The bells of Varanor had not tolled in celebration for decades.
King Aldric of House Caelthorn sat upon the ancient obsidian throne, cloaked in gold-threaded robes, his brow heavy with age and worry. The hall before him glittered with torchlight, and yet nothing warmed the cold ache in his chest—the aching truth that he, the last of his bloodline, had no heir.
His queen, Elyra, lay confined to her chambers, her health withered by years of failed births and silent grief. Their marriage, once bright with hope, had crumbled into distant gazes and shared regrets. The physicians, alchemists, and clerics had all failed. Prayers had gone unanswered. The gods, it seemed, had abandoned the Caelthorn line.
The kingdom of Varanor stood strong—its armies disciplined, its coffers full—but the nobles whispered. What would happen when Aldric died? Who would wear the crown? Rival houses plotted. Foreign kings watched like vultures circling a dying beast.
And still, no child.
One night, alone in the obsidian chamber where the first Caelthorn king had signed the Blood Pact of Unity, Aldric paced the black marble floor. His steps echoed like accusations. He stared up at the towering stained glass above the throne, a depiction of the founding king, arms spread in triumph, the sun blazing behind him.
Aldric whispered, "What would you have done?"
The silence that answered was thick and suffocating. And then—
A flicker.
A shadow.
The flames of the torches bent sideways as if recoiling. The air grew colder.
From the darkness near the pillars, something stirred. A shape emerged—tall, draped in a cloak that shimmered like ink under moonlight. Its face was masked, but its voice was not.
"You seek an heir."
Aldric reached instinctively for the jeweled dagger at his side.
The figure chuckled. "Steel will not protect you from what you want, King of the Dying Line."
"Who are you?" Aldric asked, though part of him already knew.
"I go by many names. But you may call me Malreth. I offer solutions that gods do not."
The word devil whispered through Aldric's mind like a forgotten prayer. His father had spoken of such beings—ancient entities who lingered in the world's shadow, feeding on desire and desperation. They did not lie, it was said, but their truths were knives.
"I've heard your kind deals in suffering," Aldric said.
Malreth inclined his head. "All power comes with price. But not all prices are blood. Some are simply… choices."
Aldric hesitated. His life had been built upon decisions—wars waged, alliances formed, justice dealt. But this—this would mark the deepest cut into his soul. "And what would your price be?"
The shadows around Malreth coiled like smoke. "I can grant you a son. Strong, gifted, bound to your blood. But you must surrender something in return. Something you treasure."
"My gold?" Aldric asked.
The devil laughed softly. "What use have I for gold? No. Something… deeper. When the time comes, I will collect."
Aldric's throat tightened. "When?"
"When the boy comes of age. You will know when the time has come."
The king thought of Elyra's fading breath. Of the empty nursery, untouched for years. Of the warlords who waited to tear his kingdom apart the moment he fell. His kingdom needed an heir.
Aldric stepped forward. "Do it."
Malreth raised a single, clawed hand. A ripple passed through the air—silent and colorless. The torches dimmed to embers. The throne trembled.
"It is done," Malreth said, voice like wind through a graveyard. "In nine moons, the queen shall bear a child. But remember: all gifts must be returned, in time."
And with that, he vanished.
Nine months later, under a red eclipse that turned the moon to blood, Queen Elyra screamed in agony. Lightning tore through the skies. No midwife who touched her survived the birth.
But when the storm broke, and the silence fell, a child cried—a boy with hair black as night and eyes of molten silver.
They named him Kaelen.
And the bells of Varanor tolled once more.