The snow fell red that night.
It wasn't blood at first—just moonlight glinting off the iron roofs of the Virel stronghold, a fortress hidden deep in the Cradle mountains. The wind whistled through the hollow bridges, carrying the metallic smell of the forges. Sparks drifted from chimneys like small stars. The entire valley pulsed faintly, as if the mountain itself had a heartbeat.
Kael Draven, barely six years old, sat cross-legged beside the forge pit where his father was hammering a blade that hummed when struck.
"Again," his father said, voice low. "Listen to it."
Kael leaned close. When the hammer hit, he felt the vibration run up his bones and settle behind his sternum.
"It sounds like… breathing," he whispered.
His father smiled, sweat sliding down the dark lines that ran across his chest—the Ecliptic Lines of the Virel bloodline. They glowed faintly beneath skin toughened by years of heat and war.
"Everything that lives has rhythm," his father said. "Even steel. If you can hear it, you can bend it."
Kael nodded, the lesson sinking in not as words but as feeling—the quiet, patient power that came from rhythm and heat and pain. The forge light painted his father's scars crimson.
Then the mountain roared.
At first it was distant—an echo like thunder trapped underground. Kael looked toward the mouth of the valley. Flashes of orange light rippled through the snowstorm. The alarms began a heartbeat later: low, throbbing horns that made the forge flames shiver.
His father froze mid-swing. The hammer slipped from his hand.
"Kael," he said quietly, "get your mother."
Before Kael could move, the front gates erupted in white fire. A shockwave slammed through the hall, hurling him backward into the stone wall. Molten dust rained from the ceiling. The forge dimmed, snuffed out.
Outside, men screamed.
His father's voice was suddenly different—commanding, cold. "They've come. The Empire—go!"
Kael's mother appeared from the corridor, hair unbound, hands slick with blood. "They're already inside the lower halls. The Oathbound carry their banners."
The name made Kael's stomach twist. The Oathbound were imperial knights—men whose Ecliptic Lines were burned into obedience by holy seals. They were executioners for the Ardent Empire, and they were never supposed to cross the mountain border.
"Impossible," his father muttered. "The accords—"
Another blast silenced him. The wall facing the courtyard cracked open like an eggshell, showering them with debris. Through the hole, Kael saw soldiers in gold armor pouring through smoke, blades trailing white vapor. Their eyes shone with faint light—Breath synchronization, a trick taught by imperial priests.
The first wave hit the courtyard like an avalanche. The Virel guards met them head-on, bare-chested, Ecliptic Lines burning red through frost and flesh. For a heartbeat, Kael thought they would hold. Then he saw the resonance cannons—massive metal tubes dragged by the Oathbound.
When they fired, the sound tore the night apart.
Kael's father pushed him toward the back tunnel. "Go with your mother. Run down the echo path—follow the red lights. Don't stop for anyone."
"But—"
"Go!"
Kael turned, trembling, as his father drew the glowing blade from the forge—unfinished, still steaming. For the first time, Kael saw the same red Lines crawl up his father's arm and into the sword's steel. The metal sang. Then his father leapt into the smoke.
The corridor trembled. Kael stumbled down the steps, his mother gripping his wrist hard enough to bruise.
The air grew thick with dust and screams. The glow of the family sigils along the walls flickered—each mark a Line carved generations ago, now dying as the defenders fell.
"Why are they here?" Kael cried. "We didn't do anything!"
His mother didn't answer. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. She limped—blood seeped from under her tunic.
They reached the Lower Sanctum, a circular chamber carved from obsidian, walls pulsing faintly with red veins. In the center stood the Ecliptic Forge, the heart of their lineage. A pool of molten metal stirred as if alive.
"Stay behind me," she whispered.
Kael peered past her and saw the door to the tunnel begin to glow white-hot—someone cutting through with a heated blade. The air filled with the shriek of metal.
His mother closed her eyes. The scars on her neck flared red. Thin lines of light crawled down her arms and into her palms.
"Cover your ears."
The door burst inward.
The first Oathbound stepped through, gold armor gleaming, sword dripping. "By decree of the Empire," he intoned, "House Virel is condemned for treason against the Divine Order."
Kael's mother moved.
The air cracked like thunder. She slammed her hands together, sending a pulse that rippled across the floor. The molten pool exploded upward in a column of light. The soldiers staggered, armor warping.
She screamed—a sound so sharp it felt like it cut reality.
Kael saw the Lines on her body flare brighter than he'd ever seen. Then her knees buckled.
More soldiers poured in. A spear struck her shoulder; she barely reacted. She twisted the weapon aside and burned the attacker alive with a touch.
But there were too many.
"Kael," she said softly, without turning. "The forge."
He looked back. The molten metal was solidifying, turning dark red, veins of light crawling across its surface like roots. The air around it pulsed—slow, steady, like a heartbeat.
"Put your hand on it."
He hesitated. "It'll burn—"
"Do it!"
He pressed his small palm against the surface.
Agony.
It wasn't heat—it was vibration, a sound that pierced through skin, bone, and thought. He heard whispers—hundreds of them—like memories speaking in languages he didn't know. The lines of light raced from the forge up his arm, carving themselves into his flesh.
He screamed. The noise blended with his mother's voice and the clash of blades.
When he opened his eyes, the room was a blur of light and shadow. His mother was on her knees, smiling through blood.
"Run," she mouthed.
The world shattered in a roar.
White flame consumed everything.
Kael woke to silence.
The air was heavy with ash. He was outside, lying on a slope of blackened snow. The stronghold below was gone—a crater of smoke and faintly glowing embers. Bodies lay twisted along the hillside, steam rising from them.
His left arm hurt. When he looked, he saw faint red lines under his skin—pulsing in rhythm with his heart.
He touched them, and they pulsed brighter.
Somewhere down the slope, he heard voices—Imperial soldiers searching through rubble. The words drifted up through the haze:
"…the boy's body wasn't found."
"Orders are to confirm. No witnesses."
Kael crawled into the hollow of a burned tree, pressing his hand over his glowing arm. The light dimmed, but he couldn't stop trembling.
He remembered his father's words: Everything that lives has rhythm.
The world still beat. His heart still beat.
So he whispered to himself, through tears and grit teeth:
"I'll remember."
The snow began to fall again—gray this time, soft, endless.Below, the mountain burned like a dying forge.