Point of View: Lorian Vellorn
The ritual was about to begin, and amidst the crowd, a handful of eager nobles vied to win the favor of the heroes. I couldn’t blame them, after all. The summoning method created by the renowned Magnus Bridge brought super-soldiers to this world, weapons powerful enough to destroy entire kingdoms. The justification for such a power? “We need heroes to face the Lords.” Pure nonsense, thinly veiling the greed of the King and the nobility.
Valion, the son of the Count of Taldrin, approached and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Do you think the heroes will be good people?” he asked, gazing at the circle surrounded by priests, where three unconscious children, each around twelve years old, lay motionless.
“Actually, you mean to ask if they’ll be easily manipulated,” I replied, my words sharp as a needle, casting a sidelong glance at my friend before turning my attention back to the children in the circle. “Don’t you think this ritual is cruel? I mean, they’re just children. What happens to their memories, their feelings, their souls?”
“A life for a life. Regardless, this is something that must be done. Without defense against the Lords, the kingdom of Calyndor will... no, I dare say the entire continent will fall—from the dwarves in Grimdal Fortress, to the elves in the hidden realm of Aeloria, to the Veridian Empire. Nothing can resist the Lords.”
To avoid accusations of treason, I held my tongue. As much as I cherished my friendship with Valion, I couldn’t help but wonder if his words were the result of brainwashing or merely an excuse to justify cruel greed. That psychotic mage is hailed as a legend, when everything he created should be considered taboo.
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I glanced briefly at our king, Eryndor Valier of Calyndor, as the mages began chanting in an ancient language I couldn’t understand. The wretched man was smiling...
A brilliant light filled the room, illuminating every corner of the grand hall. The magical circle activated by the priests and mages began to pulsate with vibrant energy, flowing like an invisible vortex toward the three unconscious children at its center. It was a spectacle both fascinating and unsettling. Intricate runes appeared on the children's bodies, glowing with supernatural intensity. According to ancient studies, these marks acted as catalysts, enabling the reincarnation energy to bestow extraordinary abilities upon the heroes: immense physical strength, superhuman agility, impenetrable resilience, and a natural affinity for magic—everything mages and warriors in this world could only dream of achieving.
Yet something felt wrong. When the light finally faded and the runes vanished from the children’s skin, an uneasy silence filled the hall. Anxious whispers arose among the mages. They were visibly nervous, exchanging troubled glances and gesturing hastily. Even Abimael, the royal archmage and high priest, looked deeply disturbed. He approached King Eryndor Valier of Calyndor, leaning in to murmur something into his ear.
The confident smile on the king’s face vanished instantly. For a brief moment, a grimace of frustration crossed his features, but it was quickly replaced by the stoic and calculating expression he always displayed before the court.
“The ritual was a success,” he announced loudly, masking any trace of concern. “Now, I ask the mages and priests to take the children to a place where they can rest and recover their strength. Guards, please escort the nobles out of the palace.”
As the crowd began to disperse, I couldn’t help but notice the tension in Abimael’s gaze and the restrained nervousness in the mages’ movements. Something had gone wrong—that much was clear. The king might have masked his emotions, but I wasn’t a fool. Something about this ritual hadn’t gone as planned, and I intended to uncover what it was—no matter the cost.