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Britannia
Bowen’s voice cracked as he screamed, “Run!” Panic sharpened his words, his eyes darting back to the advancing Romans. He grabbed Aislinn’s hand, his grip tight with desperation. “Run, my love—we must run!”
Cries tore through the village, each a death knell as Romans cut down the Iceni with ruthless abandon. The winter solstice, far from heralding peace, unleashed a storm of iron and fire. Aislinn and Bowen ducked low, sprinting past their flaming homes while arrows rained down, hissing as they pierced the earth and timber. They stumbled over bodies strewn across the ground, the snow marred by spreading stains of red. With their breaths misting in the frigid air, they were among the few who had slipped through the Romans’ grasp.
The forest itself seemed to mourn the loss of life, its winds carrying the wails of their lost kin. Trees, ancient and enraged, burned fiercely, their branches reaching out like charred hands in the darkness. Hidden roots, camouflaged beneath the snow, lay in wait to ensnare the unwary, indifferent to friend or foe.
As they fled, Aislinn’s foot caught on one such root.
—Crack—
A cry tore from Aislinn’s lips as she collapsed, hands instinctively cradling her swollen belly. Pain lanced through her leg—a cruel betrayal by the very earth that had nurtured her since birth.
“Broken, I fear,” she gasped, the words stifled by pain and a creeping despair.
But Bowen was there, his presence a balm to her fracturing spirit. In the moonlit night, her tears glistened, frozen gems on her cheeks. His father, the druid, had foreseen a solstice of joy; now, that promise lay shattered around them. Gently, he helped her up, his strength her pillar.
Leaning heavily on him, Aislinn felt her pain diminish, softened by the warmth of his unwavering love. Their connection was profound, mystic in its depth, almost as if ordained by the spirits themselves. Together, guided by the whispered blessings of the forest spirits, they pressed forward through the ash-laden snow, toward a future shrouded in mist and uncertainty.
Even now, beneath the chaos, the stars sparkled with an intensity Aislinn had never truly savored before. An icy breeze danced through the night, lifting snowflakes back into the air, whirling them like fairies caught in a silent ballet. Despite her newfound awe, each step was agony, her body protesting sharply against the movement. Yet, all she felt was Bowen’s warmth, clinging to it as if for the last time. Inside her, the life they had created kicked, and a deep sorrow filled Aislinn—not for herself, but for her unborn child and the man she loved, whose futures were as uncertain as the swirling snow around them.
Then, in an instant, her world shifted. A soft push against her back and a sharp pinch in her chest—Aislinn collapsed to her knees, her gaze locked in disbelief on the arrow protruding from between her breasts. A distant battle cry filled the air, not hers—Bowen’s. As she swayed, teetering on the brink of consciousness, she saw him: a lone figure valiantly struggling against five Romans.
Another soldier approached, his intent clear—not to join the fray, but to target her. Aislinn, still swaying, met the Roman’s advance with a defiant glare. With a brutal shove, he knocked her to the cold earth. The snap of the arrow’s shaft resounded like a thunderclap, surreal in her ears, followed by a cough that gurgled up blood onto her lips.
The soldier clambered on top of her, ripping her clothes away. Darkness began to creep at the edges of her vision, shrouding the brutal scene. Turning her head away from the Roman assaulting her, Aislinn’s eyes found Bowen just as the other five soldiers ceased their cruel torment. Their swords sliced through the air, each strike a blow to her heart as tears streamed down her face. She watched helplessly as her beloved fell, piece by piece, with each brutal strike.
Relief should have washed over Aislinn as the end neared, but instead, she felt only numbness mixed with searing pain as she gazed at her fallen love. She mourned not just him, nor merely her own life, but also the life within her that would never be born. Her last words, a vow whispered with defiance against the encroaching void, were for Bowen and her unborn child.
“I shall find you both in the life beyond, my dearest loves,” she swore.
With those words, she released her grip on this world, her soul spirited away on the journey to the next.
Through the Veil
“Lord Demidicus,” Olin began, his voice laced with a measured tone of caution, “it is not too late to return your daughter’s soul to her body.”
“I have made my decision,” Lord Demidicus hissed. “My daughter’s soul was too faint-hearted for her own good. It’s a curse that torments all born within this accursed realm, however rare births may be in this dying reality. Aurelia’s new soul should prove less disappointing. And if this experiment succeeds, she will not only become a user but ascend the steps toward ascension. Perhaps then, we can do the same for the feral vampires and take the fight directly to the Ascended Gods themselves.”
