Location: Kingdom of Altheria – Inner Sanctum of the Grand Cathedral
In the center of the candlelit cathedral, twelve hooded men stood in a circle, arms outstretched as a massive, arcane summoning circle thrummed beneath their feet.
The air was thick with power—old, volatile, and heavy with dark magic. This was no ordinary ritual. This was the
Hero's Calling
an ancient ritual whispered and bound into books. A summoning to call a savior from another world.
The Archbishop in the middle, voice ringing with power as he uttered the final incantation.
"From the realm of the damned, from the blood of the forgotten—arise, O Hero, and deliver us from ruin!"
The circle pulsed. Once, then twice. And then—
A blinding flash of emerald light exploded at the center of the circle.
There was no triumphant coming forth. No shining figure of legend stepping out into the light.
Instead, silence.
A youth—no older than fourteen—was huddled in the center, barely conscious, clothes torn from the ferocious transformation. His breathing was labored. His face stunned and bewildered.
The high priest's eyes narrowed. ".Is this. the Hero?"
One of the knights stepped forward in horror. "He's just a boy."
The Archbishop's expression darkened. "This can't be right. The ritual—something went wrong."
The light faded from the circle. One of the mage-scribes stumbled away from their pedestal.
"No… something **seeped into the circle.
The power—it's tainted. He's been polluted…"
There was silence in the room.
Then came the order.
"Eliminate him."
Lucien groaned as he moved. His body hurt as if all the bones had been broken and put back together again.
Cold stone lay against his back. He slowly blinked, vision indistinct.
Torches flickered and cast shadows on marble columns and robes embroidered with gold. Whispers surrounded him.
"He's not what we wanted."
"Let him meet his fate as he is truly to you g for the demon kings defeat"
His heart pounded. *What… what is this place?* Hadn't he been in his room? Waiting to be adopted? What the hell was going on?
Before he could get a word out, firm hands closed around him and pulled him onto his knees.
He fought, but he was too weak.
"P-Please," he whispered. "What's going on? Where… am I?"
The Archbishop towered over him, staring down as if at filth.
"You were summoned to be a hero. But you're a mistake."
Lucien's eyes widened in shock. "What…?"
Without warning, the priest mentioned a shining brand—engraved with divine runes—and burned it into Lucien's shoulder.
Pain. Blinding and searing. He bellowed in agony.
"You are not a hero," the Archbishop replied icily. "You are a failed summon. May you rot with the rest of the cursed."
The ground beneath him suddenly opened up, a trapdoor down into the dark Wastes—a nasty area where death and beasts lay in wait.
Lucien was tossed down like rubbish.
His shout echoed only briefly.
Then there was nothing.
The Great Cathedral was subdued at the moment, but amidst its sacred corridors, chaos had spread.
In the High Council Chamber, flickering torches projected macabre shadows on walls as the councilmen, priests, commanders, and adepts argued stridently.
The failed summoning had been the most inflammatory incident in nearly two decades so far.
"He was defiled!" a councilman bellowed, hammering his fist onto the wooden tabletop.
"That boy had an unholy influence with him. Did not you notice that the summoning circle twisted?"
"'The Hero's Calling hasn't succeeded in over a hundred years!' snarled another. 'It never stood any chance of doing so. But to bring a child?
From the wrong world? Something's gone horribly awry.'
The Archbishop, his face impassive but his voice cold, raised his hand.
"Enough."
The room fell silent.
"Whether by mistake or intention," he stated, "the ceremony summoned not the Chosen One, but a forgotten soul. And yet… the power we invoked—it responded. He was not normal."
Some heads swivelled.
"He can still prove useful," one of the war priests growled. "If he can survive the Wastes, we'll know what he's actually made of."
"And if not," the Archbishop answered coldly, "he was never meant to be."
"But if he is…" one of the generals breathed. "And we threw away the very savior we named…"
Silence.
Long and suffocating.
Pain.
It tormented every fiber of his being. His lungs burned. His throat was seared from screaming. His limbs felt like stone under something heavy and ethereal.
Lucien's eyes creaked open, and he drew in a breath.
He lay on broken black ground beneath a storm-blasted sky.
Dead, contorted trees pointed towards the sky like broken ribs.
A ghoulish purple mist spread along the ground, curling about his arms, whispering as it moved.
Where am I? he asked himself, his heart ripping at his chest.
He slowly sat up, bewildered. Everything was cold and askew. His room, his home—gone. In its place stood a world that looked as if the world had been bled dry.
"No, no, no—" he whispered, stumbling to his feet.
A figure blazed past the fog.
And another.
Dark, scuttling silhouettes with eyes that glowed like lanterns began to close in on him, drifting just at the edge of his sight. Their bodies were twisted—abnormal. Glass-serrated teeth, claws scraping stone as they moved.
He jumped back, heart pounding.
"I just… I just wanted a family," he stuttered, shaking. "I don't belong here."
But there was no answer.
Only the howling wind and the thunderous growls of the beasts in the fog.
He turned—and ran.
Ran deeper into the Wastes, deeper into the darkness, deeper into the horror.
Behind him followed the monsters.