Family time was sacred to Darian. Nothing warmed his heart more than sneaking up behind Serenya in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around her waist, and pressing soft kisses along her neckline as she prepared breakfast. Serenya would bask in the affection, smiling at his familiar touch.
The tender moment was broken by the sound of light footsteps. Azariel, still in his pyjama's, padded into the kitchen, giggling at the sight. "Mama why is Dad always kissing you?" he asked, his innocent laughter filling the room.
Darian turned with a grin, scooping his son up into his arms and peppering him with kisses and playful tickles. "Because I kiss the people I love, my boy, just like you." Azariel laughed so hard his belly shook, the sound of joy weaving through the kitchen like sunlight.
But the warmth fractured the moment the air shifted. Without warning, Aldrian and Ysmera appeared at the doorway. Startled, Darian stiffened, still holding Azariel in his arms. His voice carried more bite than humour as he snapped, "Don't you two ever use the door? Or knocking, like normal people?"
Azariel wriggled free, running to embrace his grandfather. "Grandpa!" he cried, wrapping his little arms around Aldrian's leg. Serenya moved quickly, embracing Ysmera. "Welcome, Mother. You came just in time for breakfast."
Darian exhaled sharply, setting plates on the table with just enough force to betray his irritation. "We really are surprised and happy to have you here," he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "But I suppose this isn't a social visit, is it? You're here for my child."
The room thickened with silence. Serenya broke it gently, her voice soft. "Come, everyone, sit down. Let's eat together."
They gathered at the table. Aldrian bowed his head slightly, his tone calm, measured. "The day is approaching quickly. We thought it would be easier if we were closer… to help." He dug into his breakfast, but the tension remained like a fog, every clink of fork against plate sharpening the silence. Azariel, oblivious to the tension that had weighed on the family moments earlier, brightened the room with his chatter. His little voice rang like bells, unburdened and pure. "Grandma, today my friends Liv, Ty, and James are coming over to swim!" His eyes sparkled with excitement as he hopped on the spot, unable to contain his energy.
Later that afternoon, the garden was alive with noise. The pool shimmered under the sun, its crystal surface broken by splashes and waves of laughter. Azariel dove in with a triumphant yell, followed closely by Ty, who cannonballed with such force that Ysmera, seated under a parasol, covered her face with a playful gasp. Liv, graceful and competitive, challenged the boys to a race across the pool, while James, always the mischief-maker, waited until they reached the middle before pulling them under with shrieks of protest.
The air was thick with joy. Laughter echoed against the stone walls of the courtyard, mixing with the playful screams of children at their happiest. Serenya clapped her hands in encouragement as Azariel's head popped up, hair slicked to his forehead, shouting, "I won! I won!" Even when he lost, he declared victory, and his friends were too fond of him to argue.
Aldrian chuckled at their antics, though he carried his dignity like a mantle. At one point, James attempted a backflip into the pool, only to land belly-first with a smack that sent everyone into uncontrollable laughter. Even Aldrian's stoic lips curved upward, though his eyes never left his grandson.
And yet, amid the delight, Darian sat apart. He lounged in a deck chair by the poolside, sunglasses hiding his tired eyes, a half-finished drink in hand. He watched the children silently, the corners of his mouth twitching at times—almost a smile when Azariel burst into laughter, almost pride when his son swam the fastest—but the shadows in his gaze lingered.
Then, in an instant, the laughter turned to screams. Ty, the youngest of the group, had swum too far into the deep end. His playful kicks faltered, panic rising as he flailed, his small body slipping beneath the surface.
"Ty!" Liv screamed, her voice cutting through the air.
The children froze in fear, wide-eyed and helpless. Serenya jumped to her feet, heart leaping into her throat, but before she could dive in, the atmosphere shifted. The air thickened with a holy weight.
Ysmera rose from her chair, her movements deliberate, her face calm yet fierce. With every step she took, the water rippled—not sinking her but holding her. Gasps erupted as she walked across the surface as though it were solid ground, the sunlight catching on her white robes and silver hair, giving her an otherworldly glow.
She reached the drowning boy just as his head dipped beneath the surface. With one effortless sweep, she bent down, her hand glowing faintly, and pulled Ty up from the depths. He sputtered and coughed, clinging to her, but his small frame was safe in her arms.
The poolside fell silent. The children stared with mouths agape, their laughter gone, replaced by awe. Even Azariel, usually so full of mischief, was struck speechless. His wide eyes followed his grandmother as she walked back across the water, unhurried, carrying Ty as though he weighed nothing.
Setting him gently on the pool's edge, Ysmera brushed his wet hair from his face, her voice soft but commanding. "Do not fear, little one. You are safe."
The children burst into relieved cries and cheers, swarming Ty with hugs. Liv clapped excitedly, James stammered about how "cool" it was, and Azariel eyes shining ran up to his grandmother. "Grandma… you walked on the water! Like it was the ground!"
Ysmera simply smiled, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Power, my sweet one, is not for boasting. It is for protecting."
The moment hung heavy in their hearts, a memory none of them would ever forget. For the children, it was awe and amazement. For Darian, still seated in his chair, it was another bitter reminder that his parents held the kind of power he never could.