“But, my lord, she is the only natural-born vampire of this realm,” Olin countered, a note of urgency in his voice.
Lord Demidicus turned his cold gaze toward Olin, who quickly bowed his head.
“It shall be done, my lord,” Olin acquiesced, “though, as I have warned, the souls I’ve discovered beyond our veil possess extraordinary power. They may not be as unique and diverse as those in the demon realm, yet they remain extraordinary. However, my lord, it’s still uncertain if she will indeed become the user you desire.”
“Then you will reach back into the veil and fetch a different soul for my daughter.”
“I—I apologize, my lord, but the damage to the veil has already been repaired. If my calculations hold, we cannot summon another soul from there for a millennium or two. However, I can assure you, she will be powerful, whatever she becomes.”
“You had better ensure she becomes the user I envision, Olin, or I’ll reduce you to a mere ghoul,” Lord Demidicus warned.
“I swear to you, my lord, the ritual was designed to lock onto the most powerful soul in that realm, possibly even that of a deity or something greater. Unless the soul we brought back was somehow intertwined with the ritual’s intended target, there should be no issues—your daughter’s new soul will possess power beyond measure.”
As the voices drifted into Aislinn’s ears like a warm breeze, she opened her eyes to a horrifying sight. She lay in a vast stone chamber, surrounded by armored skeletons. Above her stood two pale figures in black robes—one, a younger man with red, beady eyes, a sharp nose, and a receding hairline; the other, a hooded figure whose face was shrouded in darkness, with eyes blazing a demonic red beneath his hood.
“She is awake!” declared the younger figure, his voice almost nasal, as if filtered through his sharp nose.
She reached up, placing her hand between her breasts where no arrow was found. Her hand then drifted downward, gently brushing against her flat stomach, which ached with the weight of loss. A surge of sorrow washed over Aislinn; tears, warm and unbidden, streamed down her face as if a piece of her soul had been torn away. Yet, her body bore no pain, no visible wounds. As she wiped away her tears, she noticed blood on her fingers—her tears had turned to blood, cascading down her face in haunting rivulets.
Turning her gaze to her hand, she saw it was unnaturally pale, as though untouched by the sun. Her nails, long and sharply pointed, were shaded in a gradient from red to black, reminiscent of blood fading into midnight.
“Am I dead?” she whispered.
“Not anymore, my daughter. Not anymore, my precious Aurelia,” the hooded figure replied gently.
Memories of the Romans and her dying moments flashed through her mind—Aislinn found herself consumed by a singular thought. With longing and concern heavy in her voice, she asked the one question that dominated her mind: “Where’s Bowen?”
Four Decades Later
Flickering candlelight cast shadows across the grand hall, where eerie sounds of mournful cries and clanging chains echoed. Yet, this was no mourning night but a victory celebration. Lord Demidicus triumphantly raised the freshly severed head of a holy priest, its eyes frozen in a gaze of terror. His fellow brethren, shackled to the walls, watched in horror.
“My malevolent creatures of the night,” Lord Demidicus bellowed, his voice resonating through the chamber, “Vampires, Harpies, Wraiths, Ghouls, Succubi, Incubi, and our Necromancers from the fairer races—gather round. Tonight, we celebrate my daughter’s ascension and welcome her as an elder of our great coven. Let all tremble at the mention of my dark princess’s name, Aurelia, for her reign of terror shall know no bounds.” With a savage grin, he sank his teeth into the priest’s severed neck, prompting a chorus of cheers and applause from the assembly.
Decades had passed, yet the name Aurelia still sounded foreign to Aislinn’s ears. Trivial concerns paled in comparison to the horrors Aurelia had unleashed. With her undead skeletal army, she had decimated the Kingdom of Slaethia, rising to prominence as both a blood mage and a necromancer of immense power. Although initially disappointed by her failure to become a user, Lord Demidicus could not deny the dark triumphs of his daughter. It seemed as though the very mana surrounding her bent to her will—not like an ascended, who drew power from the realm’s system, but more akin to the old gods who could reshape the very essence of mana.
Lord Demidicus often wondered if Olin had ultimately succeeded in calling forth a deity from beyond the veil, or at least something that closely resembled one. As he reflected on the powerful soul that now inhabited his daughter, he thought it almost a shame to have turned Olin into a ghoul.
