On that gloomy winter's night, thousands of dead bodies lay in the snow. All the corpses were covered in a layer of frost.
The battle for the throne. Four fronts clashed in the cursed valley of oblivion.
A gust of cold wind knocked the soldier off balance. Next to him lay his half-dead comrade. Choking in his own blood, he spoke:
"It's over."
His will to live died in his eyes.
"No," said Faelan, the last soldier still on his feet. "We still have..." He paused for a moment as he gazed off into the distance, where the library once stood. "... Something to do."
"But you can't do that, not on this night."
"I have no other choice."
The old castle of Zaltheris lay in ruins. The entrance to the dungeon could be seen between the ruins. He crept into the depths.
The soldier knew that he had to take the final step if he wanted to save the ruined realm.
When he entered, an altar stood in the center of the room. On three walls were dusty bookshelves, none of which had probably ever read a book. The shelf to his left collapsed due to a small, unintentional touch. Books lay criss-crossed on the wooden floor, but one stood out.
Faelan knelt down and reached for the book. The cold, smooth surface of the patterned leather made his fingers tingle. It was as if the pages of the book awakened a feeling of power and fear in him at the same time.
He quickly opened the nameless book, which was imbued with dark magic. The smell of burnt paper and cursed ink rose to his nose. With trembling hands, he began to read.
A deep, familiar voice sounded softly.
A demon materialized above the altar. Its horns were sharp and ridged, its body covered in dark scales that shimmered with an eerie glow. It hovered in the air as if it had no connection to the earth. The creature's eyes burned like two gates to hell.
"I can help you restore the realm and your name," the demon spoke in a voice that was both seductive and terrifying.
Faelan was frightened, but remained determined.
"Yes, I'm asking you to help me," the soldier replied.
"Your look tells me that you already know there will be consequences," the demon said with an ominous grin.
A nod, accompanied by a hint of helplessness, was enough for the demon to continue.
"Three generations of your bloodline will carry demonic essence. Also, one of your children will become my vessel."
Goosebumps covered Faelan's entire body. Desperate and hopeless, he agreed.
"I accept."
From that moment on, it was clear that the man and his fate would change forever.
The reputation of House Faelan began to improve. The country that had once been so broken was experiencing a rapid recovery. The realm, which had been engulfed in the flames of war and destruction for so long, was rebuilt within a few months.
But the price was high, and the shadows of the pact began to haunt the family that had entered into it.
The real war had only just begun.
The night was silent. No wind, no sound. In his arms - a bundle of cloth, little more than a faint breath, a heartbeat far too weak for the world it had been born into.
The firstborn was barely seven days old.
"The demon has spoken," Faelan whispered. Not to himself. Not to the child. Rather into the darkness, as if to convince himself that there was no other way.
The child moved. No crying. No cry. It was quiet - too quiet. Perhaps it had sensed that it was not welcome.
The door opened. A hooded man stood ready. A silent messenger, paid in gold and silence. No name, no look. Just a hand taking the bundle.
"You know where to go," said Faelan. The mysterious man nodded and disappeared.
Faelan closed the door. No hesitation. No turning back.
But the silence was broken.
"What have you done?"
His wife Lydia stood in the shadows of the hallway. Her voice was quiet, almost breathless. Her eyes shone wetly, but tears were not yet flowing. Not yet.
He turned to her slowly. "I acted before it was too late."
"It was your son," she whispered, as if she could hardly believe it. "Our son."
"He was a risk." His voice was as cold as the snow on a dark day. "A vessel. You don't know because I spared you. The pact demands a sacrifice."
"You should have talked to me!" Her voice broke. "You banished our child like it was a mistake!"
"It wasn't a choice, it was a necessity." He walked past her without looking at her. "Weakness has no place in this house."
She stayed behind. Stared at the closed door. Her hands trembled. She knew he couldn't kill the child. But what consolation was that?
The next day, the news came through the castle:
**The newborn had died during the night. Illness. Too weak for life.**
A gravestone was set. Without a body.
Only Lydia knew that there was no child inside.
Only Faelan knew that the child was out there somewhere.
And the demon... was silent.