By the time his mortal body saw its second year, Kael Raelthorn could walk, speak, and — though no one knew it — kill.
Not that he had yet. That would come later. But the possibility was there now, a seed waiting in the dark.
Two years had been enough for him to adapt. The muscles of this small frame had grown stronger, coordination sharpening under a deliberate regimen hidden in the motions of childish play. Every stumble, every awkward fall, every innocent giggle was calculated. He learned the dimensions of his own weakness so he could dismantle it piece by piece.
But the true work had been internal.
This world's mana was sluggish compared to the Abyss, but it obeyed patterns. It flowed in cycles tied to the moon and sun, surged after storms, and swelled faintly when blood was spilled. The people here used it as a tool, a force to be commanded with gestures, chants, and symbols — all crude scaffolding compared to the raw dominion of an Abyssal Lord.
Kael did not command. He consumed.
It began as an accident in the eyes of others. One evening in the manor's small library, a candle flickered low. The servant tending it — a frail man with a limp — cursed softly, fumbling for flint. Kael reached toward the flame, curious to "play" with it, as children did.
But in truth, he pulled.
Not air. Not heat. He drew the mana inside the flame into himself. The candle went out. The servant blinked, muttered about drafts, and re-lit it.
Kael said nothing.
That night, he did it again. And again. Until the heat of the flame, the texture of the mana, became as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.
From there, he experimented. He drained the faint wards on the manor's gates, just enough that no one would notice the slow fading of their protective shimmer. He pulled mana from the old, cracked stones in the cellars, learning how material stored and released energy. He even siphoned the vitality from insects — small, quick bursts that left their bodies crumpled in the dirt before anyone could see.
Each act was tiny. Insignificant. But each was a step toward rebuilding the Abyss inside him.
His father, Lord Raelthorn, saw only a quiet, observant child. The kind of boy who preferred sitting in corners with wooden carvings rather than running wild through the village. Servants whispered that he had inherited his mother's calm temperament.
In reality, Kael was listening. Always.
He listened when the steward reported that the harvest had been poor again. He listened when the blacksmith refused a commission because the house could not afford his rates. He listened when his father argued with a visiting tax collector about "delayed payments."
Weakness. Everywhere. And all of it could be used.
By his third year, Kael had already begun manipulating events in subtle ways.
The kitchen rats, for instance. A minor plague, gnawing at the manor's already thin stores. Servants set traps, but the vermin were clever. So Kael began killing them silently, draining them of both life and mana. He left their dried husks where he knew the steward would find them — and always near places the traps had been set.
The servants began to think the traps worked after all. They praised the steward's competence, which improved morale slightly. A small thing, but useful. It kept the house stable while Kael grew.
Then there was the blacksmith. The man had refused the Raelthorns' commission because of "delayed payment," but Kael knew it was more than that — the smith had been courted by House Varrun, a richer neighbor. One afternoon, while "playing" in the village, Kael wandered into the smith's workshop. He admired the man's work with wide, innocent eyes, then asked simple questions about metals and heat.
Questions that told him exactly what rare alloy the smith was missing. An alloy Kael knew was hidden in a forgotten crate in the manor's lower storage, under rusting tools.
Two days later, the crate was "found" by the steward, and delivered as a gift to the smith. The man returned to working for House Raelthorn.
None of it was traced to Kael. No one would suspect a three-year-old.
But beneath the politeness and childish smiles, his real experiments deepened. He began shaping mana within himself — not just storing it. The first attempts were crude. Sparks. Tiny motes of darkness that flickered out in seconds. A faint distortion in the air when he concentrated too long.
Still, it was control.
One evening, while sitting cross-legged on the floor of his small chamber, Kael drew the mana from every candle in the room at once. The flames died instantly. Darkness swallowed the chamber, broken only by the faint silver glow in his eyes.
He held the energy for several breaths, feeling it hum against the walls of his veins, before releasing it back into the air. The candles did not relight — the mana was gone.
He lay back on the floor, a small smile touching his lips.
This world was weak. But it was his now.
The servants saw only a strange child who preferred quiet rooms to games. His father saw a son too young to understand the burden of their house. None of them saw the shadow taking root.
Beneath the manor, the pulse of the relic still called to him. He was not ready to claim it — not yet. But every day he felt its throb grow a little stronger in his awareness, like the heartbeat of a beast chained beneath the floor.
One day, he would break those chains.
And the world above would not be ready.