The stars had vanished behind a veil of smoke.

The village of Veylaris, nestled in the cradle of the Blackthorn Mountains, had always been hidden from the eyes of men. Protected by old magic, guarded by bloodlines older than most kingdoms. A home for demons not of cruelty, but of peace. For Kael, it had been his whole world — the place where he learned to walk, to fight with wooden swords, to laugh with his brothers, and sneak bread with Eira from the kitchen halls.

Now it was a grave.

Fire devoured the rooftops, casting long shadows over the scorched earth. Screams had long since faded into silence. The once-crystal waters of the central well now boiled, and its stone rim was cracked from a holy sigil burned into it by radiant magic. The trees that once guarded the village borders were turned to pillars of coal. The air was thick — choking, hot, reeking of ash and blood.

Ten-year-old Kael stood amid it all, barefoot, smoke curling around his ankles. His heart pounded like a war drum, but his limbs wouldn’t move. The dagger in his hands felt too heavy. His skin was singed, his eyes wide with horror.

His home was gone.

“I told you to run, Kael!” his brother had shouted, blood streaking his face, sword raised. “Take Eira and go!”

Kael hadn’t listened. He’d hidden instead, dragging Eira into the cellar tunnels beneath the old forge. They had waited in darkness, silent, as the clash of steel and magic tore the world above them apart. Now, the trapdoor lay shattered behind them, and they had surfaced to a nightmare.

“Kael…” Eira whispered, tugging at his sleeve. Her voice was fragile, barely more than a breath. “Is anyone left?”

Kael swallowed hard. His throat felt raw. He didn’t answer.

Somewhere ahead, a figure in golden armor turned, the holy emblem of the Radiant Church glowing on his chest. The knight moved with purpose — hunting stragglers, ensuring death was complete. These were not warriors. They were executioners.

Kael stepped back instinctively, placing himself between the knight and Eira.

He didn’t know what he could do. He was small. Powerless. But he would not run again.

A memory flickered — his father’s face, solemn and firm, kneeling before him.

“You’re different, Kael,” he had said. “You carry the old fire. One day, it will awaken. It will hurt. It will save. You must be strong enough to choose how you use it.”

That day had come.

Kael’s legs buckled beneath him. Not from fear — not anymore — but from something inside him. Something ancient. Something vast. It was as if his blood had turned to fire, his bones to iron. He clenched his teeth, his fingers digging into the earth.

A low hum began to resonate in the ground, almost like a growl. The very air around Kael warped — shadows grew longer, curling toward him, coiling like smoke. The red in his eyes deepened into a searing glow, his skin etched faintly with ember-like markings. The knight stepped back, confused. Then afraid.

Eira stumbled away from him, gasping. “Kael… what’s happening to you?”

He didn’t know. But he couldn’t stop it.

A wave of pure darkness exploded from his body, a shockwave of black and red energy that tore through the air like a scream. It struck the knight and hurled him backward like a ragdoll. The ground cracked in a perfect ring around Kael, stones rising and hovering in the air, trembling in his power.

Then silence.

Kael slowly rose to his feet. His hair fluttered in the unnatural wind, his eyes burning with light that did not belong to this world. Eira looked at him with awe and fear — but also hope.

The demon child had died in the fire. What stood in his place was something else.

Kael spoke, his voice deeper than before, laced with something old.

“I won’t forget this.”

He turned toward the horizon, where the Holy Knights had marched from — their banners still visible in the distance.

“I will remember. I will return. And I will burn the world that burned mine.”

From the ashes of Veylaris, beneath the gaze of a darkened sky, the Demon King was born.

Ten years passed like the turning of a blade — fast, brutal, and sharp enough to leave scars.

Far from the civilized kingdoms, beyond the reach of the Radiant Church and its self-righteous paladins, lay the Ruinspire Wastes — a cursed land of blackened stone, dead forests, and shattered monuments of an empire long lost to time. It was here, where no army dared march and no god cast light, that Kael and Eira had vanished after the fall of Veylaris.

The world believed them dead.

But shadows remember.

At the edge of a volcanic ridge, Kael stood shirtless beneath the crimson sky, sweat glistening across his hardened frame. His eyes, once wide with fear and wonder, now burned with cold purpose. Every movement of his blade was calculated, every breath in harmony with the ancient darkness that coiled around him like a loyal serpent.

