The wind howled across the Quorin Depths, whistling like a dirge for forgotten souls. High above the chasm, where even the eagles dared not fly, a lone figure stood at the edge of a cliff—Region 29's final precipice.
His cloak danced with the wind, flaring like a banner of darkness behind him. The moon cast a cold silver light on the blade he held, spinning effortlessly between his fingers. He tilted his head, eyes narrowed as he peered into the endless void below, a twisted smile curling on his lips.
Then came the laughter. Not the laughter of joy, nor that of triumph—but the deranged, broken laugh of a man who had drowned in his own sorrow long ago.
"The Empire..." he whispered, voice dry as dust. "...will come to understand pain. But not yet. Not before I pay a little visit... to the child who dares to watch me."
He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath as though the night air carried memories. And then, his body began to change.
It was not a sudden flash nor a smooth flourish—it was visceral. Bones cracked, shifting in unnatural directions. His mouth stretched forward, flesh reshaping into a hooked beak. Fingers melted into feathered limbs, arms warping into wings with an eerie rustle. His boots tore apart as his legs reformed into gnarled avian talons.
Feathers—black as midnight oil—spread across his skin like wildfire. His screams merged with the call of a raven until, where once stood a man, now flapped a giant raven cloaked in shadows.
He lingered for a moment, wings outstretched, before leaping from the cliff.
The wind caught him.
And he soared.
Far beneath him, the Quorin Depths yawned like a hungry maw. The cursed canyons of Region 29 had been his prison for over a century. But no longer. He banked eastward, toward Region 24, talons glinting like drawn steel under the moon.
They called him the Scarlet Raven now. The name passed down in frightened whispers, etched into forbidden scrolls and tavern tales.
But once... he had another name.
Uriel Commes.
The favourite disciple of High Mage Clifford. A boy once wrapped in hope and potential, lifted high by the praise of the Oradonian Order—an ancient circle of mages sworn to protect the balance of the world.
Uriel had trained harder than any. He memorized the runes before the others. He absorbed teachings in half the time it took most. His fire burned with ambition.
But ambition was a cruel master.
When his growth plateaued, the same masters who once praised him began to look elsewhere. Whispers crept through the halls of the Order. Words like "stagnant," "disappointing," "lost cause." And then came the final blow.
Clifford—his mentor, his guide—betrayed him in the most brutal way imaginable. He didn't just cast Uriel aside. He stole the only light Uriel had left—his lover. Took her. Defiled her. Left her with child.
The betrayal cracked something inside Uriel.
And from that crack, darkness leaked in.
Alone. Abandoned. Humiliated. He turned to the only thing left to him: the forbidden.
Dark magic.
Whispers of an ancient spirit called to him—a being of rage and ruin long sealed away. The Scarlet Raven.
Uriel didn't just summon the spirit. He welcomed it. Fused with it. Let it bleed into his soul like ink into water.
And with it, came power.
Unimaginable power. Enough to burn cities. Enough to silence gods.
He returned to the Oradonian halls not as a student, but as a storm. The walls ran red that night. No one was spared. He sought his master—and when he found Clifford, he reduced him to ash with a single touch.
His lover begged for mercy, her belly full with child. But Uriel's eyes saw only betrayal. And so, he ended her, too.
The world reeled from the massacre. Armies rose. Mages gathered. But none could match him. Until, at last, an Archmage intervened. One who did not fight him out of vengeance, but out of compassion.
She imprisoned him—not with chains, but with runes etched into the deepest corners of the Quorin Depths. There, Uriel—no, the Scarlet Raven—slept for over a century.
Until the curse.
Until the dying breath of the last Chief Priestess, Sarzi Uno, reached the ears of forgotten spirits.
Her curse on the Emperor didn't just bring chaos to the throne. It cracked the seal that held him.
And slowly, steadily, he began to climb. Not with hands, but with will. With hatred. With a fire that had never gone cold.
And now, he flies again.
The Scarlet Raven is free.
As he sliced through the clouds toward Region 24, he tasted the night in his beak. A dark smile formed in his avian eyes.
Tonight, the world would remember.
—————————
Prince Alloysius had barely rested in days. The candles in his study had long since burned down to waxy stumps, and the shadows on the walls danced with every flicker of the hearth's dying flame. His eyes, red-rimmed and heavy, fought to stay open, but the weight of sleepless nights, the mounting dread, and the anxious whispers that clung to the corridors of the palace like ghosts finally wore him down.
Slouched in his ornate chair, draped in a robe of sapphire silk that had slipped off one shoulder, he drifted into uneasy slumber.
That was when the dream took him.
At first, it was silence. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums. Then came the flutter of wings—slow, deliberate, too heavy to belong to any ordinary bird. He saw the dark sky stretch above a barren field, and from it descended a shadowy creature with wings that bled ash.
The bird landed with a sinister grace, talons scraping sparks against the stone. Then, in a blur of movement and fire, it began to shift. Bones cracked. Flame curled around its silhouette. The feathers turned to skin, then cloaks. The wings folded into a human frame. And where the bird once stood, a man now emerged—wreathed in smoke and shadow, his eyes glowing like embers in a furnace.
Then the figure turned.
Directly toward him.
Alloysius couldn't see a face—only the outline of burning wrath—and then the figure rushed at him, with speed that tore the dreamscape apart like glass shattering under heat.
He screamed. But not in the dream—in real life.
He shot up from the chair, breath ragged, chest heaving. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead as he looked around the room, momentarily confused. The echo of his scream still danced along the ceiling.
Then came the sounds.
Real sounds.
Shouting. Screaming. The unmistakable sound of chaos erupting just beyond his chamber walls.
His heart pounded. The silk robe clung to his clammy skin. The prince was still reeling from the dream when the door burst open with a slam that made his skin crawl.
A servant barreled into the room—barefoot, wide-eyed, and shaking like a leaf in a storm.
"Chaver!" Alloysius barked, trying to mask his fear with irritation. "What in the Creator's name is wrong with you?"
But the servant was gasping, nearly tripping over his own feet, his face twisted in pure panic. "There… there's a bird—no, fire—no, a man—he… he's outside… he's killing—"
"What?" Alloysius snapped, but his voice cracked. "Chaver, are you insane? Do you want to die running in here like this?"
But something in the servant's eyes made him stop.
This wasn't cowardice. This wasn't overreaction.
It was terror. Raw, unfiltered, soul-deep terror.
And for the first time that night, Alloysius realized the servant feared whatever he had seen more than he feared him.
That stung. Deeply.
Chaver fell to his knees, trembling, tears cutting down his soot-streaked face.
"Master…" he whispered, his voice barely holding together. "You can kill me if you want, but please… don't send me back out there. Don't make me face that beast…"
The words hit Alloysius like a slap.
He felt his control slipping—his composure crumbling like ancient stone under the weight of the storm outside. He wanted to scream back, to reassert his dominance, to command. But then—
Another scream echoed through the halls.
This one, higher. Sharper.
"Master! Save us!"
His blood ran cold.
The scenes from his dream echoed in his mind like an omen. A dark chill settled over his body. His limbs grew heavy. The breath caught in his throat.
He was rooted to the spot. Helpless.
Behind him, Chaver whimpered and shook uncontrollably, his knees knocking together like a drumbeat of dread.
And Alloysius... could only stand there.
Frozen.