It was late in the evening, and the sun had nearly set. Many of the houses along the cobblestone street were starting to light their lamps, casting a warm, flickering glow over the quieting neighborhood. Vendors were packing their remaining goods, and workers, tired but relieved, were heading home. Evan walked beside his mother, Avelia, his small hand tucked securely in hers. Due to his stature, his pace was naturally slow, and Avelia matched it without complaint, enjoying the calm end to the day.
It was a very peaceful time, and it would have remained so if not for Evan's habit of wandering eyes—and their unfortunate tendency to find the most inconspicuous of troubles.
For some reason, Evan's eyesight was exceptionally sharp. Lyria had once mused that it might be because he retained the memories of his previous life, and his body was straining to adapt to the soul within, leading to some of his senses heightening beyond the normal standard. And it was this very sight that now caught a flicker of movement in a shadowed alleyway beside the main road.
A person, their face hidden beneath a deep hood, was leading a small girl by the hand, pulling her deeper into the narrow passage. Evan recognized the girl instantly—she was one of the new four-year-olds at the daycare. Since his parents often picked him up later than the other children, Evan had grown accustomed to watching his peers leave, memorizing the faces of their parents and relatives. He had seen this girl's mother and father many times.
And this person matched neither of them.
What's more, a faint, malevolent red aura clung to the man's form. And it screamed danger no matter how he looked at it.
A cold knot tightened in Evan's chest. His first instinct was to tug on his mother's sleeve, to point and shout for help. But the red aura changed everything. This wasn't just a simple kidnapper; this was someone involved with the supernatural. Giving him even a moment to think or react could be a fatal mistake. Before reason could fully form, Evan let go of his mother's hand and darted into the alley.
Avelia, who had been walking happily, was suddenly shocked when her hand was let go. It took her a heartbeat to process the empty space where her son's hand had been. "Evan!" she shouted, her voice sharp with alarm, and broke into a run after him. The few people still on the street turned at the commotion and began to gather toward them.
Evan closed the distance quickly. "Excuse me!" he called out, his voice high and clear in the confined space.
The hooded man tensed and glanced back. His immediate choice should have been to flee with his prize, but the sound of a child's voice made him hesitate, his guard lowering for a critical second.
That was all the opening Evan needed. Knowing his six-year-old body lacked strength, he resorted to the most universally effective—and forbidden—technique known to be useful against all men. He drove his small foot upward with all his might, landing a precise and devastating critical hit.
A choked gasp escaped the man. He released the girl's hand, both of his own flying down to protect himself. Evan quickly grabbed the now-confused girl's hand, trying to pull her back toward the street. But pain had sharpened the man's reflexes. As Evan turned, a hand shot out and clamped onto the back of his shirt, yanking him to a halt.
The man's focus, however, was entirely on the infuriating child. In the gloom of the alley, he failed to notice the silhouette charging toward him from behind.
All Avelia saw as she neared the area was a strange, looming figure gripping her son and trying to drag him away. A primal fury, honed by years of hard work as a baker hauling sacks of flour and trays of bread, surged through her. Without a second thought, she threw a punch.
"Let my son go!"
Her fist connected with the man's jaw with a solid crack. He reeled, his grip on Evan breaking as he stumbled and fell hard onto the cobblestones.
Avelia immediately pulled Evan to her, her hands frantically checking him for injury. "Are you hurt? Are you alright?"
Evan, still clutching the little girl's hand, shook his head. Behind them, the man groaned, pushing himself up. His hood had fallen back and his face was bruised. There was a slight tint of red at the tips of his hair. Humiliation and rage warred on his features, and the faint red aura around him pulsed erratically. He began to rise, a low growl in his throat, but before he could fully stand, another sharp pain blossomed in the same area below. Somehow, Evan had wriggled free from his mother and delivered a swift, parting kick.
Avelia just stared, wide-eyed. What does a mother do when her son is the one doling out the beating? The line between protector and disciplinarian blurred confusingly.
By then, the small crowd from the street had gathered at the mouth of the alley, drawn by the shouts and commotion. Pointing firmly at the groaning man and the shivering girl, Evan announced with a clarity unsuited for his age, "He was trying to kidnap her."
The crowd murmured, skepticism plain on their faces. Believing a child's word was one thing. But before doubt could settle, a woman pushed through the onlookers, her face pale with terror. "Mara!" she cried, rushing forward to sweep the little girl into a desperate embrace, sobbing with relief. The sight dissolved all uncertainty.
A recent spate of kidnappings had left the neighborhood tense and fearful. The confirmation of another attempt ignited a collective anger. The crowd descended on the man before he could even think to use whatever strange power he had. Fists and shouts filled the alley, and within moments, he was subdued, beaten senseless and lying still.
