Chapter One: Of Blood and Bloom
Long ago, when the heavens still whispered to the earth, there lived Eirene, the goddess of protection, her beauty a hymn to purity—white hair cascading like moonlight, sapphire eyes radiant with divine grace. She was the guardian of her sacred land, her kindness a shield for all who dwelled within.
But darkness came in the form of Laos, the Demon King, his garnet-red eyes smoldering with greed. He invaded her realm, naming it after himself in a brazen act of conquest. Eirene, ever merciful, sought peace, offering to share the land and protect it alongside him.
But Laos's heart was a furnace of ambition. He slew the gods who opposed him, their divine blood soaking the earth. The surviving deities, broken and desperate, knelt before Eirene, the goddess of gods, and revealed his treachery. Enraged by his betrayal, she waged war. For three heavenly years, they battled—light against shadow, mercy against malice—until she struck him down, his crimson eyes fading as dawn reclaimed the sky.
From the ashes, she forged a new realm, naming it Valtorasia , now known as Valtore, an empire blessed by her eternal vigilance.
"This is the tale of the great Eirene," the priest proclaimed, his voice ringing over the gathered crowd, "whose sacrifice birthed our empire."
It was the Eriene Festival, the founding day of Valtore, a night when the empire veiled its scars in splendor and dared to dream of wholeness. Golden lanterns hung like captive stars above the capital's frost-slicked streets, their glow swaying in the biting winter wind. The air thrummed with fleeting warmth—roasted chestnuts, mulled wine spiced with cloves, and the heavy musk of temple incense curling through the chill. Laughter danced over cobblestones glistening with melted snow, and for one night, the empire's wounds faded beneath a masquerade of light.
Rael stood in the palace courtyard, a figure untouched by the revelry, no wine warming his throat, no mirth softening his gaze. At eighteen, he was both youth and relic, a soldier forged in war's crucible and thrust into a court of peacetime opulence. His attire was noble—black doublet stitched with silver ravens, a crimson cloak falling like spilled blood over his shoulders—but his body told a rawer truth. Scars etched his jaw like verses of a brutal elegy, each mark a testament to battles survived. His eyes, smoldering garnets that echoed the Demon King's cursed gaze, swept the crowd with a predator's wariness. Raven-dark hair framed a face too sharp, too haunted, to be merely handsome.
As he led the procession of the victorious battle platoon, returning from a grueling four-year war, the nobles' whispers slithered through the air.
The bastard. The cursed one. The red-eyed son.
Born of the king's mistress, Rael had known exile and war long before he understood kindness. At thirteen, he had been cast into the blood-soaked fields of Evans, an expendable a pawn to prophecy .
"The red-eyed son shall rise amidst ash and ruin, heralding the fall or salvation of the crown."
The people feared what they didn't understand. And Rael? He became what they feared.
He returned as the Bloodhound, a name forged in slaughter, carrying dead men's swords and eyes haunted by ghosts.
A child's voice pierced the crowd—"Look, Mama, red eyes, like the Demon King!"—and the mother swiftly covered the boy's eyes, casting a fearful glance at Rael. He averted his gaze, his neck dipping for a heartbeat, then rose again, his expression a fortress. The crowd's whispers clawed at him, but he could only press forward, ignoring the venom.
Today, there was no escape. The emperor had summoned him, not to honor but to parade, a war trophy polished for the court's scrutiny.
The Royal Hall was a cathedral of decadence, its vaulted ceilings draped with velvet banners bearing Eirene's likeness—white hair, sapphire eyes, a divine mirror of the imperial bloodline. Candlelight flickered across gilded walls, the air alive with the clink of crystal and the murmur of silk-clad nobles.
Rael entered the hall like a shadow breaching dawn, his platoon's squad leaders trailing behind him. The weight of a thousand eyes pressed against him, their whispers sharp as blades.
"The Bloodhound…"
"Scarred beast."
"No place for him here."
At the marble dais, the emperor rose—his father, though the word was ash on Rael's tongue. White-haired, with eyes as cold as the winter beyond, he was the embodiment of Eirene's chosen line. His voice sliced through the clamor, commanding silence.
"By the will of the Crown, and the blood you have spilled in its name, I grant you title. From this day forth, you are Rael Veyron Ravenclive, Count of Ravenclare Vale."
Applause followed, brittle and hollow. The emperor's gaze held no warmth, only the glint of a man measuring a tool.
Rael knelt, the stone floor biting his knee. A silver ring, heavy with the raven sigil, was pressed into his palm, alongside an ebony sword of obsidian and a declaration scroll—symbols of his lordship over the distant, ruined land of Ravenclare. He rose, bowed, and turned to face the court—a sea of jeweled masks and veiled scorn.
His expression remained unyielding, a bastion against their judgment. But within, each whisper was a lash, each glance a wound.
He moved to the hall's shadows, seeking solitude, when fate offered a passing brush of the future.
Ariana, struggled to keep pace with her father, the Duke of Trimene, who marched through the crowd with practiced arrogance. At seventeen, burdened by heavy silks and pinched heels, each step was a small torment. Her foot caught on the hem of her gown, and she stumbled—only to collide into someone just as he was turning away.
A hand steadied her, firm but impersonal. "Careful," came a low voice—rough, guarded. Rael barely glanced at her before releasing his grip, already stepping back into the crowd.
"My apologies," she murmured, flustered more by her father's impatient glare than the encounter itself.
"It's fine," he said. His eyes darted away—and then so did he.
Aria brushed down her gown, barely sparing him another glance. Just a soldier. Just another stranger. She followed her father, now nearly swallowed by the crowd—unaware that the red-eyed stranger did the same.
Neither of them realized what had passed.
Paths had crossed. Not fatefully. Not yet. But irreversibly.
The wheel had begun to turn.