Chapter 2: The Bloodline Dream
The day's weight still clung to Aurelian's body like soaked cloth. The bruises from the overseer's beatings throbbed beneath his thin shirt, and his arms ached from hauling bucket after bucket of water. He ran his fingers over the rough, worn surface of the sealed grimoire, tracing the intricate gold-embossed runes on its leather cover. Its presence was strangely comforting, even though it had never opened—not to him, at least.
He let out a weary breath and laid flat on the creaky wooden bed. The mattress was thin, and the room cold, but the exhaustion pulled at him like a tide. With the grimoire pressed against his chest, Aurelian finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Except… it wasn't dreamless.
---
He stood in the middle of a burning palace, but he felt no pain. The fire danced across marble walls and golden curtains, consuming everything in sight—but it did not touch him. Thick smoke swirled overhead, yet he could breathe clearly.
"Where… am I?" he murmured, his voice sounding distant in his own ears.
A sudden gust of hot wind blew past him, carrying with it a whisper—faint but unmistakable:
"Heir of Genesis…"
He turned sharply. "Who said that?!"
The voice came again, from deeper within the flames, gentle but commanding, like the echo of a forgotten god.
"You are not lost. You are the last."
Aurelian's feet moved without command, drawn toward the throne room. The fire parted before him, unwilling to touch his flesh, as though it recognized something within him. As he stepped inside the great hall, his eyes locked onto a massive throne at the center of the room.
It was black marble veined with red, and upon its back glowed a sigil—a spiral of intertwined swords and stars. The symbol pulsed with golden light.
He stared, transfixed.
And then—
---
He gasped awake.
Aurelian bolted upright, cold sweat beading on his forehead, the grimoire clenched tightly in his hands. His heart thundered in his chest like war drums.
"What… was that?" he whispered, still breathless.
He glanced down. The grimoire felt strangely warm. On its cover, faint and fading, was the exact same sigil he had seen in the dream—the spiral of swords and stars.
"That wasn't there before," he muttered, eyes wide. "I'm sure of it."
He opened the book.
A page that had always been blank now bore ancient script glowing faintly with gold ink. He couldn't understand the language, but the runes pulsed with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.
"Is this… magic?" he said aloud, both fearful and hopeful.
A knock rattled his door.
"Aurelian! Are you still asleep, you dog?" came the gruff voice of Overseer Malric. "Get your cursed hide out here before I have you beaten again!"
Aurelian jumped. He hurriedly hid the grimoire beneath the floorboard and forced calm back into his voice. "Coming, Overseer!"
---
Meanwhile, far away from the estate—
Deep beneath the capital, inside a prison carved from black stone, a man stirred in his chains.
His hair was wild, matted with grime. His clothes hung in rags. But his eyes—those golden eyes—shone with new life.
"After all these years…" he muttered, a slow grin spreading across his face. "So the blood still answers…"
He tilted his head to the ceiling. "He's awakened it. The Genesis Line. Finally."
The guards pacing outside his cell paused as they heard a strange sound: laughter. Low at first, then rising into a manic, unhinged cackle.
"He's coming," the man whispered. "And you fools won't see it coming until the stars fall."
---
Back at the palace—
In the high tower of the imperial court, the Grand Chancellor stood before a window draped in velvet. His robes shimmered in the dim torchlight, layered in sigils of authority.
A cold wind blew in from the open archway, though the sky was still and the city below was silent.
He narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong.
"I feel it," he said to the shadows. "A shift. Like the past clawing its way back from the grave."
A cloaked figure knelt behind him. "Shall I investigate, my lord?"
"No need," the Chancellor replied grimly. "He will show himself soon enough. Destiny always makes a scene."
He turned from the window, eyes glowing faintly beneath his hood.
"Let him rise. We'll be ready this time."
---
Back in the estate, morning came slowly.
Aurelian stood by the well again, but his mind wasn't on the water this time. The sigil haunted his thoughts. The voice still echoed in his mind.
Heir of Genesis.
Was he truly the last of something forgotten? Was the magic of his family not dead after all?
Later that day, while scrubbing floors in the master's hall, he was approached by Kegan and Ulric—the two older servants who always harassed him.
"Well, well," Kegan sneered. "The noble bastard still hasn't died from exhaustion?"
Aurelian kept scrubbing. "Not today."
Ulric kicked the bucket beside him, sloshing dirty water across the floor. "We heard you talking to yourself last night. Dreaming of magic, eh?"
Aurelian froze.
"What, did your royal blood finally wake up?" Kegan mocked, laughing. "Maybe you'll sprout wings next!"
Aurelian clenched his jaw, saying nothing.
Ulric leaned in close. "You think the court cares about trash like you? Your family's gone. Forgotten. Burned from history."
"I haven't forgotten," Aurelian said, eyes dark.
They paused, startled by his tone.
Kegan scoffed, stepping back. "Whatever. Clean up this mess, freak."
The two walked off, muttering. Aurelian watched them go, heart pounding—not from fear, but from something else.
Resolve.
He looked down at his hands. They trembled slightly, not with weakness, but with something stirring deep inside.
Something ancient.
Something dangerous.