Kael'Vorn stood still, unmoved amidst the blood-soaked soil and decaying wind. His hand gripped the crimson-glowing necklace, still warm from the surge of corrupted power it had unleashed. It pulsed—like a fading heartbeat—echoing with the dying will of a once-great being.
His gaze lowered to the artifact. He felt it—undeniably Azurhein. Not a living one, no… but a remnant. A sealed consciousness. A soul that should have vanished into the void now imprisoned, twisted, forced to serve. Rage simmered in Kael'Vorn's veins. His red eyes darkened, not from hatred, but from sacred fury.
"To slay an Azurhein is already heresy… but to seal its soul and reduce it to a tool?"
Kael'Vorn's teeth gritted. Only one faction had such audacity. Only the Aeclipsar had the strength—and the madness—to defile an Azurhein and bind its essence. His mind flashed with the massacre, the fire, the betrayal. His hand trembled slightly, not with fear—but with vengeance restrained.
He looked down at the woman who knelt in defeat, her body weakened, her spirit exhausted.
She lifted her face to him. Her cloak fell back, revealing features almost too perfect to be mortal. Her beauty was haunting—a sculpted elegance born of witchblood. Porcelain skin, faintly luminous. Eyes like dark amethyst, glinting with old sadness and young rage. A slender face framed by long, ink-black hair. Lips that seemed too soft to curse—but had cursed nonetheless.
A sorrowful beauty, carved from grief and vengeance.
Kael'Vorn's eyes narrowed.
"You wear the face of a witch," he said in his voice like cold steel, "but only the face. The power? It is not yours."
The woman glared up, defiant despite her fall.
"You don't understand... They destroyed everything! My family, my home—they left us to rot. This curse was my vengeance, and I would do it again."
Kael'Vorn stepped forward, shadows curling around his feet. The air grew colder.
"So... a puppet of vengeance, thinking herself a wielder of wrath?" he whispered. "You don't need to speak anymore."
He raised a hand slowly, fingers etched with faint silver runes.
"Velmorith," he uttered with bone-deep finality.
From behind him, a shape stirred—one of the Azurheins bound to Kael'Vorn. The Velmorith—Curse-Binder, Memory Devourer—emerged from the shadows like mist.
Kael'Vorn's voice was as merciless as the void:
"Strip her mind. Show me her truths. And let her drown in the pain she buried."
The woman's eyes widened. "Wait—what are yo—"
She choked mid-sentence. Her back arched violently. Her eyes rolled white. Screams poured from her mouth like a dam breaking, echoing across the barren land.
Kael'Vorn's own eyes turned black, like two abysses devouring light. Through them, the memories began to pour in—memories not his own, grief not his own—but they settled into his soul like cold ash.
Within the abyss of Isaiah's mind, the cursed Velmorith unraveled the sealed fragments—memories hidden beneath rage, wrapped in sorrow, and chained by vengeance.
Kael'Vorn watched, silent, his black eyes reflecting the flowing visions.
He saw a mountain cloaked in mist and serenity—a home carved in peace far from the noise of kingdoms. A simple family. A father with gentle hands and a calm voice. A mother who smiled with the patience of stars—her aura faintly luminous, the subtle mark of witchblood. Two daughters, young and blooming, untouched by the world's cruelty.
Isaiah.
Laughter echoed in those woods once. The kind that belonged to the innocent and the loved. Her little sister would dance in the rain while her father carved wood and her mother stirred food with soft humming.
But peace does not last long in a world ruled by greed.
One day, a traveler arrived—his clothes fine, his eyes prideful. A rich man from below the mountains. And when he saw Isaiah's mother, his lust bloomed like rot. He offered gold, power, land. But love does not trade. Her refusal wounded his pride more than a blade ever could.
When his desire failed, hatred followed.
A moment later, magic flared—an accident born of desperation. Her witchblood defended her family. And the man, now terrified, branded her not a woman… but a monster.
"She bewitched me! She must die!"
He ran. They tried to leave the mountains, to vanish like wind. But it was too late. The greed had spread like fire through a forest. He returned—not with shame, but with soldiers. With mercenaries. With chains.
A mob descended.
They didn't come from fear—they came for profit.
"Do you know how much witch daughters with a beauty like them are worth?" laughed an old merchant, his mouth rotten with gold and cruelty.
Isaiah's father held his daughters close. Her mother begged no longer.
"They're not here to be reasoned with," her father said quietly. "Look into their eyes. They came to consume us."
When they tried to run, one of the men dragged Isaiah's younger sister by the hair, lifting her like spoils. Her mother froze. Her father stepped forward.
And then—without warning—the same man who once claimed love for Isaiah's mother plunged his sword into the young girl's chest.
The world shattered.
Isaiah screamed until her voice broke. Her parents lost their strength, their humanity. They were seized and shackled. Her father, still crying, shouted to her
"Run, Isaiah! Don't look back!"
She ran through the forest, swallowed by shadows and tears, hiding among stones and roots. Her body trembled. Her mind cracked.
The next day, she learned the price of mercy.
Her father—beheaded.
Her mother—tortured, defiled, and left to rot.
No grave. No name. Only silence.
And there, among the roots of despair, Isaiah's heart blackened.
"They will suffer. They all will."
Then came the voice.
A figure emerged from the dark—not quite human, not quite shadow. His cloak moved like smoke. His presence pressed against reality like something forgotten.
"I have heard your wish," the man said in a voice that echoed like eternity. "And I shall grant it."
From his hand, a necklace descended. Shaped like fallen starlight, pulsing with unholy brilliance.
"This is a remnant of what once ruled the heavens. Its strength will be yours… enough to avenge, to punish, to purge a continent."
She took it, and the man vanished. No name. No debt spoken. Just silence.
And so began the story of the Witch Goddess, Isaiah of the Red Grief.
Kael'Vorn gasped as he was pulled from her memory. The shadows peeled from his eyes, revealing red irises sharp with understanding.
Isaiah was curled on the ground, her tears endless—not for pain, but from reliving it all.
Kael'Vorn looked at her, not with pity—but with revelation.
A being with that much power… given so freely? By whom? And why?
That necklace… the remnant of an Azurhein, handed to a grieving girl in her most vulnerable moment.
This wasn't a gift. It was a spark—a spark for a greater fire. A design hidden beneath tragedy…
Kael'Vorn narrowed his eyes.
"Who are you…" he whispered, not to Isaiah, but to the one who gave the necklace.
"And what are you trying to achieve?"