Orbit of the Ascendant[1], 3453...
United Federation of Dravara[2]...
Capital City-State of Caldenya...
Voren Family[3] Compound...
The Voren estate rose from the rugged highlands like a scar on the earth, its black stone towers thrusting upward through a shroud of rolling mist. The wind wailed across the jagged spires, a mournful sound that carried the damp chill of centuries, seeping into the cracks of the ancient walls. The structure was a testament to time—its foundations laid by hands long turned to dust, its battlements worn smooth by storms that had battered the land since before the first Voren drew breath. Ivy clung to the stone like desperate fingers, its dark tendrils snaking over carvings of forgotten triumphs. Beyond the estate, the landscape stretched bleak and wild: gnarled trees bent against the wind, their skeletal branches clawing at the gray sky, while the distant rumble of a river gnawed at the cliffs below. The air tasted of moss and iron, heavy with the promise of rain.
Inside, the banquet hall was a cavern of decadence, its vastness swallowing the light. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, their ribs of stone lost in shadow, while massive chandeliers—each a constellation of crystal and gold—cast a flickering glow across the room. The light danced on the polished marble table, a slab so long it could seat an army, now laden with a feast that mocked the hunger of the world outside. Platters overflowed with roasted pheasant, their skin crisp and glistening with honey; haunches of venison dripped with dark juices; and fruits—pears and pomegranates—shimmered in pools of syrup, their colors unnaturally vivid under the enchanted flames that lined the walls. The air was thick with the scent of spice and wine, the latter poured from decanters so old their glass was clouded with age. Laughter rang out, sharp and brittle, as hundreds of Vorens—cousins, uncles, aunts, and distant kin—filled the space with their clamor. Their voices wove a tapestry of arrogance, threaded with the clink of silver against porcelain and the rustle of silk robes.
Beyond the head of the table, an elder stood on a raised dais behind a ornate old podium, his presence commanding even amid the din. His hair was a shock of white, his face a map of wrinkles carved by decades of cunning. He wore a robe of deep crimson, its edges embroidered with gold thread that caught the light like embers. When he spoke, his voice thundered, amplified by a talent that made the air hum with power. "We should extend an olive branch," he declared, his bony fingers tapping the wood of the podium with deliberate rhythm. "Kael Voren is a name the world now respects. We could make him… useful." His words hung in the air, met with murmurs of agreement and a few skeptical snorts from the crowd.
The doors exploded inward.
The blast was a roar of violence—wood splintering into jagged shards, iron hinges twisting with a scream of metal, and a gust of cold air rushing in like a predator unleashed. The impact shook the hall, rattling the chandeliers and sending a cascade of dust swirling through the golden light. The scent of honey and meat vanished, replaced by a sharp, metallic tang that clawed at the throat. Silence fell, sudden and suffocating, as every eye turned toward the wreckage.
A hulking figure stepped through the ruined threshold, his silhouette framed by the haze of mist and debris. His boots crunched on the shattered remains of the door, each step a slow, deliberate beat that reverberated through the stillness. His cloak trailed behind him, a tattered shroud of black that seemed to drink the light, its hem heavy with the grime of forgotten roads and the dust of a thousand graves. As he stepped through the smoke and soot in the air, his features became more apparent to the Vorens, still frozen in surprise. His hair hung dark and unkempt, framing a face that was both beautiful and terrible—sharp cheekbones, a jaw like forged steel, and eyes that burned with a cold, unyielding fire. His presence was a force, a spiritual weight that pressed down on the room, bending the air itself. The void clung to him, a writhing shadow at his side, its edges flickering like a flame made of darkness.
A young man near the entrance reacted first—not out of bravery, but raw instinct. His talent flared, a burst of blinding light arcing toward the large man like a spear. It never reached him. The void pulsed, a maw of nothingness, and the light vanished—swallowed whole. The man's body went rigid, his mouth opening in a silent scream before he simply ceased to be. No blood. No cry. Just an empty space where life had been, his chair toppling backward with a hollow clatter.
Panic erupted, but it was a muted, choking thing. Forks slipped from trembling hands, striking plates with discordant pings. A woman's glass shattered as it hit the floor, wine spreading in a dark pool that mirrored the growing dread. The weaker among them slumped in their seats, faces paling to the color of the mist outside, their breaths shallow and ragged, or even nonexistent. Others fell to their knees, fingers scrabbling at the marble as if it could shield them from the gravity of the man's presence—a force that pinned souls as surely as it crushed lungs. The chandeliers dimmed, their flames guttering under the shadow he cast.
The 96.5cEl[4] man moved forward, his stride unhurried, cutting through the sea of paralyzed kin like a blade through flesh. His eyes swept the hall, a predator's gaze, taking in every detail: the opulence of their feast, the fear in their widened pupils, the way their talents flickered like candles in a storm. He reached the dais and ascended, his boots leaving faint smears of dust on the polished stone. The elder stood frozen, his earlier confidence crumbling as the towering man loomed before him. Without a word, the domineering figure pressed a hand to the old man's chest. The elder's flesh withered in an instant—skin shrinking to parchment, eyes sinking into sockets—before his talent and lifeforce unraveled in a burst of white-gold light. A gust of silent wind carried his dust across the table, gray flecks settling into the syrup and meat like a grim seasoning.