Soon after, the city guards arrived, their stern expressions cutting through the angry mob. They efficiently took custody of the unconscious man. Evan watched them go, reassured by what Lyria had told him: the guards were not merely watchmen; among their ranks were those who could deal with such threats touched by the supernatural.
Now, only one problem remained. Evan looked up at his mother, whose face was a storm of fear, anger, and residual adrenaline. He gently nuzzled his head against her side, adopting his most contrite and coquettish tone. "I'm sorry, Mother. I won't do it again without telling you first."
Avelia's heart clenched. How could she stay angry at this brave, impossible child? Yet, she couldn't let it pass. A lesson had to be learned.
She took a deep breath, her voice firm. "No chocolates for the next week."
Evan's shoulders slumped in a performance of profound heartbreak, but he nodded solemnly. Satisfied, Avelia took his hand in a grip that was both possessive and protective, leading him back onto the main street and toward home. The crowd, its purpose served, began to disperse.
While walking back, Evan asked, "Did you see the red color around the man?"
Avelia just gave him a puzzled look and, patting his head lightly, said, "Maybe you just imagined things. The situation was tense, and it is normal to lose your bearings in such situations."
Evan just went silent after that, and Avelia continued patting his head.
That evening, over dinner, Avelia recounted the event to Henrick. His initial paternal pride swelled, and he spent several minutes praising Evan's quick thinking and courage, with no mention of recklessness. And so he found himself sleeping on the couch in the living room for the next week.
That night, Evan had a very peaceful sleep. But for most, this was just the beginning of a long and arduous night.
Priest Aron hurried to the innermost chamber of the cathedral. He opened the heavy door and saw Lyria standing still, holding a piece of parchment. She turned to him, her expression unreadable, and commanded in a flat voice, "Something important has come up. Take care of things here while I am out."
The parchment in her hand dissolved into shimmering particles of light and vanished. Then she gazed in the direction of the small group of islands situated a few miles off the port. The air before her rippled, then split with a silent crack. She stepped through the tear in space and disappeared.
Inside that ruptured space was a formless void devoid of light, color, or any sense of direction. All concepts governing the world were jumbled together. Lyria took two deliberate steps, and another fissure opened ahead. Walking out, she emerged high above one of the islands she had been gazing at.
Beneath her, a sacrificial spell was already underway. Hundreds of children sat in precise, concentric rings, their bodies forming the glowing lines of a massive spell-circle etched into the earth. Their eyes were blank, pupil-less white. She recognized the design instantly; it was a world-connecting formation meant to create a transmission channel between two different worlds for a short period of time—essentially, temporarily connecting this world to another. She had dismantled variations of it before, in other places, at other times. The sight of it now only filled her with distaste.
The space ahead of her distorted, and a man stepped through it. He was lean, with sharp features and hair the color of blood. A sly, mocking smile played on his lips.
"If you wanted to die," Lyria said, her voice still eerily calm, "you just had to call. I would have come happily, Kasnov."
"We are very old friends," Kasnov replied, his smile widening. "It seemed only proper to bring gifts when meeting again. After all, it's been decades since you vanished so… abruptly. You've given me quite the surprise, you know. An old hag like you, walking around in a child's body. I never thought I'd see the day." He chuckled.
Lyria ignored the jab. "If you have others waiting, call them now. I will deal with you all together."
"You worry too much," Kasnov said, his smile not touching his cold eyes. "There is nobody else here except for us."
As if, Lyria's lip curled slightly. She had fallen for that lie before, and it had nearly cost her everything.
Her focus returned to the spell below. The hum of gathering power was intensifying. Some of the children had begun to twitch, soft groans escaping their lips. Their life force was being drained as fuel. There was not much time left.
She raised a hand, curling her fingers into a fist. From the empty air, massive chains of solidified light erupted, shrieking as they shot toward the spell. Just before impact, a barrier of shimmering red energy flickered into existence over the spell. The light-chains struck it and recoiled, scattering into luminous fragments.
"Is this it?" Lyria asked, her gaze fixed on the barrier.
Kasnov merely kept smiling.
She tightened her fist. Brilliant light swelled within her grasp, leaking between her fingers. When she opened her hand, a thin, golden beam shot out, striking the same point on the barrier. This time, the red barrier shuddered. A spiderweb of cracks spread across its surface with a piercing sound.
Kasnov's smug expression finally stiffened into seriousness.
Lyria moved to strike again with more power, but a dagger materialized from the void, aimed directly at her temple. A flicker at the edge of her sight was her only warning. As if already anticipating this, she sidestepped smoothly, the blade passing close enough to stir her hair. Its owner was a blurred, indistinct figure who vanished back into the void.
The spell below was starting to operate quickly, and the groans from the children grew louder, more pained. Time was running out, and whenever she tried to break the barrier, the hidden assassin would interrupt her. Moreover, the cracks in the barrier had started to mend. Kasnov hadn't taken any action yet, watching her struggle with a patient, predatory stillness.
