The air in the Grand Athenaeum of Aethelgard was thick with the dust of ages and the silent hum of latent power. Kaelen ran his fingers over the spine of a leather-bound tome, its title long since faded into obscurity. At twenty-five, with hair the colour of wheat and eyes that held the keen light of intellectual curiosity, he was the youngest Archivist the Order of the Scribing Quill had ever produced. But titles meant little when the world outside was dimming.
For a century, a creeping blight known as the Grey Silence had been draining the world of magic. Forests that once sang with sylvan spirits now stood mute. Rivers that glittered with naiad blessings flowed dull and cold. The Mages of Aethelgard, once mighty, were now little more than scholars of a dying art.
Kaelen's quest was desperate: to find the Starfall Catalyst, a mythical artifact said to be able to reignite the world's magical core. His research had led him here, to this forgotten corner of the Athenaeum.
"Fool's errand, boy," old Master Theron had wheezed. "The Catalyst is a children's story."
But Kaelen believed. He had to. Pushing aside a precarious stack of scrolls, his hand brushed against a cold, smooth surface hidden behind them. It was a small, ornate chest made of obsidian, untouched by dust. His heart hammered against his ribs. This was not logged in any inventory.
With a whispered unlocking charm—a simple spell that barely flickered at his fingertips—the lid clicked open. Inside, nestled on black velvet, was not a crystal or a staff, but a single, flawless crimson ruby, the size of a quail's egg. It pulsed with a deep, inner light, and as Kaelen reached for it, the air grew cold.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness of the vaulted ceiling, landing without a sound. The figure was tall, clad in elegant black, his movements possessing a predator's grace. His face was pale and devastatingly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that glowed like embers in the gloom.
"I would not touch that if I valued the blood in your veins," the stranger said, his voice a silken baritone that seemed to vibrate in Kaelen's very bones.
Kaelen snatched his hand back, his own meager magic flaring defensively around his fingers in a faint, silver aura. "Who are you? This is a restricted area."
A faint, mocking smile touched the stranger's lips. "I am Lysander. And that," he said, pointing a long, pale finger at the ruby, "is the Heart of my House. It has been… misplaced for a very long time. I have come to reclaim it."
Kaelen's mind raced. A creature of the night, claiming a magical artifact. A Vampire. He had only read of them in bestiaries, creatures who had withdrawn from the world as magic faded. "This is a relic of the Order. It stays."
Lysander's smile vanished. "Your 'Order' is a flickering candle in a storm. You have no idea what you guard, Mage. That stone does not contain magic. It consumes it. It is a Void Stone. And its hunger is insatiable."
Before Kaelen could respond, the library doors burst open. Master Theron stood there, his face ashen, not with fear of the vampire, but with rage directed at Kaelen.
"Fool!" Theron spat. "You have unleashed it! The wards are breaking!"
Kaelen looked from the old master's terrified face to the cold, composed features of the vampire. He had a choice: trust the monster he knew, or the mentor who had just betrayed him. With a surge of resolve, he grabbed the obsidian chest, slammed the lid shut, and met Lysander's burning gaze.
"If you want it," Kaelen said, his voice trembling but clear, "you'll have to take me with it."