On the eve of his third name day, Ash stood alone in his chamber, the darklight casting a soft, shifting glow across the stone floor. The silence was familiar now — a companion rather than a void.
Before him stood a tall mirror, framed in obsidian and etched with silver lines that shimmered faintly, like constellations locked in glass.
He stepped closer.
His reflection stared back: a small boy in form, but not in bearing. His skin held a pale-ashen tone, smooth but touched with the subtle gleam of something unearthly. His eyes — once merely black — now shimmered with depthless darkness, like polished voidstone. Eyes that remembered.
Then he looked up — past his face — to the horns that curled from his head.
They had grown slowly over the year, inch by inch. Now, twin ridges of onyx-black bone rose from his temples and curved slightly backward. They weren't sharp, but regal — carved by heritage, not choice.
He turned slightly, letting the mirror catch his side profile.
There… folded along his back, were wings — shadowed and silent. Thin veins of silver pulsed faintly beneath their dark membrane, like starlight trapped in flesh. Not yet large enough for flight, but enough to whisper of who — and what — he truly was.
Ash stared.
His fingers moved slowly, touching the base of one horn, then reaching back to brush the ridges of his growing wings. He did not flinch.
"These are mine," he whispered.
Not borrowed. Not cursed. Not shameful.
Proof.
Of the blood he bore — Abyss and Celestial, tangled like dusk and dawn.
He did not fully understand what he would become. Not yet.
But he knew this:He was no longer just a child.
A soft knock echoed through the chamber door, gentle but measured.
Ash did not turn at once. His eyes lingered on the reflection in the mirror — horns, wings, and the unblinking shadow in his gaze.
Then came the voice, calm and clear.
"Young master, the food is ready."
The door opened with a quiet hiss of air, and the maid stepped in, her head bowed low in reverence. Dark robes framed her slender form, and in her arms, she carried fresh garments — formal, yet simple, of midnight blue trimmed with muted silver.
She approached with graceful steps, never raising her eyes until she knelt softly before him.
Ash finally turned, gaze meeting hers. With a small nod, he acknowledged her.
She stood, silent as the moonlight, and began to change his clothes. He raised his arms without protest, letting her pull the old tunic over his head and slip the new one in place. The fabric was cool against his skin, the collar high, the cuffs etched with a faint geometric design only seen in angled light.
As she fastened the last clasp near his neck, she murmured,
"You look like your father more each day, young master."
Ash said nothing. He simply stepped back and adjusted the hem himself, then glanced at the mirror one last time.
"Let's go," he said quietly, his voice smooth now — clear, practiced from years of secret study.
The maid bowed again and opened the door.
He stepped outside.
The halls of the Abyss Palace stretched wide, lit by quiet torches and silver-veined crystals embedded in the obsidian walls. Servants in dark garments passed wordlessly. Shadows curled along the high vaulted ceiling, like living silk.
Ash walked steadily, his footsteps silent.
He did not need to be led.
He knew the way.
To the dining chamber.To his family.To the next moment of the life he was born into — not as a guest, but as blood.
Ash entered the grand dining chamber in silence, the great doors whispering shut behind him.
The air was thick with quiet power — not tension, but the solemn weight of legacy. The chamber was vast, its ceiling lost in shadows, the obsidian walls veined with silver and faintly glowing with runes of old. Along the table of blackstone carved with flowing abyssal patterns, the family was already seated, their presences as commanding as any throne.
Ash's footsteps made no sound as he crossed the onyx floor. He moved with measured grace — the grace of a child born into darkness and rule — until he reached his seat: the last chair on the left side of the head, nearest his father.
But before he sat, his eyes wandered. He observed. Studied.
To the right of the Emperor sat three women — each a pillar of his lineage.
His mother, Elaenora Veyl Seraphyx — the First Wife. A fallen angel of solemn beauty. Dark wings folded like dusk behind her, her long silver hair cascading in soft waves. Her eyes, golden with silver flecks, held wisdom and a sadness too ancient for words.
The Second Wife, Valessara Dray'Karth — flame incarnate. Crimson hair flowed like wildfire over her shoulders, and twin golden eyes gleamed with fierce pride. Her crimson horns curled back in elegant arcs, radiant even beneath the subdued lighting.
The Third Wife, Nyrelle Umbrosyn — shadow given form. Black hair, smooth as ink. A single black horn gleamed from her temple, and her pale skin made her violet eyes burn like twin amethysts in the dark.
To the left of his father sat the children of the bloodline — his siblings.
Lyseria, the firstborn. Ash's elder sister. Hair silver like their mother's, eyes golden-silver, and wings — dark and feathered — folded neatly behind her. She sat with quiet dignity, a mirror of Elaenora's calm strength.
Kaelreth, son of Valessara — the first brother. Crimson hair tousled in noble wildness, golden-red eyes like twin suns, and horns the same hue as burning embers. His posture was confident, assured.
Saryne, Kaelreth's twin — the second sister. Her crimson hair was neatly braided, her golden eyes sharp with intellect. Her crimson horns curled slightly upward, marking her as a scion of flame and formality.
Malrik, the second brother — child of Nyrelle. Pale skin like frost, a single black horn, and one violet eye that shimmered like dusk over still water. He was quiet, still — not hiding, but watching everything.
And then, in the seat of power itself, seated at the throne-like chair that crowned the head of the table…
His father — Emperor Vael Drakthar Nocthys Vael'Abyss.
Black hair flowed past his shoulders like night itself. Three pairs of black horns rose from his brow in a crown-like arc, a symbol of dominion and legacy. His red eyes — deep and unyielding — burned with something older than fire, older than night. Not wrathful, but endless.
Ash looked at each of them. Not with fear. Not with hesitation.
But with recognition.
He belonged here — a truth forged not only by blood, but by will.
He moved with quiet confidence, folding into his seat beside his father. The chair, though slightly smaller than the rest, still held presence. Still held weight.
Ash placed his hands calmly on the edge of the blackstone table, back straight, face unreadable.
He did not speak.
He didn't need to.
He was seen.
And the dinner would begin.