The first memory Kaelen had of his new life was the sound of winter wind battering the high windows of Vaeloria's new estate. The world was soft and blurred, the ceiling above him a distant, pale sky. Everything was too large. Every sound too sharp.
He blinked slowly, feeling the weight of tiny limbs and fragile bones. Reborn. Trapped in the body of a child—but with the mind of a man who had seen kingdoms fall and brothers turn to enemies.
The past life pulsed behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.
"My son," a voice whispered, and warm hands lifted him.
Lady Selene Vaeloria, his mother once more.
She was younger than he remembered, her silver-blonde hair falling in soft waves around a face marked more by sorrow than age. Her eyes, violet as a twilight sky, studied him with a fierce tenderness that made something ache deep inside him.
Kaelen's tiny fingers instinctively curled around the embroidered fabric of her gown.
She held him close.
"You are our hope, little one," she murmured, her words a vow and a prayer woven together.
Outside, the storm howled. Inside, Kaelen Vaeloria's soul stirred, restless, remembering.
The days that followed blurred together—feeding, sleeping, the endless soft murmurs of attendants and family. But even as an infant, Kaelen listened.
He learned.
House Vaeloria was not the empire it had once been. The mighty fortress cities were gone, their banners now flown by other Houses. Only the ancestral name remained, clung to desperately by those who had once ruled from the heights of the world.
Yet pride still beat in their blood. Pride—and ambition.
Kaelen watched his uncles and aunts argue over estates and dowries. He saw how the nobles smiled with their mouths but not with their eyes. Even now, betrayal lurked under every toast, every bow.
Good, he thought.
He would remember every face.
And when the time came, he would decide who deserved a place in the world he would build.
Time, fickle as ever, pushed him forward.
At two years old, Kaelen stood for the first time under his own power. Lady Selene wept openly when she saw him walk across the stone floor, his steps steady and unyielding. Servants whispered of omens and miracles.
By three, he spoke clearly—too clearly.
At four, he asked to be taught letters.
"Strange child," they muttered. "Too quick. Too hungry."
Kaelen hid his mind behind the mask of a solemn, quiet boy. Let them think him odd. Let them fear him, even now. It would make their awe—and their terror—that much sweeter later.
And then, on the eve of his fifth birthday, it was time.
The Blood Rite.
The tradition dated back centuries—an ancient ceremony to awaken the Blood Crest hidden within the veins of every Vaelorian heir. A rite few passed with glory. A rite that had once seen Kaelen mocked and discarded.
Not this time.
Never again.
The Grand Hall of Vaeloria was alive with firelight and expectation.
Family, allies, and old retainers filled the pews, dressed in the deep blues and silvers of the House. A massive stone dais had been erected at the center, etched with the sigil of a dragon coiled around a broken sun.
Kaelen walked toward it, small but unbowed. His simple tunic and cloak rippled around him, each step deliberate, measured.
At the top, the High Priest of the Blood stood waiting, robes of midnight silk pooling at his feet. In his hands, the ceremonial dagger—old as the House itself.
"Kaelen Vaeloria," the priest intoned, his voice carrying through the hall, "do you offer your blood to awaken the memory of your ancestors?"
Kaelen's chin lifted.
"I do," he said, the words ringing clear and proud.
The priest nodded solemnly and took Kaelen's small hand in his gnarled one. The dagger's edge was cold as winter as it kissed his palm, drawing a thin line of crimson.
Blood dripped onto the stone.
The hall held its breath.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Whispers stirred. A few nobles exchanged knowing, pitying glances.
Selene's hands tightened into fists in her lap.
Kaelen closed his eyes. He reached inward—deep, past flesh, past bone, into the core of what he was.
Wake.
The blood answered.
The marble beneath his feet pulsed, the etched sigil flaring to life. The air shivered with unseen power.
Then—
The blood ignited.
Not with fire—but with shadow and light entwined, black flame and silver starlight swirling around him.
Gasps broke the silence.
A shape rose from the blood—a dragon of void and flame, its wings spanning the width of the dais, its roar silent but deafening to the soul.
Kaelen opened his eyes, and for a heartbeat, they blazed—not with mortal light, but with the ancient, impossible fury of a forgotten lineage.
The High Priest stumbled back, crossing himself in awe.
Lady Selene fell to her knees, tears streaming freely.
"A Mythical Crest," someone whispered, voice cracking.
"It's impossible," said another. "No child—no heir has summoned such power since the Age of Crowns!"
But Kaelen heard none of it.
In that moment, standing alone on the burning sigil of his House, he heard only the voice that had guided him from the brink of death:
"Rise, Last Throneborn. The blood remembers."
Kaelen bowed his head briefly, acknowledging the call.
Then he turned his gaze to the assembled nobles, his expression unreadable.
The boy they had feared was strange.
The boy they had pitied.
He was gone.
In his place stood the future of Vaeloria.
And when his time came, they would remember this day.
The day a child wrapped in shadows and starlight seized fate by the throat.
The day the Last Throneborn truly awakened.
[End of Chapter 2]