Light.
That was the first thing that seeped through Aildris's vision. His eyes flickered open slowly. He raised a hand to block the rays of sunlight that slipped through the curtains and pierced his eyes. He looked around the room. Where was he?
He couldn't remember. The confusion in his dark brown eyes was plain. Looking down, he realized he was lying on a bed, worn-out sheets wrapped around his body.
Then it hit him. He let out a frustrated groan that bordered on a scream. His hands dug into his curly dark hair, his face turned to the ceiling as a tear slipped from his eye and rolled down to his shoulder.
"Why…" he muttered.
"Why do these forsaken memories come back to haunt me?" His voice croaked, unsteady, broken.
"Mother's dead."
Rivermount City — this place carried memories for Aildris even though it was his first time here. It had been his mother's home city, where she grew up and lived her best years, though it was low-tier. It was also here that she met Aildris's father, Alias Winter, the current head of the Winter household. They had fallen in love, and along the way, she became pregnant with him. Alias had taken responsibility for both mother and unborn child, since he claimed to love her.
But fate had always been cruel. Isla discovered, on her own, that Alias was already married, with a wife, two children, and another on the way. She had been reduced to a mistress.
Aildris's journey to Rivermount was his way of paying respect to her memory. He wanted to see the sights she had spoken of so often — the Aurora Borealis.
As a child, he had heard her stories about the northern lights. She told him that one of the best places to see them was from the mountains that surrounded the city. He remembered the glow in her eyes whenever she spoke of those days. Now, he wanted to see the reason behind that glow.
He parted the sheets and rose from the bed. His thin but slightly muscular frame came into view. Taking a peek through the curtains, he saw them — the monstrous mountains he would have to climb.
"I need to find the easiest route to climb those monstrosities," he sighed.
---
As the sun dipped below the river's horizon, a youth stood shirtless by the riverbank. His hard-toned muscles reflected years of crafted hard work and training despite his small frame. His body was drenched in sweat, patches of his curly dark hair clinging to his skin. His dark brown eyes reflected the horizon's light, yet burned with a brighter flame of their own — ambition.
He gripped the sword in his hand tightly. Adjusting his footing, he shifted his weight, steady and balanced. He had taken a stance.
For a moment, everything seemed to still: the dead leaves drifting down, the ripples on the lake, even the birds in the sky. Aildris drew a deep breath, chest rising, and the instant it fell, he lunged forward.
He stabbed, his blade slicing the air with deadly precision. As his foot struck the ground, he spun, the sharp whistle of the strike cutting through the silence.
The movements relied on speed, but the weight of his body doubled their force. He followed with countless slashes, his blade's trajectory shifting in rapid succession.
From afar, one might have thought he was locked in battle with an unseen opponent. His focus was razor-sharp, his movements fluid, his grip unrelenting. But as he dashed forward, he suddenly halted. His grip loosened, the sword fell to the ground.
He dropped to his knees, drawing deep, measured breaths. Sweat trailed down his brow to his chin. His body trembled, too exhausted to rise. He collapsed onto the grass, head tilted to the star-swept sky. The sword lay by his side, his fingertips brushing its handle.
"It's been seven years," he whispered, "and I still can't beat him."
---
Far from the world of Nova…
In a realm shrouded in eternal night, born from the sins of worlds within and beyond its reach, stood Noxvalis — the domain of the cursed undead: vampires.
The twin moons that hovered above were its only source of natural light, their subtle yet strong glow revealing the realm's dark structures.
Noxvalis differed greatly from Nova. Its architecture looked ancient, unchanging, and resilient. Every wall, every tower seemed to carry its own story.
The world was divided among clans — each with its own name, cursed attribute, and core sin. Their histories shifted, twisted, and often disappeared. No one knew exactly where they had come from. Only that they existed — long-lived, but not untouched by time. Though their bodies resisted age, their minds often fractured like glass if pushed beyond endurance.
Yet none of that mattered now.
The twin moons' light fell upon the heart of one of the clans. The continuous ring of metal on metal, the stench of sweat, and the occasional tremble of a great hall spoke of a single thing:
A spar.
The usual.