It was raining again — a slow, steady drizzle that blurred the gas lamps outside into halos of amber. The city always seemed quieter in the rain, as though the streets themselves were holding their breath.
Sylas leaned against the window frame, watching the drops chase each other down the glass, when a flicker of crimson light reflected in the pane. At fourteen, Sylas Veyran looked like any other boy from the quieter streets of the city — lean and wiry, with black hair that refused to stay neat and hazel eyes that seemed more thoughtful than daring. His features were sharp enough to give him a certain quiet presence, yet ordinary enough to be forgotten moments after passing by. He dressed simply in a worn linen shirt, dark suspenders, and rolled sleeves, a faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow the only mark of past mischief.
He turned.
Nothing there.
Just the warm glow of the fireplace and the faint scent of tea leaves drifting from the kitchen.
"Still brooding at the window?"
His father's voice carried that deep, measured calm that always seemed to fill the room. Caelum Veyran emerged from the hallway, tall and composed in his dark waistcoat, his steel-gray eyes carrying a glint that was equal parts mirth and quiet authority.
Behind him came Elara, her midnight-black braid swaying over one shoulder, the silver sheen in her eyes catching the firelight like a trick of the embers. She moved with the unhurried grace of someone who had never once stumbled in her life, a tray of tea balanced effortlessly in her hands.
The apartment wasn't much by noble standards, but it was theirs: warm walls lined with books and curios from far-off ports, a narrow balcony overlooking the cobblestone streets, and that creaking old armchair by the fire where Caelum always read in the evenings.
Dinner was quiet, filled with the soft clink of porcelain and the low hum of rain against the windows. Occasionally, Sylas caught his parents exchanging glances — not the affectionate kind, but something else. Quick, weighted looks that passed between them like unspoken messages.
"I was planning to head over to Ryan's place for some games," Sylas said, leaning against the doorway.
"I see. The rain ruined your plans, huh?" Caelum smiled, his voice warm but distracted.
Elara's gaze lingered on her son a moment too long. There was something in her eyes—an unspoken weight, as though she were committing every detail of his face to memory. The look was gone in seconds, replaced by her usual gentle composure.
Outside, the downpour stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
"Look," Elara said, glancing toward the window, "the rain's let up."
Sylas followed her gaze. The street glistened with fading droplets, the clouds breaking just enough for pale light to spill through. Before he could speak, Caelum's voice cut in softly.
"No need to ask. Go—enjoy your time with Ryan."
Sylas grinned, stepping forward to wrap them both in a quick hug before heading for the door, never noticing the shadow that passed between their eyes as he left.
The city outside was washed clean, the air sharp and cool in Sylas's lungs. Rainwater trailed from tiled roofs in thin rivulets, dripping onto cobblestone streets that gleamed silver under the dim light. Puddles rippled faintly as the last drops fell, reflecting fractured glimpses of the cloud-split sky.
Sylas walked briskly toward Ryan's house, his shoes making soft splashes in the shallow water pooled along the roadside. Yet something tugged at the back of his mind—an unshakable unease.
Something's… off.
The feeling itched beneath his skin, restless and sharp.
Maybe I'm just excited. Games with Ryan, that's all.
He tried to shake it off, letting the faint smell of rain-soaked earth and wet timber distract him.
By the time he reached Ryan's front steps, the strange sensation still hadn't left. He rang the doorbell. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal Ryan's mother, her warm smile framed by the glow of lamplight from within.
***
Far across the city, rain began to fall again—heavier this time.
Inside the dimly lit living room of the Caelum household, Elara stared down at her hand. The silver ring she wore—a delicate band etched with intricate, swirling lines—fractured without warning. The embedded blue gem crumbled into shimmering dust, scattering across the table before fading into nothing.
"How long will the rain last?" Caelum asked quietly, his gaze fixed on the window where rain traced jagged paths down the glass.
"At least five hours," Elara murmured. The softness in her face was gone, replaced by cold resolve.
Caelum's eyes shifted to the clock—its hands pointing to 9 p.m. "Are you sure it's tonight?"
"Yes," Elara said. "The visions I received leave no doubt."
The words hung in the air like the weight before a storm. Caelum exhaled heavily, knowing the thing he had feared for years was no longer a distant threat—it was here.
Minutes stretched into an hour. They sat together in the dining room, the silence broken only by the steady drum of rain against the roof. The round table between them was bare save for the faint reflection of moonlight spilling in through the window. Outside, the full moon hung high, its pale glow casting long shadows across the floor.
A voice, rasping and low, broke the stillness.