He moved through his drills with brutal grace — cutting, twisting, striking — carving through the air as though each motion were a promise of vengeance. The black sword he wielded was no ordinary weapon. It pulsed with living energy, a gift — or curse — from something far older than the world itself.

Behind him, Eira watched, her staff pulsing with runes that shimmered in rhythmic cadence. Her hair, once silver, now shimmered like polished moonlight, cascading down her back. Ten years of magical study and combat had forged her into something far more than a frightened girl hiding in a cellar. She had become a sorceress of terrifying potential.

“Your form’s slipping again,” she said, her voice calm but sharp. “You’re hesitating before the upward cut.”

Kael stopped, blade pointed toward the ground. “I was adjusting for weight. The spirit shifted again.”

Eira narrowed her eyes. “Darkblade shouldn’t shift unless you're unstable.”

“I’m not.” His voice was cold, measured.

She raised a brow. “You’re brooding again.”

“I’m always brooding,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

That small exchange was all they needed. A decade together in training, survival, and isolation had given them a bond beyond words. A bond forged in fire and tempered in war.

Kael turned his eyes toward the canyon below. Shadows crawled at the edges — lesser demons and corrupted beasts, all driven from their dens when he began his training ritual. He could feel them, watching. Hungry.

“Let them come,” he murmured. “They’re good practice.”

---

The turning point had come on Kael’s thirteenth birthday. That was when the Spirit of Darkness revealed itself.

He had been meditating in the center of the blood grove, a cursed site deep in the Wastes. It was there, beneath the red tree whose roots fed on dead gods, that he had felt it — a presence older than time, watching him from behind the veil of the world.

You seek power, it had whispered. You seek justice. You seek vengeance. I offer all three.

Kael had not run. He did not tremble. He had stared into the void — and it stared back.

Then take my hand, it said. Become my vessel. Bear my flame. But know this — once we are one, there is no return.

He accepted.

In that moment, the Spirit of Darkness bound itself to Kael’s soul. It did not possess him. It became him. The raw potential that had first awakened during the massacre of Veylaris now had purpose, control, and a source: Umbra, the First Shadow, one of the ancient world-forging spirits that had been banished by the gods themselves.

Kael was no longer just a demon child.

He was the heir to darkness itself.

Eira had taken a different path.

After Kael’s awakening, she began her own journey — one of knowledge, discipline, and magic. She found tomes buried beneath forgotten ruins, bargained with spirits of wind and fire, and studied from the Codex Aetherum — a sentient grimoire that demanded blood and will in equal measure. Where Kael sought destruction, she sought mastery.

Yet, despite their separate paths, they remained together. Training. Growing. Becoming.

Where Kael’s magic was raw and violent — a weapon of war — Eira’s was elegant, precise, and terrifying in its own right. She could bend flame into razor wire, twist air into blades, shatter minds with a whisper. The half-demon girl who once hid behind Kael’s shadow had become a sorceress who could challenge an army alone.

And yet, even now, she sometimes looked at Kael with concern.

Because power, she knew, had a price.

---

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky bled into twilight, Kael sat at the edge of their camp, staring into the distance. The sword — Darkblade — rested beside him, its pulsing red core dimmed.

Eira sat nearby, feeding a small fire with blue flame from her fingertips. She watched him for a while, then finally broke the silence.

“You dreamed again, didn’t you?”

Kael didn’t answer at first. The fire crackled softly between them.

“Same dream,” he said at last. “Smoke. Screaming. And Ardyn.”

Commander Ardyn. The knight who had ordered the burning of Veylaris. The man Kael had vowed to kill.

Eira nodded slowly. “He’s not just your enemy. He’s their symbol. Killing him will mean war.”

“It’s already war,” Kael said. “They just don’t know it yet.”

She looked at him — really looked — and saw the flicker of pain beneath the rage.

“You’re not alone in this, Kael. You never were.”

He looked over at her, and for a moment, the mask fell away. He gave a slow nod.

“I know.”

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was a comfort. A decade of shared solitude had taught them to understand even the quiet.

Then the ground shook.

Kael was on his feet in an instant, sword in hand. Eira rose beside him, her staff glowing with arcane runes. From the ridge, black shapes emerged — hulking beasts of claw and bone, eyes glowing with soulfire. Corrupted wargs — three of them, each the size of a warhorse.

“Scouts,” Kael muttered. “Something’s driving them north.”

“They’ll make good sparring partners,” Eira said, twirling her staff.

Kael didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. Together, they moved.