However, Aurelia’s ambitions were not fueled by a thirst for power or tales of legendary might. Her ultimate goal lay elsewhere, and attaining the rank of elder within the coven was a critical step. As Lord Demidicus slid the ceremonial ring onto her finger, symbolizing her leadership and commitment to the coven, Aurelia knew the true power still resided with her so-called father. Yet, there was something more to the ring, something familiar that Aurelia couldn’t quite place.
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“Now, speak your desire, my daughter,” Lord Demidicus commanded with the gravitas of centuries. “If it lies within our power, it shall be granted to our newest elder.”
The grand hall fell silent, all eyes and ears straining toward the new vampire elder. While some might covet wealth, dark pleasures of the flesh, or the opportunity to forge their own covens, others anticipated more sinister requests. The non-vampires present recognized the ceremony as a prelude to new alliances.
“My yearning is to delve into Olin’s prior research,” Aurelia declared, adding the word “father” at the end with a syrupy sweetness that belied her inner loathing. She understood the strategic importance of her words in this context.
A hushed shock filled the grand hall, the implications of her request sending murmurs through the crowd. With her fearsome reputation, none had expected the vampiric princess to desire what many deemed a trivial and failed experiment—one that had even led to the downfall of Lord Demidicus’s former right-hand, now reduced to a ghoul.
Thirteen Decades Later
The fateful hour had arrived, and the resurrected Kingdom of Slaethia stood at the gates of the vampire coven’s castle, determined to eradicate their kind. The siege was long and arduous, yet the outcome seemed inevitable. The holy knights of Slaethia, wielding divine power, pursued their relentless quest to cleanse Nyxoria, the dark moon of Völuspá, of its vile races, their soulless offspring, and the victims the vampires had turned feral. After a relentless barrage, the magical barrier that had long shielded these vile abominations finally faltered. With one mighty blast, ballista bolts shattered the castle walls, signaling the beginning of the end.
As the barrier crumbled and fell at the sun’s zenith, the vampire coven was left exposed and vulnerable to the holy knights’ wrath. Too few familiars and undead remained to repel the holy warriors. With victory within their grasp, the knights of Slaethia stormed the castle, determined to claim the heads of every last vampire as trophies.
“Aurelia, for the love of the dark gods, what are you doing?” Vorigan, the frog-faced necromancer, cried out urgently. “You must stop your research and flee this place immediately before it’s too late.”
Aurelia’s laughter reverberated through the chamber as she twirled in delight. “Oh, but do you not see, Olin’s research was mistaken! It’s not two millennia before we can delve into the veil—not for us! On the other side, time flows differently; it bends and folds upon itself. Can you not comprehend the magnitude of this?”
As Olin scurried around the chamber, gathering the frayed tapestries and parchments, the castle quaked under the relentless assault of ballista bolts and trebuchet shots. Despite the chaos, he refused to acknowledge any error in his former research. Meanwhile, Aurelia continued to twirl, her laughter ringing out as the castle shook and dust rained down.
Vorigan paused in disbelief, then regained his composure. As he watched Olin hurriedly pack his mistress’s notes, he announced, “Lord Demidicus has arranged for us to take refuge in the catacombs. From there, we shall escape through the deep roads to Ockpool Dungeon.”
A Decade Later
The once-grand vampire coven had diminished to a mere shadow of its former glory, now reduced to a group of refugees huddled among the ruins of an ancient, undiscovered dungeon that predated Nyxoria’s joining with the Moons of Völuspá. Such sites, formed upon a world’s convergence with the realm, are believed by some to be training grounds for the inhabitants before their integration into Völuspá. However, one truth remains universally acknowledged: the dungeon core is a highly sought-after prize. With the arrival of each new moon, entire nations dispatch armies to pillage these dungeons and moons for their invaluable resources.
“Aurelia, I understand your aspirations,” Lord Demidicus scolded, “but for the champion of our goddess, only one soul is needed. I cannot risk everything for your fixation. More than one champion would alert the Ascended Gods before we are prepared.”
After over a hundred and eighty years, Aislinn had grown accustomed to her life as Aurelia. It was who she was now, yet she still resisted calling Lord Demidicus “father.” Now that her research had finally borne fruit, he dared to impede her progress. No, Aurelia would not be deterred!
