Blood Of FirstBorn

The mist finally broke as they reached the edge of the marshlands.

Beyond the final ridge lay crumbled spires and broken statues swallowed by roots and moss. Jagged towers tilted toward the sky like crooked fingers. What remained of the College looked less like a ruin and more like a battlefield—one time had lost.

Kael stepped forward, eyes wide. "This was a place of learning?"

Sylen nodded grimly. "Before the Church outlawed all research into pre-Divine magic. This was where the brightest minds in the Five Kingdoms gathered to study the old powers."

Lira turned slowly, awestruck. "It feels… haunted."

"It is," Sylen said. "By memory."

They descended carefully, their boots crunching over scattered marble and broken sigils. Runes older than the current calendar glowed faintly in some of the deeper cracks, pulsing with forgotten languages Kael almost understood.

The relic in his body reacted—buzzing like it remembered this place.

"Stay close," Sylen warned. "Nyssa isn't the type to welcome strangers with open arms."

As they passed beneath a broken archway carved with images of three-headed serpents and winged beasts, Kael whispered, "Why would she even agree to meet us?"

Sylen looked back. "Because she's the last scholar alive who knows what a Firstborn truly is."

---

They found her in the remains of the central hall.

A long table stretched beneath a shattered dome, surrounded by flickering blue candles and stacks of rotting tomes. At its head sat a tall woman wrapped in raven-black robes and veils. Her eyes glowed faintly beneath the shadows—silver, like starlight reflected in ink.

She did not rise as they approached.

"So," she said in a voice that was both young and ancient, "the child bears the Ruin's mark."

Kael's spine stiffened. "You know about it?"

Nyssa turned her head toward him. "I've studied the Firstborn my entire life, child. I dreamed of finding one. I never expected one would walk into my ruins still breathing."

Kael stepped forward. "I don't even know what I am. What this mark is. What it wants from me."

Nyssa tilted her head. "It doesn't want anything. The Mark is not sentient. But it is… coded memory. A living artifact of a people who rewrote the rules of magic."

She stood then, gliding more than walking. "Sit. All of you. There is much you need to understand."

---

For hours, Kael listened as Nyssa recounted forgotten history.

She spoke of the Firstborn, a race not born of flesh, but of pure will—beings created at the dawn of time by the Architects of the Aether. The Firstborn shaped the world. They built the original Vaults, forged the Relics, and seeded life across the Realms.

But they were betrayed—from within.

One of their own, a figure lost to time, turned against them. This traitor sought to become a god above gods and used the Relics to fracture the balance.

That's when the Godwars began.

"They burned continents," Nyssa said quietly. "And in the end, the Firstborn were sealed away—not killed, for they could not die, but bound. Their memories locked in Relics. Their will diluted over bloodlines."

"And now," she looked at Kael, "you bear one of those fragments. The Crown of Ruin—belonging to the Firstborn Warlord known only as Vekros."

Kael's breath caught. "You mean I'm… him?"

"No," Nyssa said sharply. "You are you. But that relic carries echoes—his power, his instincts, and perhaps his choices."

Kael looked down at his hand. "Then I have to learn to control it. Before it controls me."

Nyssa nodded slowly. "Wise. But difficult."

Sylen leaned forward. "There's more, isn't there?"

Nyssa's eyes narrowed. "The Pale Hand will not stop. You've become a symbol. They believe the Firstborn must never rise again."

Lira spoke for the first time. "What do they want?"

"Order. Purity. The end of all bloodlines touched by old power. They believe the world must be sterilized from chaos."

Kael clenched his fists. "And what if I don't care about being Firstborn? What if I just want to protect the people I care about?"

Nyssa studied him a long time. "Then you may have a chance."

She walked toward a sealed chamber behind the lecture hall. "Come with me. I have something to show you."

---

Inside the chamber lay a circular room of polished obsidian. Floating stones revolved around a crystalline core that shimmered with golden script.

"This is a Memory Core," Nyssa explained. "Used by the Firstborn to store history. Most were destroyed. This one survived because the Church never knew it existed."

Kael stepped forward. The script on the core shifted, warping as if responding to him.

Lira whispered, "It knows him…"

Kael reached out and touched it.

Visions flooded his mind—armies in armor of light, serpents coiled around thrones, a voice whispering war songs in a forgotten tongue. He saw Vekros—tall, eyes burning like suns, leading legions into battle with a crown of flame.

And for a split second… Vekros looked back at him.

Kael staggered, falling to his knees.

Nyssa knelt beside him. "You touched memory. Be careful—touch it too often, and you'll forget which thoughts are yours."

Kael stood slowly. "Then teach me. Help me figure this out. Because if the Pale Hand wants a war—"

He turned, eyes glowing faintly with newfound resolve.

"—then I'll remind them what real war looks like."

---

Far away, beneath a mountain crypt, the Pale Hand's Ascendants gathered. Nine robed figures knelt around a blood-soaked altar.

The High Ascendant's voice echoed.

"The Relic-bearer walks toward memory. The cycle repeats."

Another voice hissed, "Shall we sever him now?"

"No," the High Ascendant whispered. "Let him grow. Let him taste power. For only at his peak… will his fall feed the Gate."

They bowed lower.

"Let the Ascension begin."