As the pain began to fade, Isaac slowly opened his eyes—only to behold a sight no sane mind should witness. A vast, motionless lake stretched endlessly before him, shrouded in an eerie, unnatural calm. Its surface shimmered like a flawless diamond beneath the moonlight.
His gaze drifted forward—there stood a figure. Human in shape, perhaps, but its presence rejected the very definition of humanity. It radiated no emotion, no warmth. It was not a man—it was the origin of what men could only strive to become.
White hair, like scattered snow larvae, floated gently around its head. Its eyes—sunken sapphires drowning in silent depths—glowed like lanterns banishing the dark. Intricate tattoos spiraled across its body, glowing faintly with shifting symbols—each line twisting like living script etched in fire, as if the skin itself whispered ancient truths. Above its head, a silent ring hovered, circling with unnatural precision, as though charting a path no star had ever followed.
Then, without warning, a crushing wave of exhaustion swept over Isaac. His body, still unaccustomed to sensation, betrayed him. He collapsed into the lake, swallowed whole. The cold pierced him like a thousand needles driving into every nerve. The more he resisted, the heavier he became.
And just before the darkness took him, a voice echoed faintly in his mind—distant yet eerily familiar.
"I hope you turn out different from us… my king."
Far from this cosmic vision, deep within the Bloodstained Palace, a woman's scream split the silence.
She writhed atop a grand bed draped in silk, her body convulsing violently. Sweat glistened on her brow, and her feverish eyes screamed with fear as they stared blankly at the ornate ceiling. Around her, maids rushed in desperation, their voices trembling with helplessness.
Beside her, her most loyal handmaid clutched her trembling hand, crying out through tears:
"Please, my lady… don't go now. The child you gave everything for is about to be born!"
But the woman's mind was no longer present. It was trapped in a whirlwind of memories—of forbidden escape, of love and sacrifice, of betrayal still bleeding… and now, of a birth that might end everything, or resurrect it anew.
At that very moment, within the Grand Council Hall, Reiner Noxfaire—the patriarch of the Noxfaire bloodline—sat upon an opulent throne engraved with precious stones and dark crimson veins that resembled dried blood.
His presence was unyielding as steel. His silence weighed more than any command.
Before him stood the elite of the family: swordmasters whose names were carved into terrifying legends and brutal wars, his five sons cloaked in pride and severity, and the grandchildren—the Standard-Bearers—each draped in a banner denoting their rank, flanked by knights and advisors loyal to the Noxfaire house.
The name Noxfaire was not just noble. It was the final wall standing between the human continent and the horrors of the "Abyssal Expanse" in the north.
An elderly but upright figure stepped forward—Falco, the head steward. His voice was steady, refined with time:
"My lord, disturbances are increasing within the Expanse. The creatures grow restless. We believe the Krismer family may be involved… but we lack proof to present before the royal court."
Before Reiner could reply, a presence entered the hall—one that needed no announcement.
A dragon in humanoid form, ancient and majestic, strode forward. Her crimson hair floated as if underwater, and her eyes held memories of forgotten eras. She said nothing at first. Her arrival alone silenced the chamber.
Then, with a voice like a blade drawn in contempt:
"Fools of Krismer… they never learn."
Kaldiras, Reiner's eldest son, turned and addressed the Standard-Bearers.
"Standard-Bearers. Speak."
They were the chosen heirs—warriors forged in blood and fire to carry the family's legacy. At the front stood Aziphera, the First Standard-Bearer—once meant to lead, until she abandoned that right without explanation. She stood in silence, her thoughts unreadable.
Beside her stood Xypher, the Second Standard-Bearer. His disdain for his kin burned like sunlight, and his thirst for war was impossible to hide.
He stepped forward, a dry smile on his lips.
"My lord, allow me to lead a scouting force. I will uncover the truth… and if necessary, return with their heads."
Reiner narrowed his eyes.
"Go," he said, voice firm and low. "But do not engage. Watch. The war we seek must not begin with your pride."
Before anything more could be said, a hesitant servant stepped forward, voice nervous.
"My lord… the young lady is on the verge of childbirth. Shall we begin preparations for the Naming Ceremony?"
The air shifted.
Murmurs of contempt rippled through the hall. One knight scoffed:
"This is what interrupts the council? A bastard's birth?"
"Utter nonsense," muttered another.
Reiner said nothing for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sighed—not at the news, but at them.
"Prepare the ceremony," he said at last, in a tone that was neither loud nor soft… but absolute.