Chapter 9 — The Lagacy Unmade - Liraen Vaerune
—Years ago, within a hidden elven sanctuary deep in the Kingdom of Thorneveil…
Moonlight trickled through a glass dome above, spilling its light upon a sanctum of stone and silver runes. Crystalline vines climbed the marble columns, silent witnesses to the magic that filled the air.
Seridien Vaerune knelt before her daughter, Liraen—unconscious, suspended in a soft magical stasis. Her pale blue hair shimmered like woven moonlight, a trait of their bloodline that could not be disguised.
Seridien's own matching locks fell across her face as she leaned forward, her fingers trembling while inscribing complex glyphs into the air. The light twisted and coiled into a single rune—a seal—and slowly descended onto her daughter's chest.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry," she whispered, voice breaking.
The seal glowed once, then sank into Liraen's skin, leaving no trace but a lingering warmth in the air. The suppression had begun—the bloodline would sleep.
"If they find out… if they so much as suspect what you carry, they'll tear you apart," Seridien murmured, brushing Liraen's cheek.
"They'll shackle you to a throne or carve you open to extract what's inside. They won't see a daughter, a girl, a soul. Only the power. Only the legacy."
Her eyes narrowed, fierce now despite the tears.
"But they won't take you. Not until you're ready."
She bent close, whispering as if the stars themselves were listening.
"The heir has already been chosen. The Crown will call to you. And when that time comes… not even fate will stop it."
With a final glance, Seridien stepped back, shadows swallowing her retreat.
---
Later — within Frosthelm Citadel, northern dominion of House Thalmyr…
The wind howled beyond the tower walls, slamming frost and sleet against ancient glass. Inside the fire-warmed chamber, Raenor Thalmyr stood before a grand window, staring into the storm.
A cloaked figure knelt behind him, eyes downcast.
"My lord," the informant began. "Seridien Vaerune has been apprehended."
Raenor didn't move.
"And the girl?"
"She's alive… but shows no signs of awakening. No aura resonance. No affinity tests triggered. And some believe she may be… cursed. Her growth seems artificially stunted."
Silence.
Raenor's hand clenched slowly at his side.
"All that blood spilled," he muttered, "All those rules bent, alliances broken—just to shelter a dormant child and her cursed mother."
He turned, face illuminated by the cold firelight.
"Blue hair doesn't lie. That bloodline runs deep in them. It's there."
"But buried," he added bitterly. "Wasted."
He moved toward the hearth, eyes narrowing.
"No matter. If it sleeps, it can still be awakened. If not… there are ways to harvest what remains."
A cruel smirk ghosted across his lips.
"Keep her alive. If something changes, I want to know before she even breathes it."
—A year later, Frosthelm Citadel…
The air within the hidden chamber was suffocating. Runes, old and cruel, pulsed faintly along the obsidian walls—etched in desperation, fueled by obsession.
Raenor Thalmyr stood at the center, half-bathed in eerie violet light, his expression blank… focused. A thin stream of blood—silver-tinged and shimmering—flowed through an intricate channel carved into the floor, spiraling inward toward a convergence point beneath his feet.
It was forbidden magic. Not for its complexity. But for its cruelty.
Bloodline Extraction.
The spell did not delicately unweave. It ripped the divine thread of ancestry from within the soul—leaving the victim shattered on a level no healer could mend. Those who survived wandered life as shells. Those who didn't… never truly died. They simply faded.
But Raenor?
He wasn't after knowledge. He wanted power. And he was done waiting.
Liraen had crossed her hundredth year. She had awakened. But when the rites were complete, and the arcane markers tested—nothing came.
No divine resonance. No ancestral flare. No sign of the legendary bloodline he coveted.
The suppression worked too well.
And now, Seridien—the mother—was to be the source.
His hands trembled as the silver stream entered the sigil beneath him. His breath hitched. His veins flared with cold fire, the mark of an unnatural grafting beginning.
"Mother of Thorns," he whispered hoarsely, "bind what blood cannot… make it mine…"
In the far corner, behind a curtain of shadow, Seridien Vaerune hung limp in chains—her blue hair matted with sweat, blood, and silence. Her eyes were half-lidded. Still conscious. Still watching.
And she didn't scream.
---
Meanwhile… elsewhere within the citadel…
A cold wind curled through the moonless night. The towering walls of Frosthelm stood like jagged mountains, cloaked in fog and silence.
Two figures moved silently through a narrow corridor:
Liraen Vaerune, her blue hair hidden under a dark hood, and her lifelong maid, guiding her toward the outer drainage tunnel.
She had awakened days ago.
Not with radiance. Not with power. Not with glory.
But with an emptiness.
No fire. No song in her blood. No pulse of heritage.
"I failed," Liraen had whispered then. "I'm broken."
Now, her breaths trembled as she ran. Tears streamed down her cheeks, blurring her vision. The cold stone beneath her bare feet bit like glass.
"Keep moving," the maid urged, voice low and urgent. "He's gone too far this time."
"Why is this happening…?" Liraen's voice broke between sobs.
"Because monsters don't need reasons."
A shout echoed down the hall.
They were spotted.
"Go!" the maid hissed, pushing her forward just as shadows surged around the corner.
Steel rang out.
Liraen turned—too slow—just in time to see the maid impaled, collapsing without a sound but with eyes full of defiance.
"No—!" Liraen choked, tears blinding her completely now.
But the maid's final glance said it all: Run. Please.
And she did.
Stumbling into the wild, out through the half-collapsed tunnel, into snow-laced woods.
She didn't stop running.
Not even when the world behind her vanished into fog and silence.
Not even when her heart screamed that her mother might already be gone.