Blood dripped from Aerion's lips as he struggled to stand. His arms were broken. His ribs, shattered. The once-proud sigil of his noble house lay discarded on the ground, stained with his own blood. The insignia, a symbol of his family's illustrious legacy, now a mark of shame.
A chorus of laughter echoed around him.
"You were never meant to stand among us, Aerion," sneered Drakien Velros—his childhood rival. His golden eyes gleamed with malice as he circled Aerion like a predator stalking its prey. "A worm like you should've known his place."
Aerion clenched his fists, nails digging into the skin of his palms. His body screamed in agony, but the fire in his chest—his rage—kept him upright, if only for a moment longer. He wanted to fight back. He wanted to scream. But his body had long since betrayed him. He was no warrior. He had never been.
His father, Duke Aurek Malraeth , stood amongst the crowd, arms crossed, his face a mask of cold indifference. "You are no son of mine."
Those words—those damn words—cut deeper than any blade ever could. His father, the very man who should have been his protector, had cast him aside like an unwanted rag. The realization that he had been abandoned by his family, the ones who were supposed to care, hurt more than all the broken bones in his body.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, as though the heavens themselves mourned his fate. The arena—once a place where warriors proved their worth—had become his tomb.
A sword was raised high. Drakien's grin widened, and Aerion felt the cruel weight of his gaze upon him.
"You dishonor your father, your family, your house, such person shouldn't have the right to live. Farewell, failure."
The blade descended in a flash of steel. Pain flared in Aerion's chest, overwhelming him. His vision faded. Then—only darkness.
Aerion awoke in eerie silence.
His body was no longer in agony. In fact, he felt... whole. As if the pain had been nothing more than a distant memory. The stench of damp earth filled his nostrils. His first instinct was to move, to rise, but the air around him felt... different. Thick with something powerful. Something ancient. Something Dark.
"Where... am I?"
A soft glow illuminated the cavern walls, casting shadows over an ancient altar. Symbols older than time itself pulsed with a dark, crimson light. The air was heavy, vibrating with an energy that sent shivers down his spine. He could feel it all around him—pressing against his skin, swirling in his veins.
It was then that the voice came. It wasn't spoken aloud, but it reverberated in his mind, clear and cold as ice.
"Child of misfortune... do you seek vengeance?"
Aerion's breath hitched. The pain, the suffering, the betrayal—they all came crashing back in a rush. His vision blurred as memories flashed before his eyes. His family. Drakien's smug face. His father's rejection.
The wounds of his past, the scars that had defined him for so long, burned like fresh cuts.
The energy around him swirled, a coiling serpent of power. It whispered promises of retribution, of vengeance—of a world that would tremble beneath his feet. The fire inside him flared, but this time, it was no longer born from pain. It was born from something much darker. Much more dangerous.
He stared at the glowing runes. The ancient symbols pulsed rhythmically, like the heartbeat of the world itself.
"Yes."
The word left his lips before he could stop it. It was a whisper, but in the silence of the cavern, it felt as though it had echoed across the entire abyss.
"Yes," Aerion repeated, his voice stronger this time.
A low, resonating laugh filled the air, not from any person, but from the very heart of the power that surrounded him. It was a voice that felt as old as time itself, and it was full of an unspoken promise.
"So be it, child. Vengeance will be yours. But know this: To wield such power comes at a cost. The world you seek to change may change you first. Do you accept?"
Aerion's mind raced. Could he truly handle this power? Could he become the monster he needed to be to reclaim everything they had stolen from him? His gaze hardened, filled with resolve.
He had nothing left. No family. No honor. No future.
But now, he had something greater. He had power.
"Yes," he said again, his voice firm, unyielding. "I accept."
The moment he spoke those words, the runes on the altar blazed to life, casting a crimson light that engulfed Aerion. The energy surged through him, coursing through his veins, filling him with power unlike anything he had ever felt. It was intoxicating. Terrifying. But it was his. And it was only the beginning.
Aerion could feel the darkness wrapping itself around him, binding him to something far older and far more dangerous than he could possibly understand. But he also felt something else—a strange clarity. A sense of purpose that he had never known before.
For the first time in his life, he felt truly alive.
As the light faded and the cavern returned to its stillness, Aerion looked down at his hands. His skin now bore faint markings—runes that pulsed with the same crimson light. His muscles had already begun to strengthen, the bruises and wounds on his body healing faster than he could process.
But it wasn't just his body that had changed.
His mind... his soul... felt different. Darker. Stronger.
And the whispers... they hadn't stopped.
"Now you are the Forsaken Monarch, Aerion Malraeth. Rise. And make them pay."
The words echoed in Aerion's mind, driving him forward.
His destiny was no longer in his hands. It had been rewritten by the power that had chosen him. The world that had abandoned him, that had cast him aside, would soon learn to fear the name of Aerion Malraeth. He would not be the weakling they once knew.
No. He would be their reckoning.
The Forsaken Monarch had risen.
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