The transition was not a movement; it was a shattering.
One moment, Jake was screaming into the dusty floor of a cellar, his cells being rewritten by an ancient, hungry ink. The next, the smell of damp earth and rot was replaced by a sharp, metallic ozone that tasted like a copper coin on his tongue. The heavy silence of the manor vanished, replaced by a low, rhythmic thrum—the sound of something massive beating against the air.
Jake's eyes snapped open, but his vision was a blurred mess of gold and shadow. He felt a terrifying sense of weightlessness, followed by the realization that he was being held. A strong, unyielding arm was hooked under his chest, and his body was draped over a shoulder that felt like solid marble.
"I would strongly advise against struggling, Mr. Vane," a voice remarked. It was a voice of pure ice and polished silver—calm, cultured, and utterly devoid of warmth. "The gravitational currents of the Great Void are quite unforgiving to those of your... fragile composition."
Jake's vision cleared, and he gasped. He was suspended miles above a world that shouldn't exist. Below them, a landscape of crystalline spires and floating islands was partially obscured by a swirling sea of metallic mists. Great ribbons of liquid gold, shimmering silver, and deep, burnished bronze churned through the sky like a slow-motion storm. The light didn't come from a sun; it seemed to radiate from the planet itself, a bioluminescent pulse that made the very air hum.
He looked up at the man carrying him. He was a vision of haunting, high-class perfection. The man wore a charcoal-grey suit, the fabric so dark it seemed to absorb the light. His white gloves were pristine, and his dark hair was slicked back with a precision that bordered on the supernatural. But it was his wings that stole Jake's breath—four obsidian wings, sharp and polished as volcanic glass, cutting through the heavy, golden atmosphere with terrifying efficiency.
"Who... who are you?" Jake croaked. His voice sounded different—clearer, higher, and vibrating with a resonance he didn't recognize.
"I am Lucifero," the man replied, his gaze fixed on a shimmering point on the horizon. "I have been tasked with your transit. Nothing more, nothing less. Your presence was detected the moment you made contact with the Relic. It fell upon me to ensure you arrived before the Council without being shredded by the atmospheric pressure."
"The Council?" Jake's mind was racing. "What Relic? I just found a book in a basement."
"A 'book' to you. A cataclysmic signal to us," Lucifero said, his tone as sharp as his wings. "Do try to remain still. We are arriving."
Lucifero banked sharply, his obsidian wings locking into place. They dived through a cloud of bronze mist, the heat rising as they approached a massive floating island carved from a single block of white marble. They landed with a silent, practiced grace in a courtyard dominated by a set of towering golden doors.
Lucifero set Jake on his feet. The moment his toes touched the marble, Jake's knees buckled. His clothes—the tattered rags he'd worn in the manor—felt like a heavy, oversized shroud. They hung off his frame, the waist of his jeans now several inches too wide.
Lucifero adjusted his own cuffs, ignoring Jake's struggle. He stood with a stiff, formal posture, looking down at Jake with a cold, professional curiosity.
The golden doors groaned open, and a new figure stepped out. He was clad in deep purple robes that flowed like liquid as he walked. From his back sprouted a pair of vibrant, emerald-green wings that shimmered like polished jade in the golden light. His brown hair shifted in the breeze as he approached.
"He's here," the man in purple said, his voice echoing. He looked at Jake, then at Lucifero. "The signal hasn't been this strong in three centuries."
"He is yours now," Lucifero stated, giving a single, polite nod of acknowledgment. Without another word, he took to the sky, his four wings cutting through the mist as he vanished back into the gold.
"Follow," the man in purple commanded, gesturing toward the interior of the palace.
Jake followed, his footsteps echoing on the gold-veined marble floors. The hallways were lined with statues of figures with massive wings, their eyes made of glowing gemstones. The air in here felt dense with power—so thick it was hard to breathe.
They reached a second set of doors, smaller but more ornate. "The Elders have been in session since the Book was triggered," the guide whispered. "Speak only when spoken to."
The doors swung inward. Jake stepped into a vast, circular hall. Five thrones sat in a high semi-circle, elevated above a central dais. Three men and two women sat there—the Elders. Their skin had a pearlescent sheen, and their eyes held the stillness of ancient statues.
"The signal was true," a woman in the center whispered, her voice like the chime of a silver bell. "A Vane has touched the Book of the Primordial King."
Jake stepped into the center of the hall, his heart hammering against a ribcage that felt too tight. "What is this place? Why did you bring me here?"
"You are on Pasus," the oldest man on the left replied. "And you have been claimed. When your blood met the ink of the King's book, a bridge was built across the Void. We did not expect a human to survive the inheritance."
"Inheritance?" Jake asked.
"The blood of the Primordial King has lay dormant in your world for generations," the woman explained. "You have inherited one-quarter of his primordial strength. But such a gift is not a charity. It is a biological overhaul. The power demanded a toll to bridge the gap between your world and ours."
She flicked a hand, and a pool of liquid silver rose from the marble floor, smoothing into a perfect, vertical mirror. "Behold the cost of your new life."
Jake stepped toward the mirror, his breath hitching.
The twenty-three-year-old failure—the man with the sunken eyes and the tired soul—was gone. In the reflection stood a youth of seventeen. His messy, ash-brown hair had transformed into a deep, shimmering obsidian black that fell over his brow in sharp, dangerous layers. His face was sculpted with a razor-sharp jawline, and his eyes burned with a cold, piercing clarity he had never possessed. He looked like a masterpiece of a warrior, lean and honed to a fine edge.
"The power consumed six years of your life to forge a body capable of holding the King's soul," the Elder explained. "You are at your physical peak. You are the Heir."
Jake touched his new, sharp face, his fingers trembling. He was seventeen again, but he felt older than he ever had.
"But I don't have wings," Jake said, looking at his bare back.
"They are dormant," the woman noted. "To the society, you will appear as a 'Natural'—a student with no visible gift. You will go to the Academy. You will learn to draw out the power you've inherited before the world realizes their Heir is currently defenseless."
"I don't even know how to fight!" Jake shouted.
"Then you will learn to survive," the first Elder declared.
The floor beneath Jake didn't just fade; it turned to liquid gold. He began to sink, the pressure of Pasus's atmosphere crushing his lungs once more. As the golden liquid rose past his chin, the last thing he saw was the Elders' cold, expectant gazes.
"Why me?" he gasped.
The gold swallowed him whole, and Jake Vane plummeted into a dark abyss, heading toward a school where being "wingless" was a death sentence.