In the secluded village of Serindale, hidden among ancient hills and whispering woods, there lived two souls whose bond had been forged not in power, but in quiet moments. Kael Varenth and Elya Serinheart were born just days apart, and from the moment they could walk, they walked together.
As children, they climbed trees, chased glowing beetles under moonlight, and shared wild dreams of a world beyond the valley. In a world ruled by temples, gods, and magic, Serindale was an afterthought—blessed with fertile soil, humble villagers, and silence from the capital.
But today, Serindale was alive with anticipation.
Today was the Age Ceremony.
The Temple of Creation's priests had come—robed in gold and ivory, faces veiled behind ornate masks—to awaken the dormant magic in the village's youth. At sixteen, each child would stand before the statue of Imera, the Creator Goddess, and receive their awakening.
Seventeen children. One by one.
Kael and Elya were to go last.
They stood at the edge of the stone platform carved into the village temple square. Elya's hand brushed Kael's—lightly, as though the brief touch would steady her pulse.
"Nervous?" she asked, her golden eyes glancing sideways.
Kael smirked. "I'm about to be told if I'm destined to be a wheat farmer or a forgotten mage. What's to be nervous about?"
She laughed, then fell silent as the next child in line stepped forward.
The priest raised his hand. A soft glow enveloped the child—an average light. "Wind Magic," the priest declared. The crowd applauded politely.
It continued like that. Elemental affinities, healing touch, animal whispers—none rare, but all welcomed.
Then came Elya.
She stepped forward with a calm confidence that made Kael's breath catch. The priests whispered as she approached. Her name was known. Her bloodline traced back to old heroes.
Elya knelt before the statue of Imera. The priest raised both hands.
The light that erupted from her was blinding—pure, golden, divine.
"Holy Sword Magic!" the priest exclaimed, voice trembling. The villagers gasped. Even the priests looked shaken.
A chosen one.
Elya turned to look back at Kael, her expression unreadable.
Then Kael stepped forward.
The crowd was still murmuring when the light enveloped him. But it wasn't golden, or soft. It was dark—violet and black, swirling with crimson sparks. The statue of Imera cracked at its base.
The priests recoiled.
"Dark Magic," one whispered. "That is… a demon's power."
The air turned cold.
Without a word, the priest nearest Kael snapped his fingers. Iron rings clamped around Kael's wrists—enchanted bindings.
Elya shouted something, but she was held back.
Kael met her eyes. No fear. Only confusion. And the slow, dawning realization that everything was about to change.
---
That night, Kael was gone—taken by the Temple to their underground cells. Elya was escorted to the capital in a divine carriage.
Neither slept.
Neither smiled.
And neither would forget the last moment they saw each other—not until the day Elya stood before the Demon Emperor's throne, years later, with a bloodstained sword in her hand.