The council chamber had once echoed with laughter.
Now it reeked of betrayal.
Azrael Bloodrend stood chained in crimson light, the runes carved into the floor drinking his blood. Around him, the faces he had trusted most wore masks of grim resolve. Kaelthorn, scarred and broad, who had fought beside him through a dozen campaigns. Lady Selene, veiled and sharp, whose strategies had won them kingdoms. And Varian—his brother, his blood, his shadow.
"Why?" The word tore from Azrael's throat like a blade.
Kaelthorn's spear pierced his side. "Because the world cannot bear what you've become."
Lady Selene's magic tightened the binding runes. "Because your hunger will devour everything."
But it was Varian who stepped forward with their father's cursed blade, tears streaming down his face. "Because I love you too much to let you become the monster you're destined to be."
The steel found Azrael's heart.
Pain flared—not from the wound, but from the breaking of something deeper. Trust. Brotherhood. The last vestiges of whatever humanity had once lived in his demon soul.
Crimson fire erupted from his body, cracks splitting across his flesh. "You think this ends me?" His voice thundered as the chamber walls began to crumble. "Blood calls to blood. Fire calls to fire. I will return."
The citadel collapsed in flames.
The Crimson Prince died.
Three hundred years later,in the warm stones of Blackthorn Manor, Lady Elara cried out as life fought to enter the world.
"Push," the midwife urged. "The child comes."
Lord Dorian paced outside the chamber, his scarred hands clenched. He had faced demons and monsters, but this—this waiting—tested him more than any blade.
A cry pierced the night. Small, fierce, defiant.
"A son," the midwife called. "You have a son."
Dorian entered to find Elara cradling a small form, her face radiant despite exhaustion. The baby's eyes opened—gray, clear, but for just an instant they flickered with something else. Something ancient.
Then the moment passed, and he was simply a child.
"Adrian," Elara whispered, the name chosen long ago. "Adrian Blackthorn."
In that warm chamber, surrounded by love and hope, no one noticed the way shadows seemed to bend toward the infant. No one saw the faint ember that glowed behind those gray eyes before fading into innocence.
The Crimson Prince was dead.
But vengeance, like blood, has a way of finding new vessels.