"I recently learned," the man stepped in front of the podium and said, his voice low and steady, "that someone here stole the inheritance my father left to his family… and poisoned my mother." The words cut through the silence, cold and unyielding, each syllable a weight that pressed deeper into the room.
He stepped a little closer and rested his arms on the exquisitely carved podium, his gaze unwavering. "I'm not here to investigate. I'm not here to beg for justice. Like a true Voren, I am here to take what I want because I can. I don't care if it was one of you or all of you. Today, the 3rd rotation of the Seraphyne cycle in the 3453rd orbit of the Ascendant[5], the Voren Family will cease to exist on the Valdoran continent." He paused, the air thickening with the tension of his restraint. "But...I don't want to be a monster. So, I'll give you one chance."
He raised his hand, and the crushing pressure lifted. The room exploded into sound—gasps, coughs, sobs rising in a desperate chorus. Bodies stirred, clawing back to life, as voices overlapped in a flood of pleas and denials.
"Kael, I had nothing to do with it!" shouted a man with a braided beard, his hands raised in surrender.
"Your father and I were allies—sworn brothers!" cried a woman, her voice cracking as she clutched a jeweled necklace.
"I swear on my soul, I didn't know!" begged a younger cousin, his face streaked with tears.
They pleaded, accused, pointed fingers at one another—hundreds of voices weaving a cacophony of fear and self-preservation. Not one spoke of guilt or atonement. Not one offered truth. None even appealed to practicality. Only the stench of terror, raw and palpable, filled the air.
The man, now recognized as Kael Voren, stood motionless, counting sixty beats of a heart he no longer felt pulsing within him. His eyes traced the faces—some familiar, some strangers wearing the Voren name like a stolen crown. He sighed, a sound heavy with inevitability, and the flicker of hope in the room died.
"You let my mother rot," he said, his voice a quiet thunder.
The weight returned, sharper this time. Some vomited from the pressure. One man bit through his tongue as the instant pressure suddenly slammed is mouth shut mid scream.
"You stole the life's work of my father."
Screams rose, prayers tangling with curses, a frantic hymn to a deaf god.
"You turned your back on a family you were never worthy of."
Kael raised his hand, and the slaughter began.
The light in the hall faded, shadows stretching as brilliant lights tore free from their hosts—white-gold sparks, some faint as embers, others blazing like suns, ripped from chests by the hunger at his back. They spiraled into the void, comets consumed by an endless night. Bodies fell, lifeless husks striking the floor with dull thuds—some sprawled across the table, others crumpling into heaps of silk and bone. The air grew thick with the scent of scorched soul, a bitter ash that coated the tongue and stung the eyes. A woman in green velvet clawed at her throat, as a bright light shot out of her mouth, a shimmering veil of illusion that unraveled mid-air, her body collapsing as the last thread snapped. A burly man with a scarred face lunged forward, his strength-talent flaring in a burst of raw power—only to vanish mid activation, his roar silenced as he fell.
Amid the chaos, a figure darted toward Kael—a wiry man with graying hair and wild eyes, his hands outstretched. "Wait!" he shouted, his voice hoarse but defiant. "I knew your mother—Elira. She wouldn't want this!" His talent flickered, a faint shield of energy sparking between them.
Kael paused, his hand lowering slightly. "You knew her?" His tone was flat, but his eyes narrowed, searching the man's face.
"Yes!" the man gasped, stumbling closer. "I was there when she married your father. She was kind—too kind for this family. She'd hate to see you—"
The void pulsed, cutting him off. The shield shattered, and the man's talent spiraled away, his body dropping like a marionette with severed strings. Kael's jaw tightened, a flicker of something—regret, perhaps—crossing his features before the mask of resolve returned. "She's not here to stop me," he muttered, more to himself than the corpse at his feet.
The massacre continued, relentless and methodical. The hall became a graveyard, the marble floor slick with spilled wine and the dust of the dead. The chandeliers flickered their last, plunging the room into a twilight of ruin. Silence fell, heavy and absolute, broken only by a small, trembling sob.
A teenage girl stood before him, trembling, her phone gripped tightly in both hands. She'd done as he'd commanded—livestreamed the massacre of her family, her fingers shaking as she held the device steady through the screams and chaos. Now, her tear-streaked face reflected the glowing screen, the view count ticking upward with every passing second. Kael extended a hand, and the phone flew from her grasp into his palm, the motion swift and unyielding.
He glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly at the numbers—thousands watching, bearing witness to the Voren family's end. With a flex of his fingers, the device crumbled, shards and dust spilling through his hand to the floor.
"Kara Voren," he said, his voice low and frigid, cutting through the silence like a blade. "Are these all of the Vorens, is anyone missing from this gathering?" The young girl fanatically shook her head, saying "N-no, not that I know of."
