The smell of burnt wood and blood clung stubbornly to the cold night air.
House Vaeloria, once a name that made kingdoms hesitate, now stood in ruins. Banners once proud and regal lay torn across the shattered marble floors. The great hall, once filled with laughter and song, had been reduced to a hollow, broken tomb.
Kaelen Vaeloria lay motionless at the center of it all. His small body, barely clinging to life, was surrounded by the wreckage of everything he had once believed in.
Rain lashed against the broken windows. Thunder grumbled in the distance, as if the heavens themselves mourned the fall of a house that had once ruled with pride.
"What a waste," a voice muttered nearby. A figure in a crimson cloak emerged from the shadows, boots clicking against the wet stone. With casual disdain, he crushed a piece of Kaelen's shattered family crest beneath his heel.
Kaelen could barely lift his head. His vision swam, his strength failing him. The betrayal—it had come so suddenly. He had trusted them, all of them. And now...
"Let the crows have him," the figure said coldly. "The blood of Vaeloria is finished."
Footsteps retreated into the darkness, one by one. They left him there, abandoned and alone, the last ember of a dying legacy.
Kaelen's fingers twitched weakly. His hand brushed against a shard of a pendant—his mother's heirloom, the last comfort he had.
Somewhere deep within him, something stirred.
It was faint at first—a pulse, a whisper.
The Blood Crest.
Long mocked as defective, long thought broken. But in his final moments, it awoke.
Visions slammed into his mind: forgotten battles, ancient beasts, warriors cloaked in starlight, and a dragon of black fire chained beneath a dark sky.
And then, a voice:
"Rise, Last Throneborn. The blood remembers."
Kaelen's heart shuddered.
And then, everything went dark.
When he opened his eyes again, the world was different.
He was different.
A baby's cry split the air, high and sharp.
"Congratulations, my lady! A healthy boy!"
The grand chamber of the restored Vaeloria estate was filled with warmth and light. Midwives bustled about as snow fell gently outside the windows.
Lady Selene Vaeloria cradled her newborn son, her eyes shimmering with both joy and sorrow. She brushed a kiss across his forehead, unaware of the ancient soul looking back at her through newborn eyes.
"Kaelen," she whispered. "You will be called Kaelen."
In that moment, something deep inside the boy stirred. A memory, a promise. A vow.
He had returned.
And this time, he would not be a pawn.
This time, he would claim his destiny.
Time passed quickly.
Though trapped in a child's body, Kaelen's mind remained sharp. He listened, he observed. He learned the lay of this new land, the shifting alliances, the lingering wounds of the old wars.
House Vaeloria still lived—barely. Once rulers of vast territories, they now clung to fading lands and broken oaths. The Great Houses that had once bowed before them had grown fat and arrogant, while Crestless empires rose at the borders, hungering for blood.
Kaelen clenched his small fists beneath his blankets.
He would not let Vaeloria fall again.
He would not fall again.
Whispers began to follow him.
"Strange child," the servants muttered.
"Too serious for his age."
"His eyes… there's something in them."
Lady Selene shielded him fiercely, but she too saw it—the knowing glances, the quiet strength in her son. She dared not question it. She only prayed it was a blessing, not a curse.
Kaelen spent long hours in the estate's ancient library, poring over dusty tomes he could barely lift. He watched the swordmasters train. He learned to feel the threads of mana in the air, something he had never truly grasped in his previous life.
Mana. Aura. Blood.
He would master them all.
On his fifth birthday, the Blood Rite approached.
It was the tradition of every noble house—a ceremony where the child's Blood Crest would awaken, marking their path for life.
Kaelen stood atop the marble dais, small but unshaken. Elders, priests, and distant relatives gathered to witness the ritual. A ceremonial dagger gleamed in the High Priest's hand.
"Kaelen Vaeloria," the priest intoned, "do you offer your blood to awaken the memory of your ancestors?"
"I do," Kaelen answered, his voice steady and sure.
The blade sliced across his palm. Blood welled up, bright and hot, dripping onto the carved sigil of House Vaeloria at his feet.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then the ground shuddered.
A low hum filled the air. Mana stirred. Aura coiled like a living thing. The gathered nobles gasped as the blood on the floor ignited, not with fire—but with shadows and flame interwoven.
From the blood, a form rose—a creature of dragon and void, its eyes burning with cold fury.
"A Mythical Crest!" someone cried out in shock.
"This… this cannot be!"
Lady Selene fell to her knees, tears of joy streaming down her face.
Kaelen's eyes opened.
And in that moment, everyone in the hall—from the highest noble to the lowliest servant—felt the oppressive weight of a destiny far greater than any they had ever known.
The Last Throneborn had returned.
And his story was just beginning.
[End of Chapter 1]