"It seems you've been waiting for us."
They turned toward the sound.
Three figures stood in the doorway, their black hooded robes damp from the rain. In the center was the speaker, his posture commanding. The two flanking him—broad-shouldered men in their early thirties—remained silent, their eyes cold. The leader, older by a decade, had weathered brown skin and deep lines etched into his face. His black eyes gleamed with a faint, unnatural light.
Caelum and Elara locked their gazes on the intruders. Silence pressed between them.
The man in the middle smiled faintly. "Ah… where are my manners? My name is Bermond. They are Herath and Selvat."
The names hit like a stone in still water. Caelum and Elara felt the tremor in their hearts but kept their expressions unreadable. They knew exactly who Bermond was—and why he had come.
The room seemed to shrink as Bermond stepped forward. Each pace he took bled more malice into the air, the very temperature seeming to drop. His pupils darkened into an unnatural purple hue, and behind him, a strange, shifting symbol began to form—its lines writhing like living threads.
The symbol behind Bermond pulsed once—slow and deliberate—before its glow intensified.
The purple six-pointed star burned at its core, edges sharp and bright in deep violet light. Six mirrored petals encircled it, each flowing seamlessly into twelve curling tendrils of energy, twisting outward like smoke alive in the void. Shadows thickened in the room, drawn to its pull, the air itself trembling under the weight of its darkness.
Caelum's fingers flexed.
From the floor beneath him, his own symbol erupted into existence—a six-pointed blaze of crimson, its heart a molten sun. Around it, jagged, flame-like petals flared outward, their edges ragged yet perfect in symmetry. Twelve fractured strands of red fire lashed from the petals, writhing like serpents, leaving trails of heat-distorted air. The glow painted Caelum's face in warlike scarlet, the promise of destruction radiating from its core.
Beside him, Elara's sigil bloomed into view—a radiant construct of white light, so bright it seemed to carve its presence into the blackness. At its center, a crystalline star blazed, each line impossibly precise. Petals of sheer luminance spiraled around it, smooth and graceful, their edges bending subtly inward. From these petals stretched twelve delicate tendrils of light, not chaotic but deliberate, flowing outward like threads woven through space itself. Every curve shimmered with a faint distortion, as if the very air bent to its command.
Bermond's lips curved in a slow smile.
"So you do remember who you are."
The purple tendrils struck first—two of them slicing through the air toward Elara's chest with the precision of blades.
Caelum's red strands lashed upward, colliding with them mid-air. The impact detonated in a burst of heat and violet sparks, rattling the wooden beams overhead. Elara's white tendrils, fluid as silk, slipped through the chaos, looping around Bermond's flanks in an elegant snare.
Herath stepped forward to intercept, his own threads—thick, blood-dark—snapping toward Elara's with needle-like tips. Sparks burst where they met, each impact a staccato of light and shadow.
On the floor, Selvat's black tendrils slithered across the wet wood, curling toward Caelum's legs. They struck with the snap of a whip, forcing him to leap back, one of them grazing his ankle with a searing cold that bit straight into the bone.
Bermond didn't advance; he didn't need to. His violet tendrils moved like an extension of himself, weaving through the fight with surgical precision. One lashed around Caelum's fire strand and yanked—dragging the destructive energy toward the wall, where it exploded in a gout of molten splinters.
"Too slow," Bermond murmured.
Caelum roared and slammed his palm to the floor. His sigil surged, every red tendril bursting outward in a wave of raw heat. Steam hissed from the rainwater on the boards, shrouding the room in a boiling mist. Herath flinched, his dark threads curling inward to protect himself from the heat.
Elara seized the opening. Her white tendrils flicked outward, folding the mist into pockets of warped space. A violet spear shot toward her face—only to vanish into one of her folds and reappear an inch from Bermond's temple.
For the first time, Bermond's expression shifted—just slightly. He raised a hand, and a curtain of violet light intercepted the redirected strike, absorbing it into nothingness.
The fight turned into a blur of color.
Scarlet fire lashed against coiling violet, white threads sliced cleanly through Selvat's black roots, and every impact rattled the beams overhead. The air cracked with heat, bent with distortion, and filled with the hiss of darkness burning against light.
But slowly—too slowly for them to notice—the momentum shifted. Caelum's strikes grew heavier but slower; his flames dimmed from molten gold to dull crimson. Elara's threads wavered, their once-perfect lines faltering, folds closing just a fraction too late.
