Two thousand years ago
The forest surrounding the Iron Vale whispered in the cool morning air. Mist hung low over the mountains, curling around the ancient stones of the fortress as if trying to keep the world from what it would soon become.
Inside, two boys stood before a wide, blood-red oak table. Both had the same dark eyes, the same angular features, but their hearts beat differently.
Keal—born of the forbidden love between a mortal woman and their father—was a creature of softness. His strength, though undeniable, paled in comparison to his brother's. He was tender-hearted, an idealist raised in a world that thrived on power.
Lorian, by contrast, was born of pure supernatural blood—his mother a witch who had pledged herself to their father's cause long before Keal was born. Lorian's power surged with every beat of his heart. His magic was ferocious, his resilience unmatched.
Yet, despite their differences, they were bound by a bond deeper than blood—a bond of mutual respect, admiration, and love. They trained side by side, they fought side by side. And their mother, Soraya, a powerful witch in her own right, was the glue that held them together. She loved them both as sons, though she knew the world outside would never see them that way.
Their father—the great hybrid of vampire and werewolf—ruled not only with strength but with a vision. He dreamed of a world where the supernatural could walk side by side, where peace could reign. And his love for Keal's mother—the mortal woman who had died giving birth to him—was the first and only softening force that ever touched him. She was a reminder of humanity's tenderness, a contrast to the violent legacy of their kind.
It was a softness that lingered in their father's heart long after her death.
And it was that softness Lorian feared.
He remembered the nights when their father would sit by the fire, lost in thought, eyes distant as he spoke of her. Keal's mother had been his equal—his anchor. She had made him better, and Lorian could see it: that same weakness was a danger.
Years later, after the war began and their father was called to battle, Lorian's fears grew into an obsession. He couldn't help but see the same things happening between Keal and the human girl—the one who would, inevitably, weaken him.
"You're making the same mistake," Lorian had said one night, his voice sharp with an edge that Keal had never heard before. "Don't you see? She'll pull you down, just like—"
But Keal refused to listen. He loved her. That was all that mattered.
It wasn't that Lorian didn't love his brother. He loved him fiercely. He only wanted to protect him from the world that had taken their father, from the curse of loving someone who could never survive the weight of their existence.
In those final days before their father's disappearance, their relationship began to fray. Lorian's worry turned into a darker resolve, and Keal's idealism hardened into a painful truth.
"You think love makes us weak, Lorian," Keal had said, his voice low but determined. "But it's the one thing that makes us human. And I'm not going to run from it. Not for you. Not for anyone."
And so, Lorian left. Not out of malice, but out of a desire to shield his brother from the inevitable.
He couldn't be the one to save Keal. Not from this.
"You'll learn," Lorian had whispered before vanishing into the night, the weight of their father's legacy pressing down on both of them. "You'll see what happens when you love a human."