The air in the subterranean tunnel tasted of stale ozone and dust that had settled before the first Kingdoms of Man were built. It was a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the rhythmic clink of dwarven-steel boots and the soft hum of a mana-lamp.
"Seraphina, hurry up. The mana density is fluctuating again," Elara whispered, her voice tight with a mixture of thrill and exhaustion. She adjusted the leather strap of her pack, her other hand resting instinctively on her swollen abdomen. Even seven months pregnant, Elara moved with the grace of a wind-born rogue, her steps light despite her condition.
Seraphina, trailing a few steps behind, wiped sweat from her brow. Unlike her sister, Seraphina was a scholar of the High Tower, robed in the azure silk of a Water-Mage, she was a mage that has developed her power to the 7th circle, in this world, mages have 10 circles mana inside them that they have to unlock to be able to develope their power, and with opening the 7th circle, seraphina is considered a powerful mage and is well respected in the high tower. "I'm telling you, Elara, the aether currents here are wrong. This isn't just an Old Era tomb. The mana... it doesn't flow. It stagnates."
They were deep beneath the jagged peaks of the Dragontooth Mountains, exploring the ruins of the Sunken Ziggurat of Ischyr. In a world vibrant with elemental magic, this place felt dead, trees withered around them, even seraphina can feel the emptiness this place brings.
"We need the money, Sera," Elara said, her voice softening. "He left us. I have nothing to give this child but a name. If the rumors are true, and there's a Pre-War relic down here..."
"We could have asked the Guild for a loan," Seraphina countered, though her hand glowed with a soft, healing blue light as she checked her sister's vitals from a distance. "We didn't have to raid a place that even the Demons avoid." And I could lend you, if you really need it, seraphina though have made a decent amount of money being the mage scholar, it would not even nearly to the money that selling relics can bring.
Elara stopped.
They had reached the heart of the Ziggurat. It wasn't a treasure room filled with gold. It was a vast, spherical chamber made of a material that drank the light of Seraphina's staff. Gravity felt heavy here, bowing their shoulders.
In the center of the room, floating above a dais of cracked obsidian, was a shard. It looked like a piece of the night sky, jagged and infinitely deep, pulsating with a violet rhythm that matched the beating of a heart.
"By the Gods," Seraphina breathed, stepping back. "Elara, don't. That's not a relic of the Light. That's... that's condensed Miasma."
"It's beautiful," Elara murmured, her eyes glazing over. The desperation of a mother abandoned, the fear of poverty, the desire to secure a future—it all melted away, replaced by a hypnotic trance.
"Elara!" Seraphina screamed, using her water magic to try to subdue her sister.
But as the water ropes was flying towards elara, seraphina was too slow.
Elara reached out. Her fingers brushed the cold surface of the violet shard.
The world didn't explode. There was no fire, no thunder. Instead, the air simply knelt.
A shockwave of absolute, crushing pressure slammed Seraphina into the stone wall. It wasn't force; it was authority. The shard liquefied, shooting up Elara's arm not like a poison, but like a regalia claiming its throne.
Elara screamed—a sound that tore at her throat—as violet veins erupted across her skin, climbing her neck, her face, turning her eyes a pitch black.
"No human..." a voice echoed, not from the room, but from the fabric of reality itself. It was a voice of ancient, bored grandeur, but it suddenly sounded a little bit surprised and intrigued. "interesting"
The power wasn't trying to kill her; it was trying to find a container, and she was overflowing. Her mortal frame began to crack, skin weeping blood as the demonic mana rejected her.
"Sera..." Elara gasped, collapsing to her knees, clutching her belly. The violet energy wasn't staying in her heart. It was moving down. It was spiraling into the womb.
Seraphina scrambled through the crushing pressure, casting every barrier spell she knew. "I've got you! We're leaving! Now!"
The journey out was a blur of terror. The Ziggurat began to collapse, the ancient stone unable to withstand the awakening of a power it was meant to imprison. Seraphina, fueled by adrenaline and mana-burn, carried her sister through crumbling tunnels, blasting through debris with torrents of high-pressure water.
They emerged into the twilight of the mountain pass just as the entrance sealed itself forever.
But the damage was done.
Elara lay on the mossy ground, the rain beginning to fall, mixing with the sweat and blood on her skin. The violet veins were fading from her body, sucked away, concentrated entirely in her abdomen.
"It's coming," Elara whispered, her face pale, life fading rapidly. "Sera... the baby."
"You're going to be fine," Seraphina sobbed, her healing magic fizzling out. The demonic energy was eating her mana. She couldn't heal this. "Hold on, Elara!"
"He's... he's heavy," Elara smiled weakly, tears streaming down her face. Under the weeping sky, amidst the thunder that sounded like war drums, the child was born.
It was a boy. It was a normal boy, he was safe, he was crying so loud that even the animals start to run away.
As Seraphina severed the cord, Elara's breathing hitched. She grabbed Seraphina's collar with a grip of iron.
"Promise me," Elara rasped, her eyes losing focus. "Promise me, you will protect him, please, don't let anything happen to him."
"I promise," Seraphina wept, clutching the infant against her chest. "I promise, Elara."
"My little... Lucius..." Elara breathed her last, her hand falling limp against the wet earth.
Silence returned to the mountain pass. Seraphina sat there, the rain soaking her robes, holding the orphan of her sister. She looked down at the child, expecting to see a monster.
But he looked like a normal human infant. Pale skin, a tuft of black hair.
Then, the baby opened his eyes.
Seraphina froze. A chill that had nothing to do with the cold rain ran down her spine.
The baby's eyes were a deep, luminous violet, with pupils that were not round, but vertical slits like a dragon's. But it was the feeling that terrified her. As the infant looked at her, the High Tower scholar, a master of water magic, felt an instinctive urge to look away. To lower her head.
The mana around the child didn't flow. It stood still, obedient.
For a thousand years, the Seat of Pride had remained empty. Lucifer, the Star of the Morning, had found the world wanting.
But as the thunder rolled and lightning illuminated the peaks, the baby was still crying, but a faint, violet aura pulsed like a heartbeat, pushing the raindrops away so they wouldn't dare touch his skin.
The Admiral of Pride had finally found his vessel.