His chair scraped loudly as he stood, abandoning the table without a word. Moments later, the roar of an engine and screech of tires echoed from outside.
Hours later, the front door banged open. Darian staggered in, reeking of liquor. His steps were unsteady, but his voice was loud and sharp.
"Must you be drunk on such a sacred day?" Ysmera asked, disgust curling her tone.
"Sacred for who, Mother?" Darian slurred, glaring at her.
"Please, love," Serenya pleaded softly, taking his hand. "Lower your voice when speaking to your parents. We both knew this day would come. It must happen."
Darian's lip curled. "You...always the mediator. Always so supportive, pretending you understand. But you know nothing." His finger jabbed hard against her chest.
"Do not poke your wife like that," Aldrian said, his voice stern, calm, but carrying the weight of command.
Darian turned on him, puffing out his chest. "Or what, Dad? Hmm? What are you going to do?" His words were venom, dripping with years of resentment.
"Darian, please," Serenya begged, her voice breaking.
"I'm sick of this!" Darian shouted. "All this talk about destiny, about prophecy, about my son! I'm his father, but in this family, I mean nothing. Disregarded. Cast aside. Everything is about Azariel!"
"Get out of my face, Darian," Aldrian said, his tone darkening.
Darian sneered. "Who the hell do you think you are to..."
He didn't finish. With terrifying swiftness, Aldrian grabbed him by the collar and hurled him across the room. Darian hit the floor hard but scrambled back up, rage blazing in his eyes. He lunged, but Aldrian caught him again, lifting him like he weighed nothing.
"Stop! Please!" Serenya cried, rushing forward. "Father, put him down, Azariel will walk in at any moment!"
Ysmera remained silent, watching the clash of father and son with sorrow in her eyes.
Finally, Aldrian released him, dropping him roughly to the ground. Darian gasped for air, clutching his side, but his glare burned with fury as if the real war had just begun. When tempers finally cooled and the house sat in heavy silence, Ysmera was the first to speak. Her voice was steady but carried the weight of centuries.
"Tonight is the equinox," she said quietly. " Serenya please bring him as its almost midnight, the relinquishing must take place. The power will move as it is destined. All we must do is be in position including Azariel."
The words settled like iron across the table, no one daring to break the gravity of what lay ahead.
Meanwhile, in the depths of the underworld, dinner was being served in the house of Obrathis.
Obrathis treasured these evenings, though "treasured" meant something twisted in his world. For him, dinner was not about love or family, but it was about power, control, and keeping his daughters close to his dark heart.
The dining hall was vast and opulent, carved from black marble that reflected the flicker of infernal firelight. Tall pillars twisted like serpents climbed to a vaulted ceiling where chandeliers of blood-red crystal hung low, dripping with molten light. A long obsidian table stretched the length of the room, each high-backed chair marked with the name of one of his twelve daughters, etched in silver.
The daughters of Obrathis entered like royalty, draped in silks and jewels stolen from every corner of the earth. To the world of mortals, they were glamorous entrepreneurs, philanthropists, and business magnates. Together, they ran a sprawling empire of corporation's banks, media networks, entertainment conglomerates, fashion empires, pharmaceutical chains—all outwardly polished, yet inwardly corrupt.
Their wealth was staggering, their influence global. Through their companies they seeded greed, division, and addiction, ensnaring millions in subtle chains advertisements that fuelled vanity and envy, drugs that clouded minds, media that distorted truth and glorified violence. Behind every bright logo and smiling billboard was the invisible mark of Obrathis.
To outsiders, they appeared as a dynasty of powerful women who had risen to reshape the modern world. But at the family table, their masks dropped. They were not CEOs and celebrities here, they were predators, hungry and loyal only to their father.
Obrathis himself sat at the head of the table, his throne-like chair raised slightly higher than the rest, carved with symbols of fire and shadow. His eyes, burning coals beneath a crown of black iron, swept across his daughters with pride and suspicion in equal measure. Dinner was less a meal and more a council of war, where victories were recounted and failures dissected.
And tonight, the topic was singular...the child.
Serenya descended the staircase slowly, cradling Azariel in her arms. The boy had already drifted into sleep, his small chest rising and falling against her shoulder. But the peace of his rest was fragile, surrounded by the storm of destiny.
At the foot of the stairs, Darian staggered toward her, the smell of wine still clinging to him. His eyes were heavy yet softened as he stretched out his arms. "Please," he said with a crooked smile, "let me hold him."
Serenya shifted her grip protectively. "I will hold him," she answered in a voice that was calm but firm. She saw the tremor in Darian's hands, the weight of his anger and doubt.
But then Darian's expression changed. A flicker of sincerity passed across his face as he met her eyes. "Trust me, mama. I won't drop him," he whispered. "You're going to need me for this process. He's my son too." His words wavered between plea and demand, his pride clashing with his love.
Serenya hesitated, but something in his gaze broken, desperate and stayed her refusal. She leaned closer, whispering, "Then stand beside me, Darian. But remember, this night is not ours alone."
