jogard, the ancient dragon, sired a child with an elf, explaining why we Drakarian were also blessed with the elemental bind. As for the Humarein, though not direct descendants, some legends say their ancient kings petitioned the elves' kings for this same blessing
So, at the age of five, every child glows with the color of their elemental bind. For Drakarian, the Fire Bind is almost universal. Only once every fifty years or so is someone blessed with a Lightning Bind—my father being the last. My grandfather, and indeed all other Drakarian nobles and commoners, always manifest the fire bind. On my fifth birthday, as the feast began, every soul in the City of Eldr expected me to bear the fire bind too.
But as the hours crawled by, nothing happened. No glow. No warmth. Just me, a small, isolated figure, standing there, unlit. The joyous chatter of the feast slowly petered out, replaced by a rising tide of hushed, venomous whispers. 'A bastard,' some hissed, their voices laced with cold judgment. 'A cursed child,' others muttered, their eyes filled with suspicion and naked disdain. My grandfather, King Harald, remained unmoving on his throne, his gaze fixed on me, unreadable, a heavy silence emanating from him. My mother, Edna, watched, her eyes welling up, close to tears at the cruelty of their words, her hand involuntarily reaching out. People began to gather their things, the vibrant party atmosphere dissolving into an oppressive silence. It was almost midnight, the feast practically over, and every eye in the hall seemed to bore into me with open contempt.
Then, a sudden, agonizing pain tore through me. My body felt as though it was ablaze from the inside, my stomach twisting with an unbearable, consuming ache. I screamed—a raw, desperate sound that shredded the silence. I saw my mother try to rush to me, her face contorted with panic, but my father and grandfather held her back, their faces grim, unyielding. As more people gathered, drawn by my piercing cries, the pain intensified, a white-hot blade twisting deeper. 'It hurts!' I shrieked, doubling over, clutching my gut.
Suddenly, a blinding violet pillar of light exploded from my small body, a silent scream of color that pierced through the very roof of the royal hall, blasting into the night sky like a beacon. Or so they say. For me, everything went black. I was floating in an infinite, empty void, utterly unbound, surrounded by nothing but profound silence. Then, a chilling voice, ancient and vast, echoed through the emptiness, 'It's time. You have to bear the Void.' After that, I remembered nothing but a lingering sense of cold.
I woke up in my bed, the faint morning light filtering through the window. My mother was beside me, her head resting on the mattress, fast asleep, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only sound. The moment my eyes fluttered open, she stirred, waking instantly. I could see the fresh tracks of tears on her cheeks, and her eyes were bloodshot, swollen. She must have cried all night, worried sick. A soft gasp of relief escaped her lips, her face flooding with an overwhelming joy that I was alive. She'd clearly fretted that I wouldn't make it.
'I'm alright,' I mumbled, my voice rough, but feeling surprisingly good despite the strange, fragmented memory. 'And I'm hungry.'
Hearing that, a small, relieved laugh finally broke through her worry, easing the tension in her shoulders. A soft, genuine smile blossomed on her face. Together, we went for breakfast.
As we ate, the questions that had been swirling in my mind since the violet light erupted finally spilled out. I asked my mother what had happened after the light disappeared. She explained that I had screamed incredibly loud and then simply fainted. When we finished, she told me my grandfather was waiting for me in his room.
Holding my mother's hand, I walked to Grandpa's chambers. Inside, I found not only my grandfather but also my father and my grandmother. My father, Reingard, offered a rare, warm smile. My grandmother, Getrude, seeing me fully awake, immediately pulled me into a tight hug, her embrace comforting and familiar. Then, my grandfather, King Harald, knelt slightly, his crimson eyes twinkling with an intensity I hadn't seen before, and gently patted my head.
'You truly are a descendant of Sigurd,' he said, his voice filled with a profound pride that completely erased all memory of the hateful whispers from the night before. He told me that my bind was the Void, that I was a Void Bearer. It was a long-lost bind, one that only the very first King of Drakarian, King Sigurd himself, had possessed. He, the true son of Jogard, bore this bind, and no one, not even within the Drakarian royal lineage, had manifested it since.
My mind reeled. The sheer weight of it—a power lost for centuries, now resting within me. I tried to ask him more, but he just smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. 'Not today, Venator,' he said gently. 'Today, you rest. Tomorrow, I will tell you a long story about King Sigurd.' I had heard the name King Sigurd, of course—everyone knew he was our first king, centuries ago. But I had never heard his story, not really. That was all I knew.
As we left my grandfather's room, the lingering questions about the Void Bind still swirled in my head, a persistent hum behind my thoughts. 'Is it good or bad, Mom, that I have a void bind?' I asked, looking up at her. 'And what's your bind, Mother?'
She gave a small, teasing smile before her expression softened, assuring me, 'No, my dear. You're not in any trouble. In fact, it might be the greatest blessing.' She then showed me her own bind, holding out her hand. A gentle, shimmering fire bloomed from her palm, but it wasn't hot. Instead, it was warm and comforting, making me feel strangely energized as I leaned closer. 'My bind,' she explained, 'is Fire, with a rare subtype: Healing Flame.' She smiled, a hint of playful pride in her eyes. 'History says this particular bind, the Healing Flame, only manifests within the royal lineage.'
'You're not the only special one, Venator,' she chuckled, ruffling my Crimson Blood Hair. 'I'm special too.' I couldn't help but chuckle back. That day, there was immense relief in our family that I was alive, that I was well. But the profound question of the Void, and what it truly meant, remained stubbornly in my mind. I spent the rest of the day resting, eager for tomorrow and the long story of King Sigurd.