That night Heir of the wealthiest family was born, Eldoria itself seemed to scream.
Lightning didn't just crackle; it shattered the obsidian sky, illuminating the towering spires of Ravenfall Keep in blinding. Rain didn't fall; it hammered the ancient stone like a million furious fists. Inside the birthing chamber, the air hung thick with the scent of blood, sweat and terror.
Lord Silas Ravenastra stood rigid by the fireplace, his rigid face like a block of ice, but his silver eyes, usually as cold and impenetrable as glacial ice, were wide with a fear no battlefield had ever evoked. His knuckles were bone-white where they gripped the mantel. Across the room, on a bed his daughter-in-law, Lyra, fought her final battle. Her cries, ragged and weakening, were swallowed by the storm's fury.
The midwife, a stern woman etched with lines of experience, held the tiny bundle. Her expression wasn't one of joy, but grim finality. "My Lord," her voice cut through the din, sharp as a knife. "He breathes... barely. His spirit is weak. Fading." She didn't need to say more. The oppressive silence that followed her words, broken only by Lyra's gasping sob and the storm's rage, screamed the truth. The Ravenastra heir, born into unimaginable power and wealth, wouldn't see the dawn.
Lyra Ravenastra, her face pale as moonlight against the sweat-drenched sheets, pushed herself up on trembling hands. Exhaustion warred with a ferocious, primal love in her sapphire-blue eyes.
"Give him to me," she whispered, the command a thread of sound, yet utterly compelling.
The midwife hesitated, glancing at Silas. The Lord of Ravenfall gave a single, nod. The tiny bundle, impossibly small and fragile, was placed into Lyra's waiting arms. He was swaddled in silk the color of midnight, but his skin was translucent, tinged with an unnatural blue. His breaths were shallow, rapid flutters against Lyra's chest, like a trapped bird's wing.
"No," Lyra breathed, the word a vow carved into the storm.
She looked up, past the midwife, past Silas, her gaze locking with her husband, Kaelan, who stood pale and stricken in the shadows near the door. His own eyes, the same sharp silver as his father's, were filled with helpless anguish. A silent communication passed between them, heavy with shared desperation and a terrible understanding.
Kaelan stepped forward. He raised his hands, palms facing each other over the tiny form in Lyra's arms
Ancient words, harsh and guttural, words that tasted of forgotten tombs and primal oaths, spilled from his lips.The runes tattooed faintly along Kaelan's forearms flared with a sickly, mix of cromson and violet light, casting grotesque shadows on the walls. Silas sucked in a sharp breath, recognizing the forbidden runes, the soul-deep cost.
Lyra watched her husband, tears streaming down her face. She saw the strain etching lines onto his face, saw the vibrant raven black of his hair visibly dull at the temples. This magic wasn't just draining his strength; it was draing his life. But his gaze never wavered from their son.
As Kaelan chanted, his voice growing hoarse, Lyra bent her head. Her lips brushed the ice cold ear. Her whisper was so soft, so intimate, that even Silas, with his preternatural senses, couldn't catch the words. Only the child, might have heard. Only he might have felt the searing warmth of her tear as it fell onto his cheek, carrying a mother's desperate love and a terrible, whispered secret.
Her hand, trembling, went to her own neck. She fumbled with the clasp of a necklace – a simple, unadorned chain holding a pendant. Not gold, not silver, but a metal as dark as a moonless night, shaped like a raven in mid-flight, its wings slightly unfurled. It seemed to absorb the flickering firelight and Kaelan's eerie crimson glow. With infinite care, Lyra fastened the chain around her son's fragile neck. The dark raven settled against his tiny chest, stark against the pale skin.
The clasp snicked shut.
Lyra's tear-streaked face pressed close. Her voice, raw as the storm outside, ripped through the heavy air – not a whisper now, but a declaration to Death itself:
"ASTRAEL!"
The name cracked like thunder. "Your name is ASTRAEL RAVENASTRA!"
Kaelan's chanting faltered. His silver eyes, burning with effort and fear, snapped to his wife, then to the blue-tinged face of his son. Something fierce – a last surge of defiance – hardened his features. His voice, hoarse and ragged, rose again, weaving Lyra's desperate cry into the ancient, forbidden words:
"...Astrael Ravenastra... spirit bound... breath reclaimed... LIFE ASCENDANT!"
He screamed the final syllables. Slammed his palms together over the baby....
Kaelan's voice screamed the last word. He slammed his palms together over the baby.
Kaelan's voice screamed the last word. He slammed his palms together over the baby.There was no sound, only a silent concussion of power that made the very stones of Ravenfall Keep tremble. The Crimson light flared blindingly bright, then vanished instantly, plunging the room back into the storm-lit gloom. Kaelan staggered back, catching himself on a bedpost, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his face ashen, aged a decade in moments.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned, broken only by the relentless storm.
Then, a sound. Faint, but unmistakable. A strong, healthy cry ripped from the tiny bundle in Lyra's arms. The blue tinge vanished, replaced by a healthy flush. His little fists waved, strong and vital.
Lyra collapsed back against the pillows, a sob of pure relief escaping her. She clutched her son, raining kisses on his raven black hair. Kaelan managed a weak, exhausted smile, leaning heavily against the bedpost, his eyes fixed on his living son with profound gratitude and bone-deep weariness.
Silas finally moved. He strode to the bedside, his gaze sweeping from his miraculously revived grandson to his son, who looked hollowed out, and his daughter-in-law, radiating exhausted joy. His eyes lingered on the dark raven pendant resting against the infant's chest. It seemed utterly ordinary now. But Silas Ravenastra knew better. He had seen the flare of impossible power, felt the tremor in the Keep's ancient bones. He had seen the cost etched onto Kaelan's face and heard the desperate edge in Lyra's whisper.
The storm lessened. Rain became a downpour. The heir lived.
But a chill deeper than any storm seeped into Silas's bones. That raven felt like a debt. A promise sealed with a mother's tear. The price for defying death would come due. Silas Ravenastra knew debts were always paid. With interest.
The tiny fist waved. The raven pendant lay still. Silent. Waiting.