Chapter 2: New Age

Dusk fell over Aurengarde, casting the ancient capital in hues of indigo and crimson, as though the heavens themselves were witnesses to the events about to unfold. The sprawling city lay sprawled like a restless beast, its intricate web of streets thrumming with life. Flickering lamplights dotted the cobblestone avenues, illuminating merchants haggling in the bazaars and street performers spinning tales for meager coin. High above it all, the great castle of Aurengarde loomed, its crystalline spires piercing the heavens like the jagged teeth of some divine sentinel. Tonight, the castle would be the stage for an act of treachery that would echo through the annals of history.

Link Farenfeim sat in the back of his gilded carriage, his sharp features illuminated by the faint glow of a single enchanted lantern. The carriage rocked slightly as it traversed the uneven streets, its polished mahogany interior far too cramped for a man of his stature. His long legs pressed uncomfortably against the table before him, and his face bore a faint scowl. Link had always detested these enclosed spaces, preferring the open air and the freedom it promised. Yet tonight, appearances demanded his discomfort.

Before him lay a letter, its parchment yellowed and edges frayed as if it had traveled through unspeakable distances and hands before reaching him. He unfolded it, his gloved fingers brushing over the faded ink. The words seemed to sneer at him as he read:

"Greetings, Link, better known as the Herald of Divinity. We have heard of your interest in science and the heretical practices you study. We, the Shadowborn, extend an invitation to join us. Together, we can save Aurelith from its decay..."

The words lingered in his mind, their implication sharp and insidious. The Shadowborn, a cult of misfits and idealists, had been whispering their promises of salvation to anyone desperate enough to listen. But Link was not so easily swayed. He tore the letter into strips, each shred falling like a silent condemnation to the carriage floor. Let them rot in their delusions. He had his own path to tread—one that would reshape not just Aurengarde but the very fabric of existence.

The carriage came to a halt, and the door swung open with a soft creak. The driver, an aging man with a weathered face and a threadbare cloak, tipped his hat and gestured toward the towering gates of the castle. Link stepped out, his boots crunching against the loose gravel, his every movement fluid yet deliberate. The evening air was cool, carrying with it the faint scent of jasmine and the distant echo of a minstrel's lute. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath as though savoring the stillness before the storm.

When he opened them again, his guise shimmered. The unremarkable clothing of a commoner melted away, replaced by the flowing robes of silver and rose-gold that marked his station. His blonde hair gleamed like spun sunlight in the dying light of day, and his piercing blue eyes seemed to reflect the very stars themselves. The guards at the gates, clad in ceremonial armor that gleamed in the lamplight, straightened immediately and bowed. Link strode past them without a word, his every step echoing with authority.

Inside the castle, the atmosphere was a cacophony of opulence. The great hall bustled with nobles adorned in silks and jewels, their laughter a melody of indulgence. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across walls adorned with centuries of Aurengarde’s history—tapestries depicting battles won and oaths sworn under starlit skies. The scent of roasted venison and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the cloying sweetness of perfumes.

In the midst of this revelry, drunken men had climbed onto the throne itself, their antics drawing jeers and cheers from the crowd. Guards in muted gray armor tried—and failed—to shoo them away without causing a scene. Link’s lips curled in distaste. Here was the court of Aurengarde, a den of indulgence and decay, blind to the storm gathering on its horizon.

Ascending the grand staircase, Link’s mind sharpened. Each step was a deliberate movement in a dance that had taken years to choreograph. The marble beneath his boots gleamed, the veins in the stone resembling rivers of blood frozen in time. Halfway up, a hand gripped his arm. The sudden contact made him halt, his eyes narrowing as he turned.

“What are you doing here?” a gravelly voice demanded.

The speaker was Bale, leader of the Royal Council’s war division. A mountain of a man, Bale’s broad shoulders seemed to strain against the confines of his leather tunic. His face bore the scars of a hundred battles, his one good eye scrutinizing Link with suspicion while the other was hidden beneath a worn leather eyepatch.

“I could ask you the same,” Link replied evenly, his tone devoid of warmth.

