The morning began with the scent of rain.
Alaric Veyth sat on the edge of Vaelcrest's outer wall, his legs dangling above the endless green of the forest below. Beyond the horizon, pale clouds rolled lazily over the hills. The city was waking—merchants shouting prices, blacksmiths hammering steel, children laughing in the alleys.
But Alaric's eyes were fixed on the eastern sky.
It was changing.
At first, he thought it was a trick of the light—a cloud tinted pink by the rising sun. But the color deepened, rich and molten, until the entire horizon burned crimson. The air grew heavy. The wind stilled. Even the birds fell silent.
"Alaric!" a voice called from below.
He glanced down to see Liora, her chestnut hair tied back, waving up at him. She was carrying a bundle of books, her usual morning errand from the scribe's shop.
"You'll be late for training again," she teased. "Master Ryn will—"
Her words cut off. She turned toward the horizon, her smile fading.
A low hum filled the air—deep, like the world itself had begun to speak.
The crimson deepened into black-edged scarlet. The sun itself seemed to bleed, its light thick and unnatural.
And then came the sound.
Not thunder. Not wind.A scream.
It didn't come from a throat—it came from everywhere, from the stones beneath their feet, from the air in their lungs. It was a cry of grief, rage, and hunger, all at once.
The wall trembled. Alaric grabbed the stone for balance.
From the forest below, shadows rose—tall, writhing forms that tore free from the earth like roots ripped out of the ground. They had no faces, only jagged maws that opened in silent roars.
"Run!" Alaric shouted, leaping down from the wall.
The first shadow reached the base of the wall, its claws raking against the stone. The masonry screamed as deep cracks spiderwebbed upward.
Panic erupted through the city. Bells rang—first one, then three in rapid succession, the signal for evacuation.
Liora grabbed Alaric's arm. "What are they?"
"I don't know." But his chest burned—sharp and hot, as if a brand were pressed to his skin. He winced, pressing a hand to his tunic. Beneath the cloth, something pulsed… something alive.
The nearest shadow lunged, impossibly fast. Its claws met the air where Alaric had stood a heartbeat earlier, stone shattering as he rolled aside.
A squad of the city guard rushed forward, spears leveled. The shadows tore through them like paper, their weapons glancing harmlessly off the creatures' shifting forms.
"Move!" Alaric pushed Liora toward the inner gate. "Find the western tunnel and—"
A deafening crash cut him off. The eastern gate had exploded inward, shards of oak and iron flying like shrapnel. Through the splinters stepped something far worse than the shadows.
It was tall—twice the height of a man—its body made of molten gold and black iron fused together. Its face was a mask of smooth metal, without eyes or mouth, yet Alaric felt it watching him.
The brand on his chest flared white-hot.
The creature tilted its head slightly, as if recognizing him. Then, in a voice that was not a voice, Alaric heard:
Found you.
It moved. The world blurred. In the space between breaths, the molten figure was standing directly in front of him, a massive hand reaching for his chest.
Instinct, not thought, saved him. Alaric stumbled back—and his blood answered the heat.
Scarlet light burst from beneath his tunic. A sigil, etched in lines of fire and shadow, spread across his chest. The air around him rippled.
The molten creature hesitated. The Pact…
Alaric didn't understand. But something inside him did.
A surge of strength flooded his limbs, not his own, something ancient and cold. His vision sharpened. Every movement of the creature slowed, each drop of molten gold falling like thick syrup in the air.
He moved without thinking, ducking under its grasp and driving his palm against its chest. For an instant, the sigil on his skin mirrored itself on the creature's armor.
Then came the blast.
A wave of scarlet force hurled the molten figure backward, smashing it through a stone wall.
The strength drained instantly, leaving Alaric gasping. His knees hit the ground. His heart pounded—not just from exertion, but from fear. That hadn't been his power.
Liora was staring at him, wide-eyed. "Alaric… your chest…"
Before he could answer, the molten figure rose from the rubble, its armor cracked but reforming. The shadows around it swarmed closer.
"We have to go!" Liora shouted, pulling him toward the inner gate.
They ran, weaving through streets choked with fleeing citizens. The crimson sky above twisted, clouds curling inward toward the sun like smoke pulled into a flame. The scream in the air grew louder.
At the center of the city stood the Heartspire—a slender tower of pale stone, older than Vaelcrest itself. Its bells rang endlessly, calling for aid that would never come.
Alaric and Liora reached the western tunnel just as the ground split open behind them. Shadows poured from the crack like a flood, swallowing soldiers, walls, and streets alike.
They dove inside the tunnel, the heavy iron gate slamming down behind them.
The tunnel was dark, lit only by faint crystal lanterns. Alaric's breath came in ragged gasps. His chest still burned, though the light of the sigil had faded.
"What was that?" Liora asked.
"I don't know," he admitted. But even as he said it, a whisper curled in his mind—not in any language he knew, yet he understood it perfectly:
The first blood has been spilled. The Pact is sealed.
Alaric froze. The voice was cold, neither male nor female, and it came from inside his own thoughts.
"Alaric?" Liora asked, worried.
He forced a shaky smile. "It's nothing. We just need to keep moving."
But it wasn't nothing.
Somewhere deep in his bones, he felt it—the weight of chains, the pull of something vast and ancient. And beneath it all… a hunger.
Not his.
Theirs.
They emerged from the tunnel hours later, into the open plains west of Vaelcrest. The wind was cold, carrying the faint scent of smoke.
When they turned back, the city was gone.
Where Vaelcrest had stood, there was only a jagged crater, blackened at the edges. Above it, the crimson sun still hung in the sky, bleeding light across the horizon.
Liora's voice was barely a whisper. "Everyone's… gone."
Alaric couldn't answer. His mind was full of the whisper.
Power for blood. Blood for power.
As the sun sank lower, the brand on his chest throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
He didn't know what the Vermilion Pact was.He didn't know who had made it.But he knew one thing.
It had chosen him.
And the moment he'd touched that molten creature, it had begun.