The moon hung low over the Duskthrone Dukedom, its pale light barely touching the obsidian towers that pierced the sky. The estate stretched far beyond what mortal eyes could measure—an empire within an empire, veiled in silence and power. No banners flew from its ramparts, no anthem echoed through its halls. The name Duskthrone needed no proclamation.
It was fear itself.
At the heart of this fortress stood Blackthorn Keep, a palace carved from midnight stone—older than the Empire of Aetheris itself. Its walls drank light and breath alike, steeped in the weight of forgotten centuries. Within, the great hall lay bathed in flickering amber from ever-burning braziers, casting long shadows across the feast laid before the ruling family.
Lord Alaric Duskthrone sat at the head of the table—his presence alone enough to drown the air in cold stillness. His silver hair was streaked with black strands that refused to yield to age, his eyes pools of liquid dusk. Though dressed in simple black, he needed no ornament to mark his authority. The weight of the Eidolic Curse clung to him—a power whispered to erase not only lives but the very memory of those it touched.
Beside him, Lady Seraphine Duskthrone carried a beauty that was ethereal and terrible, wrapped in blood-red silk. There was no warmth in her violet eyes, only the glimmer of unseen storms. Those who knew whispered of her forgotten lineage—of a woman who did not inherit royal blessings, but something far worse.
Between them sat their only son.
Asher Duskthrone.
His presence was... wrong.
Too quiet. Too still. As if the world itself had yet to decide whether he truly existed.
The boy—no, the heir—had been born in silence. He did not cry. He did not laugh. His first breath had carried the weight of something ancient, something that made even the gods of the Eidolon Pantheon turn their gaze away.
Now fifteen, Asher's features were carved from the same dusk-shaded marble as his father—ashen hair that drank in light, eyes dark enough to swallow stars. His beauty was inhuman, delicate... and wholly unnatural.
And yet—he was loved.
No empire, no prophecy, no gods could take that from him.
The cutlery clinked softly as the meal passed in heavy silence. Even among the Duskthrones, conversations were rare. Words carried power here—names even more so.
At last, Seraphine's voice broke the quiet.
"You will attend the Aetheris Imperial Academy in the coming season, Asher."
The sentence hung in the air, as if the world itself had paused to listen.
Asher's fingers stilled on the silver goblet he had barely touched. The air seemed to thin around him.
Alaric's gaze flicked toward his wife, sharp as a blade hidden beneath velvet.
"Is that your will, Seraphine?"
"It is not my will," she answered, violet eyes fixed on their son. "It is fate's decree."
Aetheris. The beating heart of the Empire. The place where noble houses measured their worth against one another. Where heirs were tested, forged—or broken.
It was the only place the Duskthrone heir could no longer remain a secret.
"You know what they will call him there," Alaric murmured.
His voice was low, barely more than breath.
The Nameless Heir. The Forbidden Bloodline. The Herald of the Origin.
Asher said nothing, his face a mask of pale serenity. He had always known this moment would come. Even as a child, the whispers of the servants had reached him. The rumors. The prophecies carved in forgotten tongues.
He was the child who should not exist.
The one who could name what came before gods.
"The world will fear him." Alaric's fingers tightened around the black chalice before him. "As they should."
"And yet... the world must know him." Seraphine's voice was soft, but it carried the weight of prophecy. "The Eidolon Pantheon watches. Even gods cannot name what he will become."
Alaric's dark gaze flicked toward his son—assessing, measuring.
"You were born outside the laws of this world, Asher." His father's voice echoed through the chamber like a funeral hymn. "But even those who stand outside must choose which game they play."
Asher finally lifted his gaze.
His eyes were empty—too deep, too dark for a mortal boy.
"...What if I choose not to play?"
A beat of silence.
Then Seraphine's smile bloomed, slow and cruel.
"Then they will rewrite the game around you."
For a moment, the shadows beneath the braziers seemed to stretch—curling around Asher's chair like unseen fingers. The air grew heavy with something unnamed, something that made the very walls shudder.
The gods were listening.
Asher's power—the Aetherion Genesis—was stirring.
Not awakened.
Not yet.
But waiting.
Alaric's knuckles whitened around his chalice, his own curse flickering at the edges of reality. The Eidolic Curse—power enough to unmake kings—yet even he feared what slept inside his son.
Asher closed his eyes... and the room exhaled.
The pressure faded. The shadows withdrew.
The world remembered its place.
"You will attend the Academy," Alaric declared at last, voice carved from stone. "And the Empire will tremble."
Asher said nothing.
He did not need to.
They would all learn his name in time.
The Nameless Heir.
The Forbidden Bloodline.
The one who could erase even gods.
Aetherion Genesis.
And when they spoke his name—when they carved it into history—he would decide whether that name would be remembered...
...or whether it would be erased.