They found the hollow deep within the Forsaken Range. The trees grew upside down there, roots clawing the sky. At its center stood a circle of scorched earth, ancient symbols etched into stone pillars, blackened by time and flame.
When the king stepped into the circle, the air thickened.
A voice, like the crackling of firewood, hissed from nowhere and everywhere.
"You reek of desperation, Andric of Velarian."
The flames twisted into form — a tall, burning man with eyes like molten gold and a voice that turned marrow to ice.
"I need power," the king said. "Enough to destroy every army that stands against me."
"And in return?"
Andric hesitated. Seraphim clutched his arm, shaking her head. But he looked ahead.
"My queen bears twins. When they are born, I will give you one."
A silence followed, thick with the smell of smoke and ash.
"Done," the Djinn replied, with a grin that split his burning face. "You may choose which to keep. The other is mine."
A gust of wind followed — and when it cleared, the king stood alone. But power now coursed through his veins.
With hellfire in his hands and a demon's fury in his heart, King Andric returned to Velarian. Battles once lost were won in days. Enemies fell to blades that moved faster than wind. Entire armies shattered before him.
By the end of winter, the kingdom was his again — but the price loomed.
Nine months passed.
On a storm-soaked night, screams echoed through the marble halls of the palace. The queen gave birth to two sons — one cried like thunder; the other was silent, watching with unsettling eyes.
The Djinn came that night.
But Seraphim had prepared. She had called upon an ancient protector — the High Magus Eldrich, her last hope.
As the Djinn emerged from flame, Eldrich struck with a binding spell of the Old Tongue. The devil roared as chains of light coiled around him, dragging him toward the void.
But before he vanished, he reached out and touched the child meant for him.
His burning hand brushed the infant's chest.
"I am flame eternal," the Djinn spat. "And fire will be your son's curse. He shall drink blood and know no warmth. You have stolen what is mine — and it shall consume you all."
Then he was gone.
And silence returned.
The cursed child, named Karl, would not drink his mother's milk. He wailed at sunlight and cried when brought near fire. His skin was always cold, his eyes dark and distant.
One morning, the queen screamed.
A nursemaid found her collapsed on the nursery floor, blood dripping from her shoulder. Karl sat nearby, blood staining his lips — smiling.
It was the first of many horrors.
He slaughtered birds with his bare hands. Killed a calf in the stables, sinking his teeth deep into its neck. His brother, Alaris, thrived — loved by all. But Karl? Karl became the shadow of the palace, feared and hidden.
And then, one night, a village child went missing. Then another.
The whispers began: "There is a demon in the castle."
Years passed, and the two brothers grew — one in light, the other in shadow.
Alaris was golden-haired, strong and noble, loved by nobles and peasants alike. Karl remained pale, quiet, his presence always unsettling. He did not age like a normal child. His strength grew rapidly, and his thirst became uncontrollable.
The king ordered Karl confined to the West Wing — guarded, watched, isolated. But no bars could hold what Karl was becoming. At night, he wandered the halls. Servants quit. Prayers were whispered over his door.
Yet Alaric, despite his fear, felt a strange bond with his brother. He visited him secretly, bringing books, stories, and games from their childhood. Karl responded only in fragments — sometimes playful, other times distant.
"I see fire in my dreams," Karl said one night. "And a voice. It says I was stolen… that I will reclaim what is mine."
Alaris didn't know what to say.
The peace was shattered when a nobleman's daughter was found in the royal gardens — pale, cold, and lifeless. Her neck bore two wounds. Her blood was gone.
Panic surged through the court.
The king knew. So did the queen.
But there was no proof.
High Magus Eldrich returned, aging and weary. He demanded Karl be exiled or destroyed. "He is no longer of man or magic," Eldrich warned. "He is something in between — something cursed."
But the queen, still clinging to the boy she bore, refused.
That night, Karl vanished.
He left nothing behind but a note, written in blood:
"I will find who I am. I will find who made me. And when I return, the world will remember my name."
The Age of Blood had begun.
Karl wandered through the haunted woods of Eltham, where spirits whispered through trees and beasts howled in the night. Hunger clawed at him, but it was not for food. He fed on deer, wolves, and travelers too slow to run.
He grew — not just in strength, but in understanding. There were others like him in the forgotten places of the world. Creatures of night. He met a man who did not breathe, a woman who turned to shadow, a child with silver eyes who drank moonlight.
And from them, he learned a word: Vampyre.
He was not alone. But he was the first.
Back in Velarian, Alaris struggled with the weight of the throne and the shadow of his brother. The people adored him, but he felt empty. He missed Karl, even feared him.
High Magus Eldrich became his closest advisor. "Your brother will return," he warned. "And when he does, you must be ready."
Alaris began training not only with blades but with ancient rites — the light-bound arts of the old guardians. It was forbidden magic. Dangerous. But he needed it.
Because Karl was no longer just a brother. He was becoming a legend — one that might burn the world.