Bale’s expression softened slightly, though his brow remained furrowed. “Bodyguard duty,” he muttered. “Orion’s orders. He’s been on edge all week. Something about an assassin.”

The word hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. Link’s heart quickened, though his face betrayed nothing. Instead, he chuckled softly, a sound as hollow as the man’s armor. “An assassin? Truly? The king’s imagination knows no bounds.”

Bale’s eye narrowed, his scarred lips twisting into a frown. “Be careful, Link. Something feels...off tonight.”

Link offered a faint nod before continuing his ascent. The upper levels of the castle were a stark contrast to the revelry below. Here, silence reigned, broken only by the faint crackle of torches mounted on the walls. The air was cooler, the shadows longer. Guards stood at attention in every corridor, their eyes scanning for any hint of danger.

Reaching his chambers, Link entered briefly, his hand brushing against his face. A faint pink glow emanated from his palm, and his features began to shift. The noble visage faded, replaced by that of a common guard: a rough complexion, a goatee, and nondescript brown hair. His new form was utterly forgettable—exactly as he intended.

Leaving the room behind, Link ascended two more flights of the stone stairs, relishing the anonymity that his woven disguise afforded him. There was a certain freedom in being a nobody, unrecognized and unnoticed in a world where faces often spoke louder than actions. By the time he reached the sixth floor, he gave a curt nod to the two guards stationed at the top of the stairs.

“Suspicious activity reported on the second floor,” he said, his voice an eerie mismatch to his face. Even he was slightly startled by how strange it sounded, but it worked. The guards exchanged wary glances, then shrugged and rushed past him, their footsteps echoing as they disappeared down the stairwell. Fools. He smirked to himself and adjusted his gait, walking the now-deserted corridor toward his objective.

The sixth floor was the heart of the palace, housing the king’s chambers and the private quarters of council members. Link had no concerns about encountering them tonight—he knew exactly where every council member was. The floor was designed like a maze, its labyrinthine corridors lined with plain stone walls and crystalline lights casting dim, atmospheric glows. The aesthetic was one Link appreciated. Its stillness and simplicity carried an air of foreboding, a stark contrast to the opulence of the floors below.

His smirk widened as his eyes fell on the two guards stationed farther down the corridor. Beyond them, past a turn and another hallway, lay the doors to the king’s chamber. Only four stood between him and his ultimate goal.

He approached casually, stopping between the two guards as though he belonged. They barely had time to process his presence before Link lunged. His dagger, honed to a razor’s edge, found the neck of the guard on his right. The man’s hands flew to his throat, a gurgled cry escaping as blood spurted out. Link’s hand glowed a sinister crimson, and with a sickening crackle, the blood solidified, leaving the man frozen—a grotesque, hollow shell.

The other guard turned to flee, panic etched into his face. Link licked his lips. His crimson-lit hand twitched, and the blood from the fallen guard liquefied, then twisted into razor-sharp shards. The projectiles shot through the air, piercing the fleeing guard’s back. He crumpled to the ground with a strangled gasp.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Link stepped over the body without a second thought, rounding the corner toward the king’s chamber. This new hall was brighter, adorned with paintings and tapestries of Orion and his father, Tharion Starborne. Their regal gazes seemed to follow him, and though Link usually didn’t care for such sentimentality, he briefly mused that Tharion’s portrait didn’t deserve to witness what was about to unfold.

The final two guards ahead were sharper than the last pair. They tensed immediately upon spotting him, and one of them shouted, “Assassin!” as they raised their spears and charged.

Link didn’t hesitate. With a flick of his glowing hand, crimson tendrils burst forth from the stone floor, snaring the guards mid-step. Their armor clattered as they fell, the tendrils coiling tighter and tighter, snapping bones like twigs. The guards screamed as the blood was drained from their bodies, the tendrils growing thicker and more vibrant with every drop. By the time Link stepped past, the men were shriveled husks, their empty eyes staring at nothing.

The crimson glow faded from his hands, and the tendrils receded, leaving the hallway eerily clean save for the dried remains of the guards. Link pushed open the double doors to the king’s chamber.

