The outskirts of the Red Clan Capital stretched out in a labyrinth of dirt roads and low, sprawling buildings, thick with smoke and shadow. Luminarians, cloaked in shades of crimson and dark iron, moved methodically between forges and supply posts, their faces cast in flickering shadows as they labored under the rule of the Crimson Dynasty. Hunched, weary figures lined the streets—humans, their wrists bound by iron cuffs, toiled in the relentless heat, their lifeless expressions echoing the brutality of their lives. Most worked the forges, the dull orange glow of molten metal reflecting in their hollow eyes as they stoked fires and hammered out weapons for their Red Clan masters.
As the city’s outskirts gave way to its fortified center, the streets widened, lined with polished stone and flanked by buildings crafted from dark marble. Here, the middle and upper classes moved freely, their movements swift and efficient, each luminarian serving the dynasty’s cause with pride. The structures loomed tall, casting deep shadows over the bustling streets, and the stark contrast between wealth and destitution was painfully clear. In the heart of the city lay the Crimson Palace, a towering fortress of dark marble veined with red, rising high above the capital like a dark, watchful sentinel.
A Luminarian cloaked in dark red armor approached the palace gates, his steps brisk and purposeful. Known as Scars, he was one of the Red Clan’s most cunning scouts, his mind sharp and his loyalty to the Crimson Dynasty unwavering. As he neared the gates, the elite guards glanced at him but made no move to halt his passage; they recognized him immediately, and he continued forward, his gaze fixed ahead as he crossed the threshold into the palace.
Inside, the palace was a marvel of craftsmanship, its vast halls decorated with intricate tapestries in shades of black and red, depicting centuries of conquest. Polished black marble floors gleamed under the light of crimson torches, casting an ominous glow that accentuated the grandeur of the space. Scars strode through the hall, ignoring the curious glances of passing attendants, his focus singular as he approached a massive set of double doors at the end of the corridor.
Two armored guards, each bearing the insignia of the Crimson Dynasty, flanked the doors, standing as still as statues. Without a word, they stepped aside, their gaze forward, allowing Scars to pass. He took a breath, steadying himself before he entered the grand hall beyond.
The throne room was an imposing space, vast and dark, stretching out into shadowed corners as though designed to intimidate. High above, an elevated throne rose on a platform of black and red stone, bathed in dim red light. Lord Theron sat upon it, his gaze as piercing as his reputation. His black hair was slicked back into a neat bun, his eyes glowing with red Lumina. He wore robes of fine crimson silk trimmed with black, an aura of authority radiating from his still figure.
A sudden movement overhead drew Scars’s attention. A massive Phalyx, feathers as black as midnight and laced with dark red Lumina, swooped through the air, its wings beating with a heavy, rhythmic force. It circled the room once, a low, menacing rumble escaping its throat, before landing atop Theron’s throne, curling its talons into the stone. Its eyes glowed a fierce red, mirroring its master’s, and it let out a roar that reverberated through the hall, silencing all sound as the servants and guards instinctively lowered their heads.
To Theron’s left stood General Zira, his most trusted warrior, a fierce and unwavering figure with eyes as sharp as her loyalty. On his right, Zaryth, the chief advisor and noble of the Crimson Dynasty, stood with an elegant stillness, his pale face a mask of calm, his crimson eyes reflecting a mind as sharp as a blade. The Phalyx’s arrival only served to heighten the weight of their presence.
Scars approached the throne and knelt, lowering his head in respect. “Lord Theron,” he began, his voice low and reverent. “We have successfully breached the Azeron barrier. Our troops advanced into the academy, but…” he hesitated, gathering his thoughts, “we faced unexpected resistance. Captain Rei and General Seraphus arrived sooner than anticipated. We lost many soldiers, and we were forced to retreat. However, we now know their location and can prepare a larger assault.”
Theron’s gaze remained steady, though a glint of satisfaction appeared in his eyes. “You have done well, Scars. You’ve given us a valuable advantage.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Scars nodded, a hint of relief loosening the tension in his shoulders. Theron’s expression turned contemplative, his voice soft but commanding. “And the crystal? Was there any sign of it at the academy?”
Scars swallowed, shaking his head. “We searched the entire academy, my lord. But… there was no crystal.”