“Lord Demidicus,” Aurelia countered, her voice tinged with a hint of rage, “it stands to reason that not all the retrieved souls need to serve our revered dark goddess as her champion. Instead, we could use them to awaken the feral vampires from their soulless madness. My research shows that I can retrieve multiple souls from the veil every century, vastly improving upon Olin’s prior efforts. Why settle for summoning just one soul for a champion when we have the potential to restore so many?”
“The Crone alone requires a champion,” Lord Demidicus declared firmly. “There is no need for additional souls at this time. Summoning more would only draw undue attention from our enemies. My decision is final! We lack the resources to indulge your obsession. At the Crone’s behest, we will summon only the soul that best serves our needs.”
Frustration surged within Aurelia at the thought of resorting to her last option. Still, it had never failed her before, and her determination to achieve her goal remained unwavering.
“Father,” Aurelia forced the word out, it tasting like ash on her tongue, “I propose a solution. Let me summon seven souls from the veil while the gateway is open.” Internally, Aurelia didn’t truly desire seven souls, but she was not confident of finding the specific soul she sought on her first attempt. “Why not allow each coven elder to choose a soul they believe will best serve the Crone and have them compete for the privilege of being her chosen champion?” she proposed, masking her true intent.
Aurelia had devised a plan to rig the rituals specifically to summon her beloved’s soul. There would be seven attempts; each failure would serve as a calculated step to refine and recalibrate the summoning process. As for the supposed competition among the summoned souls, she had already schemed to ensure that her beloved would emerge as the sole survivor.
“That doesn’t resolve our issue of attracting undue attention. Besides, the Crone would never permit such a thing,” Lord Demidicus began, but his declaration was cut short by a chilling gust of wind that swirled around them, carrying a sinister whisper before dissipating. The grand elder exhaled heavily, his resolve faltering. “It seems you have prevailed, my child. Now, go ahead and make the necessary arrangements.”
A Few Months Later
“My lady,” Olin’s voice trembled with unease as he approached, his current undead form visibly deteriorating before her eyes. This was the third time he had assumed a new body in the past year, and his rate of deterioration was accelerating. Aurelia knew she needed to find a suitable phylactery for his soul soon, or risk losing him to the ether forever.
“He won’t remember you,” Olin continued, his voice laden with sorrow. “His soul has lived through hundreds, perhaps thousands, of lives in a never-ending cycle of reincarnation. He may not even be a he anymore!”
Aurelia’s fists crashed down onto the table, her voice ringing out with frustration and determination. “I don’t care about that!” she declared. “It will work! Whether he remembers me or not, I will have him back. Nothing else matters!”
“My mistress, I stand by your side, no matter what may come,” Olin declared with conviction. “But how do we find just one soul in the vast and endless sea of others?”
Aurelia’s grin was sly and full of promise, her elongated fangs glinting in the dim light. “With a beacon, my dear Olin,” she replied. “A beacon that his soul will instinctively be drawn to, like a moth to a flame—my own soul.”
“My lady,” Olin’s concern was palpable. “This is too reckless! You are risking your very soul on a gamble.”
“Then we must hope that the concept of soulmates is not just a fanciful tale,” Aurelia responded, her voice melodic yet ominous. She twirled with delight, humming a beautiful yet deadly tune, for the moment she had once vowed at death’s door was now within reach.
“My lady,” Olin spoke up, his worries still evident. “If you succeed in retrieving his soul, what about the trial? Lord Demidicus seems to view this as an unhealthy obsession, and I fear he may try to sabotage your efforts.”
“And so, I shall pray,” Aurelia declared, her voice filled with steely resolve as she concluded her joyful waltz. “Not only to the Crone but to any of the old gods of this realm that may still linger and deign to listen. In my quest to reclaim Bowen’s soul, I will leave no stone unturned, no obstacle unheeded. Even if it means facing the other candidates or Lord Demidicus himself.” Her determination was evident, her words emerging forcefully between tightly clenched teeth, reflecting the fierce passion within her.
The Ritual’s Eve
The other elders had each summoned their chosen from beyond the veil—her attempts to rig the ritual had failed—none had succeeded in retrieving her beloved. Now, it was Aurelia’s turn. She hoped the previous six attempts had refined the ritual enough to allow her to reach into the veil, using her own soul as a beacon.