Kael stared at her for a moment, then said, "You're free to go, but the name Voren stays. If I hear the name Kara Voren again, I'll find you. No warning. No mercy."
Kara's breath hitched, a sob breaking free as she nodded, her body shaking. She stumbled back, then turned and ran, her footsteps a frantic echo fading into the mist beyond the ruined hall. Kael's gaze lingered on her retreat, cold and unblinking, before he turned away.
Kael turned, his cloak swaying as he scanned the shadows. A girl stood there, no older than six, her messy brown hair tumbling over a tear-streaked face. She wore a simple dress, its hem stained with dirt, and her wide eyes glimmered with a grief too vast for her small frame. She looked like Sera—the child he'd once shielded in the dark, not the woman she'd become. Her hands shook as she clutched the edge of a fallen chair, her breath hitching in tiny, broken gasps.
His expression cracked, the cold mask slipping as he stepped down from the dais. His boots scuffed the blood-slicked stone, leaving faint trails in the carnage. He crouched before her, bringing his face level with hers, and softened his voice—a flicker of warmth piercing the ice. "What's your name?"
"J-Jordyn," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread nearly lost in the stillness.
He nodded, a faint tilt of his head. "Are there others missing? Hiding?"
She shook her head, sniffling, her small hands twisting the fabric of her dress into knots.
Kael's gaze drifted across the devastation—corpses sprawled in twisted heaps, the air heavy with the weight of death. He straightened, his tone firming once more. "You can leave. But not with that name. If I hear 'Jordyn Voren' again, I'll find you."
She nodded, tears spilling over her cheeks, and stumbled toward the shattered doors, her footsteps uneven on the debris-strewn floor. But something stopped him—a faint pulse, a heartbeat too real to ignore. He reached into the void, black mist swirling around his fingers, and grabbed the back of the little girl's dress through space and pulled her back gently, her small form hovering an feet above the ground.
She gasped, trembling in the air, her voice breaking as she pleaded, "P-please don't kill me. I'm sorry… for what Grandpa did."
The words struck him like a blow, echoes of Sera's voice ringing in his memory. Kael's breath caught, his hands unsteady as he lowered her to the ground. "Sorry, little one," he said, his voice rough with something raw. "I didn't mean to scare you. What's your name, again?"
"Jordyn," she repeated, her eyes wide and glistening.
"That's a beautiful name." He rubbed the back of his neck, guilt twisting in his chest like a blade. "Do you have anywhere to go, Jordyn?"
She shook her head again, her small form dwarfed by the wreckage around her. "Aunt Neri… but she doesn't want Vorens."
Kael exhaled, a faint, bitter laugh escaping him. "Smart woman." He glanced back at the hall—silence, judgment, the weight of his actions pressing down like the mist outside. Jordyn stood in the center of it, a speck of life amidst the ruin. She shouldn't have seen this. Shouldn't have survived it. But she had.
He extended his hand, palm up, the gesture oddly gentle against the backdrop of death. "I'm leaving. Come with me, or stay. If you come, you leave the Voren name behind. Forever."
Her gaze flickered to his hand—the hand that had unmade her world. She hesitated, her fingers twitching, then reached out, small and trusting, wrapping around his palm. Kael lifted her onto his back, her arms clinging tightly to his neck, her warmth a stark contrast to the coldness within him.
"Hold on," he murmured, his voice soft as a promise.
They stepped into the howling wind, the estate crumbling behind them, its towers sagging under the weight of its own decay. The mist swallowed the ruin, erasing it from sight as if it had never been. Before they vanished into the gray, Kael's voice dropped, barely audible over the gale.
"You're not a Voren anymore. You're just Jordyn."
[1] Equivalent to "Year of our Lord" on Earth.
"Orbit" refers to the Celestrial orbit around their sun, or "year."
"The Ascendant" refers to Elandor the Ascendant, the progenitor of human civilization on Celestria.
The Celestrian calendar starts in the Celestrial orbit (year) in which Elandor the Ascendant was born.
[2] A country made up of a federation of dozens of city-states with a weak federal government, much like the original United States. Commonly referred to as Dravara for short.
[3] The Voren Family is one of the three most powerful families in Dravara. Unlike other families that relied on high ranking talents to gain and maintain power, the Voren Family relied on their uniquely powerful talents. It isn't uncommon for a Voren with a D-Rank talent to beat someone without Voren blood with a C-Rank or even B-Rank talent. For reference, a B-Rank talent holder is approximately 12 times stronger than a C-Rank talent holder on average.
[4] ~193cm or 6'4"
The base unit of measurement on Celestria is the Elan (El), based on Elandor the Ascendant's height. One Elan is equivalent to 2.0 meters. A centiElon (cEl) is the Celestrian version of centimeter (cm). It is 1/100th of an Elon.
[5] "3rd day of the Seraphyne month in the 3453rd year after Elandor"
Other forms are:
Sera 3, 3453 A.E.
C04-R03-3453 A.E.