The ancient hall pulsed with quiet power.
Dark stone walls lined with glowing crimson veins loomed high above, arching into a ceiling lost in shadow. The air was thick with silence, as though even time itself held its breath here. The massive black throne at the end of the hall sat empty, but the room thrummed with the lingering echo of its mistress.
Then—footsteps.
Delicate but certain.
Maya, still clad in her flowing navy silk, walked with measured grace across the long obsidian floor, her hair trailing behind her like a river of night.
She carried no visible urgency, but there was purpose in her stride. The soft click of her sandals echoed with precision. Her expression remained unreadable—calm as ever—but her eyes held a gleam of satisfaction.
The tall iron doors at the back of the throne hall groaned shut behind her, and the silence returned—only to be broken moments later by a faint hum.
From the darkness above, a presence stirred.
The air grew heavier, colder.
And then she descended.
The Lady of Crimson Eyes.
She emerged from the upper alcove, her steps slow and regal, each one resonating with power that rippled through the room. A long, black gown trailed behind her, whispering secrets to the floor as she walked. Her pale skin glowed faintly under the blood-red lights, and her eyes—twin pools of ancient crimson—glowed with restrained intensity.
She descended the throne steps in silence, every movement echoing authority.
Maya lowered her gaze and bowed deeply. "The reincarnation is complete."
The crimson-eyed woman stopped before her, towering above with the stillness of a storm just before it breaks.
"He accepted the condition?"
Maya nodded. "Willingly. As expected."
A slow smile tugged at the woman's lips. "Good. The memory seal?"
"Bound until he reaches the age of nineteen, as you commanded."
"And his soul?"
"Stabilized. Embedded into the vessel of the second-born son, just as the threads aligned."
A moment passed.
Then, with deliberate grace, the Lady turned from Maya and stepped slowly toward the great circle etched into the center of the floor—a vast magical sigil carved in overlapping rings, its grooves pulsing faintly with dormant power.
She stood at its edge, staring down.
"All is moving according to the weave," she murmured, almost to herself. "At last…"
Maya lifted her head slightly. "Will you tell him the truth?"
The Lady's crimson gaze remained fixed on the glowing lines. "When the time is right."
"And the others?" Maya asked. "What if they interfere before he awakens?"
"They won't," the Lady said, a sharp glint in her eyes. "I've prepared for every branch of the weave. Even the broken threads."
A silence passed between them. Ancient. Unspoken.
Then the Lady turned slightly, her gaze sweeping the dark hall.
"Begin preparations," she said softly, but her voice carried the force of command. "The ritual must be complete before the first abyssal fracture appears in Etherya. We do not have long."
Maya hesitated. "Do you… truly believe he is the one?"
The Lady's eyes narrowed.
she said, walking slowly back to the center of the sigil. "He is ."
The sigil flared faintly beneath her steps as she moved to its center. Crimson light spiraled outward like veins coming to life. The hall responded, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
Then she raised her hand, and the ground beneath the sigil began to shift—ancient mechanisms groaning to life. Arcane glyphs burst into flame, spiraling upward like smoke made of light.
From the darkness, hooded figures stepped forth—silent acolytes cloaked in black and red. They took their positions around the sigil without a word.
Maya moved to join them, her position marked by a glowing rune opposite the throne.
As the room filled with ritual energy, the Lady looked once more into the spiral of light and shadow forming around her.
"Nineteen years…" she whispered. "And then the soul shall awaken."
The ritual had begun.
The ritual circle burned brighter now—veins of red and silver light threading outward like cracks in the floor of the universe itself. Each acolyte stood motionless, arms raised, voices joined in a low, rhythmic chant that echoed through the vast chamber.
Maya's hands glowed with a soft, navy hue, her voice harmonizing perfectly as she maintained the soul-tether's balance.
At the center of it all, the Lady of Crimson Eyes stood like a pillar of fate incarnate. Her long black gown fluttered as if stirred by winds unseen. She was still, yet powerful. Calm, yet commanding.
The air grew warmer, pressure heavier.
Magic responded like a living thing—wrapping around the sigil, spinning threads of destiny into a singular point.
And then—
It fractured.
Not the spell.
Not the weave.
The air.
The moment was subtle—so delicate it might have gone unnoticed. But the Lady felt it.
She opened her eyes.
A sudden shiver split across the far edge of the chamber. The crimson veins in the walls flickered—and then went dark for a breathless instant.
Maya tensed. "My Lady—"
"Hold formation," the Lady ordered.
But before another word could pass, the ceiling above the outer gate exploded.
A rain of stone and obsidian shards scattered across the chamber, and a violent howl ripped through the air—inhuman, distorted, like something ancient and furious had broken free.
From the smoke emerged three figures, cloaked in dark armor laced with pulsating blue runes. Their faces were masked, their eyes glowing a pale, sickly green.
"Breachers," Maya whispered, alarmed.
The chanting faltered.
The lead intruder raised a twisted staff of bone and crystal, pointing it toward the ritual circle.
The Lady didn't flinch.
"You're too late."
She raised her hand.
In a blur of movement, a wave of red energy surged outward, crashing into the intruders with a deafening pulse. The air burned, the floor cracked, and one of the masked figures was instantly vaporized—nothing left but ash.
The remaining two leapt back, conjuring shields of void-black energy.
Maya turned toward the nearest acolytes. "Stabilize the circle!"
But the ritual was faltering—the soul thread flickered, shuddering under the strain. The spiral of light grew erratic, warping like a storm.
Mark's essence—still hovering, unseen—twisted violently, like a candle in a hurricane.
The Lady's eyes narrowed.
"If they sever the tether now…."
Maya moved to defend the circle—but the remaining intruder hurled a blade of blue energy her way. She barely dodged, retaliating with a beam of searing navy flame.
Amid the chaos, the Lady stepped fully into the circle, her power coalescing into a sphere of protective light.
She whispered something only the weave could hear.
And the ritual burned anew—unstable, but surging forward.