Realizing the urgency of the situation, she finally released the shackles binding her. A warm, brilliant light began to emanate from her skin. Her form shimmered and began to change—growing taller, her features maturing from those of a girl into the grace of a young woman. Her once-loose clothes shifted with her, the fabric tightening and flowing until they fit her perfectly, as if tailored for this true form. Her hair brightened to a radiant gold, and her eyes glowed with the same luminous light. Lyria Pierre had finally made her appearance in her true form.
As if waiting for this, Kasnov finally moved. He drew a small, worn scroll from within his robes and unfurled it.
There was no sound, only a sudden, violent pull. In an instant, Lyria, Kasnov, and the unseen assassin were gone, sucked into the scroll's magic. Below, only the kidnappers, the entranced children, and the pulsing, active spell remained.
Lyria's feet touched solid ground—if it could be called ground. An endless plain of red sand stretched beneath a lightless, bloody sky. There was no sun, no horizon, only a monotone wash of crimson in every direction. Before her stood Kasnov, his face now grim and tight, and the assassin, whose features were hidden behind a wrap of black cloth. The man flipped his twin daggers in a casual, practiced rhythm.
"After learning you had surpassed mortality and Ascended," Kasnov stated, his voice stripped of all mockery, "we had to make appropriate preparations."
He and Lyria were old enemies; nearly a century of blood and conflict lay between them. They had fought across battlefields and shadows, each responsible for the loss of the other's allies, each having come within a breath of killing the other. Three decades ago, Kasnov had received intelligence that Lyria had completed her ascension, surpassing mortal limits. Just as despair was about to set in, another report arrived: she had vanished from the public eye.
Piecing together whispers and clues, he deduced her ascension had been flawed, leaving her power unstable and sealed. That was also the reason why he had been chosen for this mission. He knew her well from their previous encounters.
But a weakened Ascender was still an Ascender. He did not underestimate her. So, he had brought both a backup and this relic—a crafted pocket dimension, an ascension trap meant to contain and stall new Ascenders.
Lyria scanned the barren wasteland and allowed a faint, mocking smirk to touch her lips. "Do you really think this is enough to stop me?"
Kasnov said nothing. He didn't need to. Stopping her wasn't the goal—delaying her was. Every moment she was trapped here was another moment the spell below reached completion, another moment her Cathedral stood undefended. It was a simple, brutal, and effective tactic. Lyria knew it, too.
A sudden, sharp vibration on her wrist broke her focus. The simple silver bracelet she wore began to glow. She fed a trickle of energy into it, and her mind was flooded with urgent, silent visions: her Cathedral, under siege. Dark-clad assailants swarmed its walls, hammering spells against its golden barrier. The shield flickered, weakening. Lyria was not just its guardian—she was its heart, its source of power. With her present, it could withstand forces greater than herself. Without her, it was merely a strong defense, and strong defenses' without an adequate power supply could be easily broken.
It was a checkmate. Seeing the tension in her eyes, the faintest hint of a smile reappeared on Kasnov's lips. This plan was two decades in the making—patiently recruiting followers, weaving them into the city's population, buying the cooperation of the greedy with coins and promises. Two decades of waiting, and now it was bearing fruit. Even if Lyria broke free now, she would face an impossible choice: save the children on the island, or save her Cathedral. Succeeding in either would be a victory for them.
Her mind drifted to a conversation from days before, a quiet moment by the indoor fountain in the Cathedral's hidden chamber.
"Is the Goddess real?" Evan had asked, his small face tilted up with a curiosity that felt oddly probing.
"She is," Lyria had replied, her voice softer than usual.
"Then have you seen her?"
"Yes, I have." A small smile had touched her lips then.
"Then how does she look? Like the statue we worship?"
"I can't explain it in words."
"But you said you saw her."
"Yes. Well. There are simply no words to describe her." She had reached over then, gently kneading the top of his head, making him squirm and growl in playful protest. "She is the 'Brightest Light that illuminates all corners of Creation.' But trust me, looking at her is no different than committing suicide."
"If you died," Evan had scoffed, "then who is this in front of me?"
Lyria had just smiled and returned to stirring the water with her fingers, letting his question hang in the cool, quiet air between them.
Now, standing in that blood-red wasteland, tears—not of fear, but of something deeper, something between sorrow and reverence—began to stream silently down her cheeks. She was not crying for herself, nor for the trap she was in. She was crying for the act she was about to commit, for the line she was crossing.
Looking directly at Kasnov, her glowing golden eyes blurred by tears, she uttered just two words, each one weighted with a lifetime of devotion.
"Her Light."
And as she spoke them, the crimson sky began to tremble.