In the twilight of Alliora, the fading sun cast long shadows over the Blackstone Clan's estate. Nestled between jagged mountains, its spires and high walls gave the illusion of grandeur and strength. But for those living beneath the gilded towers, the estate was more of a prison than a sanctuary, a world of rigid hierarchy, cruelty, and callous indifference.

Among the servants scurrying through the stone corridors and dimly lit chambers, Elion Blackstone was a forgotten existence. Born to a servant mother and an unknown father, his life had been one of insignificance from the start. He had no family name of his own, though the clan called him "Blackstone" out of convenience, a reminder of the clan’s dominance. The name, however, held no honor. In their eyes, he was an expendable piece in a grander scheme.

At fifteen, Elion had grown accustomed to his station—cleaning halls, preparing meals, and enduring the scorn of the clan's true heirs. He lived in the servants' quarters, a damp and cold section of the estate that was more dungeon than home. His world was small, his future even smaller. To the outside world, he might as well have been invisible. And that was how the clan preferred it.

But within Elion burned a quiet defiance. From a young age, he had watched the clan members closely, not just out of obligation but out of a gnawing hunger. He had seen the way they commanded magic, bending the world to their will with arcane rituals and incantations. Even the weakest of the clan could summon fire from thin air or heal wounds with a touch of their fingers. To them, magic was a birthright. To Elion, it was the key to freedom.

He had no access to the clan’s sacred libraries, nor was he ever allowed near the cultivation halls where the scions trained in spellcraft. But he listened. He watched. He memorized every word, every gesture, every scrap of information. Where others saw barriers, Elion saw opportunities. He couldn’t afford to dream of becoming a great mage, not yet. But knowledge was a weapon in its own right, and he intended to wield it.

# The Night of Blood#

That night, the air was heavy with tension. The Blackstone patriarch, Lord Alaric, had grown increasingly paranoid over the past year. Rumors of a power struggle within the clan swirled like storm clouds, and every shadow seemed to hide an assassin’s blade. Servants whispered of rival factions, of plans to seize control, and of a looming confrontation that would shake the very foundations of the estate.

Elion, sweeping the courtyard under the pale glow of the moon, noticed the unusual activity. Clan guards, always vigilant, moved with even greater purpose. The senior mages gathered in secret meetings, their faces grim. Something was about to happen, something that would change the course of the clan's history.

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But none of this concerned Elion—not yet. He had learned long ago to keep his head down and avoid the dangerous games of those in power. His survival depended on staying unnoticed.

And then it happened.

Without warning, a deafening explosion rocked the estate, shattering windows and filling the night with a cacophony of screams. Elion dropped his broom, heart pounding, and watched in horror as a section of the eastern wall crumbled into dust. Flames erupted from the inner sanctum, casting the estate in an eerie, flickering glow.

Figures darted through the chaos—clan members and assassins alike. Spells of fire, ice, and lightning crackled through the air, cutting through stone and flesh with terrifying ease. The Blackstone Clan was under attack.

Elion hesitated, torn between fleeing to safety and staying hidden in the shadows. He knew this was no ordinary attack. Someone within the clan had orchestrated this—an internal coup, perhaps. He could see the cold, calculated precision of the strikes, the way key members were targeted first.

As the chaos unfolded around him, something caught his eye—a figure staggering through the smoke-filled corridor leading to the inner sanctum. It was an elder, one of the few clan members Elion had heard of but rarely seen. Elder Faros, a once-powerful mage who had fallen into madness years ago. The clan had kept him confined to his chambers, fearing the unstable power he still wielded. But tonight, it seemed, he had been dragged into the fray.

Elion’s breath caught in his throat as Faros collapsed against a pillar, his once-vibrant robes now torn and bloodied. His wild eyes locked onto Elion’s from across the courtyard.

“Elion... Blackstone...” The elder’s voice was a rasp, barely audible over the din of battle.

Against his better judgment, Elion stepped forward, drawn to the elder’s desperate call. He had nothing to lose; he was already a dead man walking in this world of magic. If he ignored the elder, the assassins or mages would kill him soon enough.

As he approached, the elder reached out with trembling hands and grabbed Elion by the wrist. The grip was iron-hard, belying the man’s fragile state.

“You… you seek power,” Faros wheezed. “I see it in your eyes. You are different… not like the others… not bound by their petty rules.”

Elion’s mind raced. Power? What was this madman talking about? He had always been careful to hide his ambitions, his curiosity. Yet somehow, this dying elder saw through him with frightening clarity.

“Listen to me,” Faros hissed, pulling Elion closer. “There is a path… a forbidden path, hidden from the eyes of these fools. They cling to their precious bloodlines, to their so-called honor… but true power, real power, lies beyond the chains of morality. Do you understand?”

Elion’s heart pounded in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to leave this man to die, to escape before he was caught in something far bigger than himself. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not when the opportunity was right in front of him.

“What are you talking about?” Elion asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Faros coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “The Dark Sage… the path of the Dark Sage. The clan has forgotten… they fear it. But I have seen it. I have… studied it. You… you can become something more. But you must forsake everything.”

Elion’s eyes widened. The Dark Sage. He had heard whispers of such a figure, an ancient mage who had once nearly torn the world apart with his forbidden magic. But that was a legend, a cautionary tale told to warn young mages against the dangers of ambition unchecked by morality. To walk that path was to invite destruction.

Yet Faros spoke of it as if it were real.