Aldrian was already seated in a single, high-backed chair at the far end of the room. His presence was commanding yet weary, like a king who bore too many battles on his shoulders. Across from him, on the opposite side, a smaller cushioned seat had been prepared for Azariel. Serenya lowered her son gently into it, brushing his hair with trembling fingers before stepping back.
The room fell silent. Ysmera stood with her hands folded, her eyes glistening with the solemnity of the moment. Serenya clutched Darian's hand, though he shifted restlessly, torn between anger and fear.
Aldrian removed the thick black neck ring that had hung around his neck for decades. The rubber cord snapped free, revealing the dull glow of ancient runes carved into the band. Placing it on his lap, he rested both hands on the armrests of the chair.
A hush deeper than silence swept through the house. Then Aldrian's body jerked violently. His chest heaved, his face twisted, and he trembled as though struck by invisible lightning. Serenya gasped and Darian instinctively moved forward, but Ysmera raised a hand to hold him back. "Do not interfere," she whispered.
Aldrian's convulsions grew wilder. His head rolled back, his breath came in ragged bursts, and then suddenly...he went still. His arms hung lifeless at his sides.
And then, without warning, his right arm moved again—slowly, unnaturally, as though guided by a power not his own. It stretched forward, palm out, toward the child across the room.
At once, rings of fire burst into existence, spiraling out from Aldrian's hand and the runes of the necklace. They spun with terrifying speed, growing brighter as they leapt through the air, encircling Azariel.
The flames touched the boy's small feet first, curling upward like serpents of light. Azariel awoke startled, his cry piercing the room. He tried to wriggle away, tiny hands pushing against the unseen force, but the power held him fast.
"No!" Darian shouted, trying to move forward, but Serenya gripped his arm tightly. Tears streaked her cheeks, yet her voice was steady. "This is the way, you know it must be done!"
Azariel's cries grew louder as the rings of fire climbed, swirling around his body, enveloping him in light and shadow. The prophecy was no longer words it was alive, burning itself into the very blood of the boy but his body was not on fire.
And in that moment, every soul in the room understood that there was no turning back.
Far away, in the highest wing of the palatial Obrathis estate, the night itself seemed to stir. The marble walls of the chamber quivered faintly, as if echoing with a heartbeat not their own. Outside, the sprawling gardens lined with fountains that spilled liquid silver and statues carved in the likeness of forgotten gods fell silent. Even the wind dared not move.
Obrathis sat at the head of a long table, its surface gleaming beneath the light of a chandelier fashioned entirely from black diamonds. His daughters were with him, all twelve of them, dressed in silks that shimmered like oil on water. Each bore the elegance of royalty, but with eyes sharp as blades and smiles that concealed daggers.
Dinner had just been served, though for Obrathis, mealtime was never about food. It was about power. Gold-plated dishes steamed with delicacies flown in from across the globe exotic meats, rare fruits preserved in crystal jars, and wines older than nations. Their forks were crafted from enchanted silver, and every goblet brimmed with a vintage whose taste could corrupt a man's soul with a single sip.
He treasured these moments. Around this table, he was not the public philanthropist, the magnate adored for his empire of businesses stretching from Wall Street to the darkest alleys of Europe. Here, he was master of his true family...a dynasty that thrived in shadows, feeding corruption like a farmer water his crops.
The daughters leaned in as their father spoke of acquisitions and subtle manipulations. "Our investment branches in Asia have secured another foothold in government contracts," Obrathis said with a satisfied smile, his voice rolling like thunder across the hall. "Within months, their laws will bend as easily as reeds before the storm."
Veythara, toyed with her knife, her smile cruel. "And the hospitals we've purchased in South America? Their patients will never know that every cure they buy feeds their chains a little tighter."
Another, Lazkira with eyes like pools of ice, added, "The schools in Europe are already teaching the doctrines you ordered, Father. Soon, their children will belong to us before they even know what freedom means."
Obrathis reclined in his throne-like chair, pride swelling in his chest. His daughters were not only beautiful but brilliant, loyal, and ruthless. Together, they were the architects of a new world—a world where every government, every family, every soul would dance to their tune.
But then it came.
The chandelier flickered, though no wind stirred. The dishes rattled on the table as a pulse of energy rippled through the chamber, powerful enough to silence every voice. Obrathis's wine sloshed in his goblet, staining the rim with crimson.
The daughters froze. Their eyes widened, not in fear, but in recognition.
Obrathis gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. "So," he whispered, his voice low and reverent, "the ritual has begun."
The daughters exchanged glances, their smiles mirroring his. Veythara let out a delighted laugh, sharp as breaking glass. Dravakiel lips curved into something colder, more dangerous.
They felt it, the surge of power, raw and unrestrained, tearing through the night like a storm unleashed. It was not only heard or seen but tasted, like iron and fire on the tongue.
Obrathis rose from his chair, towering above them, his cloak brushing the floor like the wings of a great beast. "At last," he declared, raising his goblet high. "The child awakens. The prophecy bends to us."
The daughters followed suit, raising their glasses in unison, their voices echoing as one, "To Azariel...the beginning of the end."
The chamber trembled once more, as if the world itself acknowledged their toast.