The room was breathtaking as always, with high, vaulted ceilings and walls of glass windows offering a panoramic view of the starlit kingdom. The massive bed at the far end, draped in silken sheets, exuded opulence. The stars shone brightly tonight—almost too brightly.

And there he was. Standing tall near the bed, King Orion Starborne awaited him. The king’s blonde hair shimmered under the celestial light, and his ancestral robes seemed to glow with an almost otherworldly sheen.

“I knew you would come, assassin,” Orion said, his voice calm but resolute.

Link couldn’t help but smile. For all the faults he found in the king, he had to admire his courage. Orion stood alone, unarmed save for his wits and his will. No guards. No tricks. Just a man ready to face his fate.

“Take off the weaving,” Orion commanded, his piercing gaze fixed on Link.

Link raised an eyebrow. He was impressed the king recognized the veilwaving magic. Avoiding the command, he raised his arms in mock triumph. “How did you know an assassin would come? Why not summon someone like Bale to protect you?”

“The stars told me,” Orion replied, his voice unwavering. “They warned me my end was near. If I ignored them, I would die tonight.”

Link sighed. Another one of these celestial fanatics. Fascinating, but irrelevant. He needed to act before reinforcements arrived. He charged, dagger slashing through the air, but Orion sidestepped gracefully, his movements almost ethereal. From within his robes, the king drew two small knives and hurled them—not at Link, but at the windows. The glass shattered, and the cold night air rushed in, carrying with it the brilliance of the starlit sky.

A trap. Link realized too late that he had underestimated Orion. The shattered windows bathed the room in celestial light, amplifying the king’s magic. Orion’s hands glowed with a pale blue radiance as he raised them to the sky. The stars seemed to pulse in unison with his movements, and with a sweeping gesture, he unleashed a blinding beam of light.

Link ducked just in time, the beam scorching the stone wall behind him and opening the room further to the night. The king’s strategy was clear—draw the battle into his domain, under the stars that strengthened his celestial magic.

Link gritted his teeth, his own blood dripping from a shallow cut. He lunged again, but Orion spun with practiced precision, summoning three spectral beings of light. They moved sluggishly but hit with devastating force, their luminescent bodies radiating an oppressive heat.

Link grimaced as one of the creatures impaled him, its spear of light tearing through his gut. Blood poured freely, staining the pristine floor. He fell to his knees, feigning weakness. Orion dismissed the spectral beings with a flick of his wrist and stepped closer, his hands still glowing.

“No assassin will take another Starborne,” Orion said, his voice tinged with sorrow. “I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t die like my father.”

Link almost felt bad for the man, who thought he won. He coughed, blood falling out his stomach. His hand suddenly glowed red, as all the blood that was under him, coating the room red, turned sharp. Link saw it. Saw the face the king made as he tried to dodge, not comprehending what was happening.

The blood-red sword pierced the man's chest. Going right through the king’s body. His eyes, were shocked and enthralled. He fell to the ground, leaning on the front of his bed as he breathed ragged breaths. “Bloodcraft…? But how… It was forbidden…” Orion stared as Link stood, a bit slower than usual as he held his gut. He’d recover from the blow, as he’d have to feed off the kings blood.

“It was.” Link said, grin on his face as he stood over the dying man. “Times are changing now. Especially after tonight.” The king stared at him with dying eyes. God, those eyes… Link felt so good watching the mans life being stripped away.

“Who… Theylah? Shadowborn?” Link’s hand glowed once more, this time pink as he touched his face, revealing his true self. Orion gasped. “Link… But why…”

“Dying without answers… Just like your father.” He said, as he turned away. He was done here. After this, Aurengarde would never be the same. As he walked off he heard the kings pleas. He was going to die alone. Just like the rest of them.

Link left the castle with a grin. Just like that, he saved Aurengarde.

Chapter 2.5: Crimson Eyes

The Celestine Peaks were cold today. The air bit sharply against exposed skin, carrying with it a stillness that unnerved even the bravest hearts. Usually, the days in this region were warm, tempered by the peaks’ protective embrace. But not today. Today the cold seeped deeper, a creeping chill that even Vireth felt, though it wasn’t the weather that gnawed at her.

