The crimson sun bled across the obsidian peaks, casting long, eerie shadows that danced amongst the ancient trees of the Crimsonwood. Within the heart of the forest, nestled amidst a sprawling estate of obsidian and blood-red marble, stood the Crimson Keep, ancestral home of the House of Crimson.
Lysander, heir to the illustrious lineage, paced the crimson-carpeted floor of his chambers, his youthful face etched with a mixture of boredom and restlessness. The air hung heavy with the scent of expensive incense and the stifled whispers of unseen servants. Life within the Keep was a gilded cage, a symphony of opulent feasts, tedious courtly rituals, and the suffocating weight of expectation.
He yearned for adventure, for the thrill of the unknown, for a life beyond the meticulously crafted facade of his noble birth. He longed to explore the whispering woods, to delve into the forbidden archives rumored to hold secrets older than the Empire itself, to feel the sting of the wind against his face and the warmth of the sun on his skin.
A sudden commotion shattered the tranquility. A blood-curdling scream echoed through the halls, followed by the frantic clatter of retreating footsteps. Fear, cold and clammy, gripped Lysander's heart. He raced towards the source of the sound, his mind reeling with a terrifying premonition.
He burst into the grand hall, the sight that met his eyes freezing him to the bone. Bodies lay scattered across the crimson marble floor, his parents amongst them, their faces contorted in a silent scream. A lone figure stood amidst the carnage, a cloaked assassin with eyes like burning embers.
The assassin turned, their gaze locking with Lysander's. A chilling smile played on their lips, revealing a set of teeth sharpened to razor points. "The Crimson line ends here, boy," the assassin hissed, their voice a venomous whisper.