The night screamed beneath the toll of bronze bells.
Above the kingdom of Aeloria, the moon had turned crimson—not just red, but alive, pulsing like a beating heart. Every shimmer of its light whispered of blood, fate, and forgotten sins.
Priests knelt in terror. Queens wept in silence.
But destiny never bends to prayers or crowns.
At the center of the Palace of Vermilion, six golden thrones formed a perfect circle around a crystal basin filled with blood. It wasn't human blood—it shimmered, alive, whispering words no mortal tongue could repeat.
That was the Sangéon—the primal essence of royal blood, the divine flame gifted by the God of Blood himself.
Tonight, the six royal houses of Aeloria had gathered for one purpose:
to renew the ancient pact.
But as the prophecy warned—only one house would leave this chamber alive.
---
The first to speak was Kael Valdrae, Lord of the Crimson Sky. His silver eyes glimmered like molten steel as his voice echoed through the hall.
> "The Sangéon has lost its purity," he declared. "Mortals feast on power like beasts. The moon bleeds because we have forgotten restraint. It is time we seal the flame before it devours us all."
Across from him, Queen Elyra Elynora, wrapped in white and gold, raised her hands in calm defiance.
> "You speak of fear, Kael. Yet blood is life itself. You do not seal life—you preserve it. The Sangéon healed our lands for centuries. Without it, Aeloria will crumble into dust."
The council trembled when Lord Draeven, a mountain of muscle and scarred tattoos, slammed his fist onto the stone table. The marble cracked under his raw strength.
> "Peace? While our enemies breed like locusts and the North marches south?!" he roared. "You think words will stop the storm? Without the Sangéon, we are weak!"
A soft, chilling laugh echoed through the chamber.
In the shadowed corner sat Duchess Morcara, the mistress of the Black Alchemy. Her gloves gleamed as she spun a small vial between her fingers.
> "Still so predictable, Draeven. Forever drunk on your own bloodlust."
She uncorked the vial, and a thin ribbon of green mist slithered into the air.
"The Sangéon was never a gift. It's an infection—a divine poison that eats us from within."
> "And yet," purred Queen Rheona Rheonis, her golden hair flickering like a living flame, "without that poison, you'd still be rotting in your mortal flesh."
Her eyes glowed with sacred fire.
"The God of Blood chose us to carry His flame, not to fear it. If this world must burn, then let our ashes become its inheritance."
The air thickened. Magic rippled in the air like heat.
And then, silence fell—when the woman seated at the center finally spoke.
Queen Valeria Vareth, sovereign of the True Bloodline, laid her pale hand upon the basin. The Sangéon stirred, swirling toward her touch like a living tide.
Her eyes, calm yet endless, swept over the others.
> "We have forgotten why this power was given to us," she whispered.
"The Sangéon is neither gift nor curse. It is a vow. And we… have broken it."
Her words carried the weight of centuries.
> "The Sangéon does not forgive betrayal. It demands payment."
---
The crimson light flared—blinding, searing, alive.
Winds howled through the palace halls, blowing out every candle.
Priests screamed and fell to their knees as the blood began to burn.
The Sangéon ignited.
Flames erupted from the basin—six tongues of red fire leaping toward their chosen bearers.
But instead of merging, they collided—fighting, clawing, devouring each other.
The ground quaked beneath the fury of the divine flame.
And that night, the War of the Red Dawn began.
---
The chronicles say it lasted a hundred years.
The rivers turned to blood, the skies to ash.
Children were born with crimson eyes, cursed by the sins of their forebears.
Each royal house sought to claim the Sangéon for itself, believing it alone could purify the flame.
But the more they wielded it, the more it consumed them.
The Draeven forged abominations of flesh and bone.
The Morcar brewed poisons that could melt through armor and soul alike.
The Rheonis scorched entire cities in the name of holy fire.
The Valdrae made the heavens bleed with storms of crimson lightning.
The Elynora, desperate to heal the cursed, took the pain of others into themselves—until madness claimed their minds.
And the Vareth, the last to stand for balance, were betrayed… and slaughtered.
When all hope was lost, Queen Valeria Vareth sealed the Sangéon inside the heart of her newborn daughter—an infant with eyes as red as the moon.
Then she walked into the flames of her dying palace, leaving only a vow behind:
> "The royal blood shall return… and the world will kneel once more."
---
Centuries Later.
They still tell the story in taverns and temples.
But no one truly believes it anymore.
To most, the Sangéon is just a myth—an old curse whispered to scare children.
The nobles wear their family sigils like jewelry, but their blood has long been diluted by time and cowardice.
Magic has faded. The world has grown quiet.
And yet… the crimson moon still rises.
---
A storm swept across the ruins of Vermilion City.
Rain fell like needles, slicing through fog and memory.
Through the shattered gates walked a lone figure—a young woman, cloak torn, hair black as midnight, her boots striking echoes against the broken stones.
Lightning flashed, revealing what lay before her: the Ruined Altar, cracked and forgotten, upon which rested a single shard of crimson crystal.
It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
The woman approached.
Her breath trembled. Her hand reached out.
When her fingertips touched the crystal, it answered.
The pulse quickened. The air thickened.
And then—she heard it.
A voice, ancient and melodic, echoed in her mind.
> "Welcome, child of lost blood… the vow awaits you."
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, her irises had turned crimson.
The earth shuddered beneath her feet.
Every drop of blood in her body sang.
> "My name," she whispered, her voice barely audible through the storm,
"is Seraphina Vareth. And I have come to reclaim what is ours."
The crystal burst into flame. The Sangéon awakened, wrapping around her body in ribbons of burning red.
Symbols—old as the first gods—etched themselves into her skin.
From the smoke, six spectral figures emerged—Kael Valdrae, Elyra Elynora, Morcara, Rheona, Draeven… and at their center, Queen Valeria herself.
> "You are our heir," Valeria's spirit said.
"Our vow was broken. But through you… the Sangéon shall live again."
Seraphina lifted her gaze to the storm, eyes blazing like molten ruby.
> "Then I will rebuild our throne," she vowed. "Even if the world must drown in blood."
Thunder roared. The ruins lit up crimson.
Glass shattered as wind and magic surged together.
And far across Aeloria, the descendants of the fallen houses felt it—
a tremor deep in their veins.
The Sangéon had awakened once more.
And history itself began to bleed....