The first warg lunged toward Kael, its maw gaping. Kael sidestepped with inhuman speed, blade cleaving upward through its chest. The beast shrieked, black blood spraying across the stones.

The second charged Eira. She raised her hand, muttered a single word — “Ignis.” A pillar of flame erupted beneath the warg, launching it skyward before it exploded in a bloom of fire.

The third tried to retreat, sensing the imbalance. Kael didn’t allow it. A wave of darkness shot from his outstretched hand, spearing the beast with tendrils of shadow that crushed its spine with a sickening crack.

And just like that, the fight was over.

Kael stood amid the corpses, breathing calmly. Eira stepped beside him, inspecting the remains.

“They’re fleeing,” she said. “That means something worse is coming.”

Kael looked toward the northern horizon.

“Good,” he said. “Let it come.”

(Eira was born in a border village between demon and human lands, the child of a demon father and a human mother — a rare and often reviled union. From a young age, she was ostracized by both races, treated as a cursed child. Her family fled to the hidden village of Veylaris, where she met Kael and found the first true home she had ever known.

When the Holy Knights destroyed Veylaris, Eira survived alongside Kael by escaping into the underground tunnels. That moment shattered her innocence and awakened a burning desire not for revenge, but for power — the power to protect, to control her fate, and to never be helpless again.)

The wind carried the scent of steel, blood, and holy incense.

Kael stood atop a jagged cliff, his red eyes narrowing at the golden-armored convoy winding through the canyon below. There were five hundred of them — Holy Knights of the Radiant Order — each bearing the sigil of the sun, the same emblem that had burned his village to ash ten years ago.

He recognized the lead banner. The spear crowned with white fire. Commander Ardyn’s vanguard.

His fist clenched.

Beside him, Eira crouched low, staff glowing softly with containment runes. Her white hair danced in the wind like silk flame, but her expression was still — calm, calculating.

“They’re moving toward the Shadelands border,” she said. “Scouting, maybe. Or preparing a purge.”

Kael’s voice was cold. “Either way, they die here.”

Eira turned to him. “We’ll be outnumbered. Again.”

Kael glanced at her, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Then it’s a fair fight.”

She smiled slightly — just for a moment — then stepped closer. Her hand touched his chest, fingers brushing over the dark sigil burned into his skin by Umbra itself.

“Come back to me,” she said softly, violet eyes glowing with emotion she rarely showed. “Come back to me, husband.”

The word lingered in the air like magic.

Kael didn’t answer right away. He leaned forward, and their lips met — fire and shadow entwined in a single kiss. When he pulled away, his voice was a low promise.

“Always.”

The battle began like a storm — sudden and merciless.

As the knights entered the canyon pass, Kael dropped from the cliff like a falling star, landing with such force the earth cracked beneath him. His blade, Darkblade, sang with fury as he cleaved through the first squad in a single motion, their shields splintering like paper.

Alarms rang out. Horns blew. Ardyn’s men formed ranks, blades drawn, chants rising to call down divine protection.

Too late.

From above, Eira raised her staff. Her voice, melodic and terrible, echoed across the battlefield.

“Ignis Tempestum.”

The sky ignited. Fire rained down in controlled torrents, targeting only the knights, their armor turning into molten tombs. Wind blades followed, slicing through exposed necks and joints. Eira descended like a phantom, teleporting into the fray with elegance and destruction.

Kael moved like a shadow made flesh — untouchable, unstoppable. Where his blade passed, knights fell in halves, their souls ripped from their bodies by the spirit bound within him. Divine wards shattered under his presence. Holy light flickered and died.

Within minutes, the canyon became a graveyard.

Still they came — wave after wave — men who believed they served righteousness.

And still Kael and Eira stood.

Back to back. Blades and magic. Demon and sorceress. King and queen.

By the end, only one knight remained — a captain, trembling, bloodied, crawling away.

Kael walked toward him, dragging his blade behind him.

“Mercy…” the knight whispered. “Please… I was only following—”

Darkblade struck the earth beside the knight’s head.

“There is no mercy for those who burn children alive,” Kael said. “Tell your gods: the Demon King has returned.”

And then he ended him.

As the smoke cleared and the fires died, Eira stood beside Kael, her eyes surveying the carnage.

“Five hundred,” she said. “No survivors.”

Kael nodded once. “A message. To the Church. To the world.”

Eira reached for his hand.

“To the future.”