Bermond pressed forward now. His tendrils struck not one at a time, but in clusters—three, four, six lashes at once, each perfectly timed to force them apart. Herath's dark whips hooked around Elara's ankles, yanking her to one knee. Selvat's black coils pinned Caelum's right arm, leaving only half his fire free.
Caelum snarled, forcing his flames into a desperate surge, the heat so intense it cracked the floor beneath him—but Bermond's purple star flared, and the darkness around them thickened like tar. The red fire struggled, choking under the weight of it.
Elara tried to open a spatial fold, her hands trembling as she reached for the threads—only for Bermond's tendrils to slam her wrists together, shattering her focus. Her sigil flickered, its once-blinding light fading into dim white embers.
The three enemies closed in.
Bermond's shadow loomed over them, the violet star behind him a sun of darkness.
Caelum's flames guttered low. Elara's threads hung loose, curling back toward her.
Another strike, and they would fall.
Not practicing their respective powers all these years have weakened them. Otherwise, they would have been on par with their adversaries.
***
"Hell yeah!" Ryan's cheerful voice cut through the room.
"I defeated you again, Sylas."
Sylas sat on the bed, console in hand, but his eyes weren't on the screen. That nagging weight in his chest hadn't left him all day.
Why do I feel like this? What is this anxiousness?
Before he could untangle the thought, a sharper sensation slammed into him—a sudden, primal sense of danger, heavier and more urgent than the unease before. His muscles tensed on instinct. He shot to his feet.
He didn't know what was happening or where the threat was coming from. Only one thought burned in his mind: I have to go home. Now.
Without a word, he bolted for the door. Ryan called after him, but Sylas didn't hear.
Outside, the sky had opened into a downpour, rain pelting the streets in sheets. Sylas didn't slow. His feet splashed through puddles, lungs burning as he pushed himself faster. For a split second, his pupils flickered red—but he didn't notice.
His home came into view.
He reached the front step, grabbed the handle—locked. His pulse spiked. The sense of danger swelled, suffocating.
With a snarl of desperation, he yanked the door until it gave way, crashing open against the wall.
"Mom! Dad!"
The sight froze him in place.
On one side of the room stood his parents, their clothes soaked in blood. Opposite them were three figures in black robes, each haloed by a shimmering, intricate sigil of a different color.
Elara and Caelum's eyes widened when they saw him—drenched, breathless. Of all people, he was the one they had sworn to keep away from this. And yet here he was… and the enemy still stood.
Sylas stared, mind blank, trying to understand. A sudden spear-like tendril shot toward him.
Caelum moved before thought, throwing himself between Sylas and the strike. The tendril pierced deep—blood erupted from the wound.
"You okay, son?" Caelum's voice was ragged but carried a smile.
"Father…" Sylas's voice trembled.
"Don't worry. It's all right," Caelum said, even as the blood ran down his side.
Elara rushed to Sylas, pain in her eyes. She looked to her husband; he met her gaze, and in that wordless moment, resolve passed between them.
"Well, isn't this touching," Bermond's voice drawled from the shadows behind his men.
Caelum and Elara turned to face him.
"Buy me a few minutes," Elara said.
Caelum gave a sharp nod. His sigil flared, bathing the room in molten red light. He clapped his hands together—and a dome of blazing crimson energy sealed around the three of them.
At the same time, Elara began to chant. The words were in no tongue Sylas knew, each syllable heavy and deliberate.
Bermond didn't wait. With a sharp gesture, he unleashed a surge of violet tendrils. His two subordinates joined him, their own threads of darkness snapping forward.
The black wave of energy smashed against Caelum's shield with an impact that rattled the walls.
The crimson shield bore the brunt of the assault, shuddering under the force. Jagged cracks began to spiderweb across its surface, each one glowing faintly as the magic strained to hold.
Then—crack.
Elara's chant reached its final note. The air in front of her split open with a sound like tearing silk. Beyond the rift, a vast expanse shimmered with countless stars, swirling in impossible constellations.
Crack!
Another fracture ripped through the shield. It flickered, then shattered into fragments of red light.
Seeing no time to spare, Elara's eyes hardened. She thrust her hands forward, shoving Sylas into the rift.
He stumbled, the cold of the void wrapping around him. In that frozen moment, his gaze locked on the scene behind him—his parents, Elara and Caelum, standing side by side as spear-like tendrils tore through their bodies. Blood erupted in dark arcs.
And yet… they smiled. Not with joy, but with the fierce, defiant love of those who give everything for someone else.
The stars began to swallow him.
"Mom! Dad!" Sylas's scream ripped through the void, raw with anguish.
Then they were gone.