As time moved on, and as Kælith grew older, the pit of darkness that the rage toward his uncle and father had carved into his soul grew ever deeper.
The ritual of purification had burned both his flesh and his soul. The memories haunted him wherever he went. Poor thing—he could not look at a candle flame without seeing his uncle waltz out of that inferno, the same that melted his skin from soft and smooth to rough, sensitive, and forever itching scar tissue. It was a miracle his injuries had not robbed him of his handsomeness.
Yet he remained the cheerful young lad he once was—or at least, he appeared to be. He carried himself with the grace of a king despite the decadence of his upbringing. Always smiling, always gentle, always at his father's side, listening to the mortals' prayers for mercy. To all who saw him, he seemed to have forgiven his father.
But beneath that smile, venom brewed. The ritual may have cured the world, but it cost Kælith his skin—and Ethera, her life. The loss of his mother gnawed at his soul. Not a day passed without him whispering promises of her return.
And beneath those promises, he hid something far darker—a secret pact struck in the shadow of his grief. The necklace that had once made him sick was destroyed in the inferno, but its corruption had already taken root. Through it, his uncle had burrowed deep into his soul, whispering sweet temptations. A ritual, he said—a slaughter of all heaven's divinity, to harvest their souls and forge from their fragments her essence anew.
A promise of the return of his lost mother—a knife that twisted rage into trust.
As he grew older and neared coronation, Zyros entrusted the mortal realm to Kælith, believing his son had outgrown the childish notion that he was lesser than those he governed. Oh, how wrong he was to think so.
Barely a week passed before Kælith began spreading falsehoods—whispering to men that elves sought their downfall, and to elves that men were plotting rebellion. He stoked the embers of disunity until they burst into flame. Ever since Ethera's death, resentment between the races had festered; the elves blamed the humans for her demise, and though the humans pleaded their innocence, their words were drowned beneath elven pride.
What began as suspicion soon became violence. Small clashes led to loss, loss to vengeance. The elves, sick of what they called mortal insolence, began enslaving human settlements, breaking their spirits beneath the yoke of their wrath.
And when desperate prayers rose to the heavens for deliverance, Kælith heard them. He answered not with mercy—but with guidance.
He showed them how to rise, how to kill, how to burn.
And above it all, the day of his coronation loomed—dark and heavy, like a storm cloud swelling with divine blood.