She stood at the heart of the broken village, the tip of her crimson blade pressed against the throat of a trembling old monk. Around them, thousands of Starborn Elves knelt on the jagged ground, their eyes cast downward, bodies quivering under the weight of despair. Smoke spiraled from the ruins of their homes, the acrid stench of burning wood and stone mingling with the metallic tang of blood in the air.

Behind her, a vast army of black-clad soldiers loomed, their faces obscured by deep red masks etched with the symbol of the Shadowborn: a question mark-like curve with three diagonal streaks and a single star perched above. The symbol seemed to pulse faintly, a mark of allegiance to something greater and far darker than themselves.

Vireth’s voice cut through the silence, rough and commanding. “You all kneel before your enemy.”

The words hung in the air, sharp as the blade she held. The cold wind tugged at her black hair, streaking it across her pale face, the faint light of the distant snowcaps reflecting in her piercing gaze. She took a step forward, the monk’s frail body jerking slightly under her grip.

“Where is your fight?” she barked. Her voice echoed off the rocky ridges, challenging the peaks themselves. A few of the elves dared to lift their heads, their eyes hollow and bloodshot. None held her gaze for long, their fear driving them to bow again.

“I’ve conquered Stareels with more fight than this.” She sneered, her disgust palpable. “You kneel in your ruin, the ashes of your homes at your back, and you don’t even try to stop me? Pathetic.”

The words were meant to sting, but there was no anger in their responses—only resignation. Their silence grated on her more than defiance ever could. She had hoped for a battle, for blood spilled in glorious resistance. But these elves… they were already broken.

The old monk beneath her blade finally spoke, his voice soft yet unyielding. “We have known this day would come. The stars told us weeks ago.” His words were measured, spoken with the weight of unshakable conviction. “They showed us this moment. Your coming, your triumph—it was written in the skies above long before you were born.”

Vireth’s lips curled in a snarl. “Foolishness,” she spat, her crimson knife pressing harder against his throat. “Your stars are nothing but the lies you tell yourselves to avoid action. They belong to no one but me now.”

The monk’s gaze met hers, steady even in the shadow of death. “You will learn,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “The stars… they see all. Even you.”

Her fingers twitched. The temptation to end his life surged through her, but instead, she raised her free hand, signaling her troops. “Begin,” she commanded.

The cultists obeyed instantly. Thousands of voices rose as one, chanting the ancient anthem of the Shadowborn, their tones rich and haunting. The sound reverberated through the peaks, a dreadful harmony that made even the winds pause to listen.

“He dreamt once of hopeful skies…

And so he gave it crimson eyes…

He led us through this fantasy…

And so we will keep his legacy…”

The words repeated, growing louder, more fervent, until they seemed to shake the ground itself. The soldiers raised their hands skyward, their crimson masks gleaming in the flickering firelight.

“Oh Astralis…” the monk whispered, his voice lost in the crescendo. “Save thy becoming.”

Vireth laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that cut through the chant. “Praise the Shadowborn,” she said, driving the blade across his throat in a swift, deliberate motion.

Crimson life spilled from the monk, staining the rocky ground beneath him. The blood steamed in the frigid air, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then the ritual began in earnest.

From every kneeling elf, the blood pulsed, a dreadful force drawing it from their bodies. They screamed as their veins emptied, the life torn from them to feed the rising power. The blood moved as if alive, swirling upward in thick, undulating streams, coalescing into the massive symbol of the Shadowborn high above the peaks.

Vireth stood at the center of it all, watching as man, woman, and child fell one by one. Their cries filled the air, mingling with the chant of her cultists. The power radiating from the symbol was intoxicating, a surge of energy that made her pulse quicken and her lips curve into a cruel smile.

This was her masterpiece—a massacre, a declaration, and a ritual all in one. The Shadowborn symbol glowed brighter, its presence carving itself into the heavens, undeniable and eternal. This was the beginning of the end, the first step in her grand plan to reshape the world in her image.

And as the last screams faded into the cold, thin air, Vireth whispered, “Let the stars witness this. Let them tremble.”

For this, would be the start of a new war.