Caelum Dravenhart knelt alone on the cracked marble of his chamber, the air thick with the stench of blood and burnt ozone. His hands shook as he traced the last of the runic circle with a dagger, the blade slick and red.

The symbols were old. Forbidden. Alive.

He had waited for the perfect night. Maelor was far from the fortress, hunting some ancient beast in the forests beyond. Alina — that insufferable elf — was asleep, her quarters silent save for the occasional whisper of her restless dreams.

Tonight, there would be no witnesses. Tonight, he would break the chains of ordinary magic.

He slit his palm without hesitation, letting the blood drip onto the runes. The circle drank it eagerly, veins of crimson light spidering outward. Caelum gritted his teeth, feeling a surge of raw power coil up his spine. It was working. It was—

A sudden lurch. A violent pull.

The circle convulsed. The runes buckled inward like broken bones. A low, grinding howl filled the room — not a noise of this world, but something far fouler. Panic clawed at Caelum’s gut, but he forced more magic into the circle, trying to stabilize it.

Too late.

The explosion hit like a god’s hammer.

An eruption of blood-red light and blistering heat flung Caelum across the chamber. He smashed into the stone wall with a crack, sliding down in a broken heap. Every nerve in his body screamed. His vision blurred. His mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood.

Somewhere through the roaring pain, he heard pounding footsteps.

The door to his chamber slammed open with a burst of cold air — and she was there.

Alina Verdane.

Her lavender-grey braids were messy with sleep, her flowing cloak billowing around her slim figure. Her violet-purple eyes, rimmed with dark eyeshadow, widened at the sight before her: the shattered circle, the blood, the dark, writhing remnants of magic still hissing through the air.

Confusion rippled across her face. Then — deep, gut-wrenching worry.

"No—!" she gasped, rushing to his side, her ornate silver-and-purple necklace swinging wildly with her movements.

He tried to shove her away, but his limbs betrayed him, trembling uselessly.

She ignored his protest.

Muttering under her breath in a language older than any human tongue, Alina pressed her left hand against his forehead. Her fingers were cool and steady. Immediately, her eyes began to glow — a fierce, unnatural purple light. Her lips moved faster, desperate, weaving spells Caelum didn’t recognize.

Her other hand lifted — the carved, dark-brown staff she always carried materialized in her grip.

With a harsh word, she pointed at the remains of his bloodmagic work.

A jet of violet fire blasted from her palm, engulfing the tainted circle, the relics, the bloodstained dagger. The flames devoured the forbidden artifacts in seconds, leaving only blackened ash and silence.

The instant the circle was destroyed, the pain lashing Caelum’s body snapped like a broken chain. Relief flooded through him — not just the ending of agony, but a strange, soothing warmth that knitted his torn muscles, calmed his fraying nerves. He felt... stronger. Clearer.

As if something inside him — something twisted and half-born — had been yanked out and obliterated before it could corrupt him fully.

Alina’s chanting slowed. The glow faded from her eyes.

She withdrew her hand from his forehead, her touch lingering a second longer than necessary.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Caelum’s chest heaved. His heart battered against his ribs. His skin was slick with cold sweat.

And Alina — standing over him, framed by the dying embers of forbidden magic, her lavender braids tumbling around her face, the violet firelight dancing in her somber eyes — looked at him not with anger.

Not with triumph.

But with a sorrow so deep it carved a hollow into the air between them.

"You fool," she whispered. Her voice cracked, barely audible. "You could’ve killed yourself... or worse."

Caelum opened his mouth — to snarl, to mock, to accuse — but no words came. Only silence.