Theron’s expression darkened, but before he could speak, General Zira stepped forward, her eyes blazing with fierce resolve. “Lord Theron, now that we know their location, we should rally our army for an immediate strike. The Blue Clan will reinforce their defenses, but with a concentrated attack, we can crush them before they have time to prepare.”
Theron raised a hand, silencing her. “No,” he said calmly. “We wait. They will be ready for us now that they know we’ve found them. Impatience would waste what advantage we have gained.”
Zira inclined her head, though her clenched jaw betrayed her frustration. Scars, still kneeling, remained silent, waiting for Theron’s next command.
Suddenly, a heavy presence filled the room as a hulking figure strode in, his broad frame casting a shadow that seemed to dim the very light around him. General Calo, one of the most ruthless warriors of the Red Clan and a figure of near-legendary brutality entered the hall with a twisted grin, his armor scarred and weathered from countless battles. Scars involuntarily lowered his gaze, feeling the weight of Calo’s dark aura as he moved forward.
Theron’s eyes narrowed with curiosity as he watched Calo approach. “What is it, Calo? How was your expedition?”
Calo’s grin widened as he stopped in front of the throne, reaching behind him to produce a wrapped object. With a flick of his wrist, he unwrapped it, revealing a crystal—the remnants of a blue Lumina shard, faintly flickering with the last vestiges of its life. He let it fall to the floor, where it landed with a hollow clink, a mere shadow of the power it once held.
For a moment, the room was silent. Zaryth’s eyes widened, a gleam of awe breaking through his usually stoic expression. “So… the scriptures were true,” he whispered, his voice filled with reverence.
Theron’s expression changed, his eyes widening as he looked upon the crystal. “You found it, after all these years...” he murmured, a mixture of disbelief and dark satisfaction in his voice.
Calo chuckled, his tone mocking. “Seems someone got to it first,” he sneered. “The power’s been drained. Whoever found it took what they needed and left this for scraps.”
Theron’s satisfaction twisted into anger, red Lumina flaring around his hands as he gripped the arms of his throne, his knuckles white with rage. He had expected a fully charged crystal—a source of power that could shift the balance of the clans. Instead, he’d been handed an empty husk. He took a slow, steadying breath, suppressing the fury that surged within him, though his eyes continued to blaze.
Sensing the shift, Scars cleared his throat, eager to continue his report and draw Theron’s attention. “There was… one more thing, my lord. Something unusual during our advance at Azeron.”
Theron’s gaze fell on him, his anger momentarily giving way to curiosity. “Speak.”
Scars took a measured breath. “During the skirmish, I saw a recruit—a young one—wounded. He bled, my lord. And yet… he wielded Lumina. I saw it myself.”
A shocked silence filled the room. Zira’s head whipped toward Scars, her expression sharp. “Are you certain? A human wielding Lumina?”
Zaryth’s pale face grew thoughtful, though his voice dripped with doubt. “Impossible,” he sneered. “Humans have neither the vessel nor the strength to wield Lumina. Perhaps you were mistaken.”
Calo barked a laugh, his expression one of amused contempt.
But Zira’s eyes remained fixed on the drained crystal. “If this recruit truly wields Lumina,” she began, a note of wonder creeping into her voice, “then he may be the one who drained the crystal’s power. He may carry its essence.”
Zaryth’s irritation flared, his voice turning sharp as he glanced at her. “And you allowed this recruit to escape, knowing full well the one thing our lord desires above all else is the power of—”
“Varda,” Theron’s voice cut through the room like a blade, each syllable weighted with a dark, ominous power.
Zaryth’s eyes widened in horror, and he dropped to his knees, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as a crushing force bore down on him, pressing him into the marble floor. Theron’s red Lumina pulsed through the room, his eyes blazing with fury as he fixed his gaze on Zaryth.
“Never,” Theron hissed, his voice filled with venom, “speak that name in my presence.”
The room held its breath as Theron released Zaryth, who slumped, trembling, his face pale with terror. Zira, Scars, and Calo watched in silence, each keenly aware of their lord’s fury.
After a tense pause, Theron turned back to Scars, his gaze hard. “Find this recruit,” he commanded, his voice cold and unyielding. “Bring him to me. Alive. And if you fail…” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “I will drain the very life from you.”
Scars rose, his face set with determination, and bowed low before backing out of the room. He knew the cost of failure.
As he left, Theron’s gaze lingered on the faintly glowing crystal, his voice a dark promise echoing through the chamber. “I will find you, and your power will be mine.”