She stepped into the ritual room, the air thick with the scent of incense and bathed in the eerie glow of green flames that cast shifting shadows across the stone walls. Despite the ordeals of her past, Aurelia’s gaze remained unwaveringly fixed on the altar, where her ultimate goal lay within reach.
Aurelia’s purpose was singular—to reclaim Bowen, her beloved, who awaited her call from beyond the veil. Regardless of the memories he might have lost, she was resolved to rekindle their passion. The trials and sacrifices of her past would all be worthwhile if she could once again embrace her beloved. The prospect of falling in love anew with him filled her with indescribable joy.
With a shiver of anticipation, Aurelia began the binding of her soul to the ritual, turning herself into a beacon for Bowen to find, her heart aching with longing. She held firm to the belief that if their love was true, and if Bowen indeed was the missing piece of her heart, he would find his way back to her, irrespective of the mortal form he now occupied. The thought of their reunion sustained her, even as a deep fear of failure lurked in her heart—but she refused to entertain it. Bowen’s soul would find its way back to her! Even if soulmates were mere myth, Aurelia’s yearning would not be thwarted. Her soul’s beacon would shine brightly in the ether, calling out to her lost love.
“Our reunion is near, my beloved,” she whispered, her longing grin revealing glinting fangs in the unsettling green light.
Two Weeks Later
“By the t-three pillars! D-Did it work, M-Mistress?” Olin asked, his voice faltering, the ghoul looking decidedly worse for wear.
“Another failure, I’m afraid,” Aurelia replied with a sigh.
Despite the setback, Aurelia was elated. She had retrieved her beloved’s soul from beyond the veil more easily than she had anticipated; the moment her own soul touched the ether, she felt Bowen’s soul resonate with hers as if it were her own. Now, the challenge lay in finding a mortal vessel robust enough to contain it.
Her desperation grew, yet her determination remained unshaken. She held the crystal containing her beloved’s soul close, cradling it near her heart. Concealing her joy from Lord Demidicus proved challenging, especially with the seductive succubus who constantly shadowed him, adding an extra layer of complexity to her delicate endeavor.
Despite Lord Demidicus’s insistence that there could be only one champion, deeming all else a wasteful diversion of their precious resources, Aurelia remained unperturbed. She was confident that the Crone, known to shelter those she deemed worthy, would not be swayed by her so-called father’s threats. Besides, Aurelia was prepared to destroy the other six souls if necessary—a course of action she was almost certain would be required.
And yet, Aurelia was perplexed by why Bowen’s soul rejected every vessel she offered. In her desperation, she had tried everything—from men and women of various races to even the feral vampires; all rejected his soul. Pushed to her limits, she even attempted to use the corpses of random monsters—yet still, nothing succeeded. It seemed as if a higher power had its own agenda, a notion that irked her.
“What’s w-went wrong, M-Mistress?”
A Few Days Ago
“My lady, I still can’t understand why you tossed your beloved at Niamh,” Olin said, now inhabiting the body of a short gnome and looking considerably rejuvenated. Aurelia was aware, however, that this improvement would be fleeting; his body would soon begin to decay.
“I cannot risk exposing my bias in front of the other elders,” Aurelia sighed. “To my delight, Bowen was endowed as a user. Yet, I can’t be certain which deity has heeded my prayers; there are only two, maybe three, old gods left. Which one could it be?” She twisted the ceremonial ring on her finger, lost in contemplation. “Hopefully, Niamh’s demise provided my dear love a slight advantage in the trial, but the shock on the succubus’s face was an added delight.”
“Lord Demidicus must not have been pleased, my mistress.”
Aurelia offered Olin a reassuring smile as she chuckled warmly. “There’s no need to worry, Olin. Lord Demidicus can summon his pet again, so there will be no lasting damage to the coven. It was merely a small hiccup.”
Everything was unfolding exactly as Aurelia had planned. Now, all she needed to do was wait. It didn’t matter that her beloved was trapped within the form of a Black Pudding; Aurelia was already orchestrating her next move into the dungeon to ensure he would be crowned the champion. The anticipation was nearly unbearable.
Just then, Vorigan burst into her chamber, his amphibian-like features contorted in panic. “The Kingdom of Slaethia has discovered the dungeon!” he exclaimed, his voice quivering with the urgency of his fear. “They’re at the gates—and they’ve brought a champion!”