Aeloria: Turmoil of DestinyVolume 1 — The Rise of Nightveil

  Chapter 1: The Origin of Evil

  Ten years ago, if there was a name that could shift the tide of battle, it was the legendary son of Duke Nightveil — Lord Valen Nightveil.

  Born into privilege but shaped by expectation, Valen bore the weight of the Nightveil legacy upon his young shoulders. He was an ordinary child once, but that was never enough. The Nightveil name demanded greatness. Failure was not permitted.

  In the candle-lit halls of his ancestral home, Valen honed his mind and his blade. Tactics, diplomacy, the ancient art of the Nightveil Moon Sword — all became extensions of his being.

  The Moon Sword was sacred: a sword style so swift, so pure, that time itself seemed to bend around it. Its secret techniques were passed only through blood, and Valen had become its finest wielder.

  On the eve of his coming-of-age ceremony, Duke Nightveil tasked his son with a conquest unlike any before: to lay siege to the capital city of their rival kingdom, Caer Thalor.

  "You will not only conquer their walls," the Duke had said, placing a heavy hand upon Valen’s shoulder. "You will conquer their spirit."

  The siege was a masterpiece. Valen's strategies turned stone walls into deathtraps. His sword carved through enemy ranks like a crescent moon through the night.

  Yet, even victory brought unease.

  During the battle, the northern elite guard — thought stationed far away — launched a surprise counterattack. Valen, surrounded, had no choice but to unveil the Moon Sword’s true terror. Time seemed to fracture as he struck; bodies fell, split cleanly, their deaths so sudden they realized it only after a moment of silence.

  Valen stood victorious... but something deeper stirred within him. The sensation — the absolute, overwhelming domination — seared itself into his heart.

  "So this is what true power feels like," he murmured, standing alone amidst the fallen.

  The death of his father, sudden and cruel, shattered any illusions of invincibility. Mortality — once a distant fear — now stalked him in every mirror, in every echo of an empty hallway.

  "I fought for you," Valen whispered once to the cold, unhearing tomb. "And yet you still fell."

  In his grief, Valen understood a cruel truth — the only way to triumph over death was not to fight it, but to surpass it. To endure beyond it. To achieve permanence... immortality.

  The search for forbidden knowledge began.

  In the hidden catacombs beneath the ruined monasteries, Valen uncovered the Rite of Blood — a ritual demanding the harvest of one hundred innocent souls, severed from the world before their time.

  "So this is it," Valen muttered under his breath, tracing the ancient ink. "The price of forever."

  Long ago, Aeloria had been ruled by two gods: Aestra, goddess of light, and Selvaron, lord of the untamed flame.

  Through their chosen empires, they shaped the world — one towards order, the other towards glory.

  But ambition breeds ruin.

  Selvaron's faithful, desperate after their temples fell, reached into the unknown. They touched something ancient. Something nameless.

  They called it salvation.

  But the Abyss was not salvation. It was not a god. It was not alive.

  It was hunger.

  In touching the Abyss, they corrupted their god. Selvaron fell — twisted beyond recognition — and was reborn as Veylharoth, the Lord of Despair.

  The holy empires shattered.

  And the rites of darkness — like the one Valen now held in his bloodstained hands — were all that remained.

  He hesitated.

  The boy he once was — the son who had laughed in sunlit gardens, who had studied under the proud gaze of his father — screamed at him to stop.

  His hands shook over the sacrificial altar. Doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind.

  What am I even doing? he thought, horror clenching his throat.

  But another voice answered — smoother, colder — whispering from the hollow place inside him.

  If I succeed, it murmured, I will be the eternal ruler of my lands. Perhaps... one day, the emperor.

  Valen gritted his teeth.

  But I have killed so many innocent people... and for what? his true self cried.

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  The whisper sharpened, slicing through his pity.

  A small sacrifice for a great goal. They will become one with me. They will live eternally.

  Will I even be human, after this? he wondered — the last trembling plea of a soul still yearning to stay clean.

  The whisper laughed — not mocking, but inevitable.

  Human or not... my reign will become eternal. I will never crumble to dust like my old man.

  Valen looked down at the vial — a swirling, red concentrate, the price of all he had lost.

  "Forgive me," he breathed.

  And in a heartbeat — Valen Nightveil chose.

  He cast his humanity into the Abyss and drank deep the blood of damnation.

  The endless hunger of the Abyss stirred within him — not malice, but the raw continuation that knows no boundary between life and death.

  In the aftermath of the Rite, a chilling stillness enveloped the chamber. Valen reached for the Moon Sword, expecting the familiar hum of its resonance. Instead, the blade felt cold, almost foreign.

  The once-straight edge now exhibited subtle curves, reminiscent of a serpent poised to strike. The hilt, once adorned with the Nightveil crest, bore unfamiliar runes that pulsed with a crimson glow.

  Valen’s hand trembled.

  "You followed me into the dark," he said softly to the blade. "As you always have."

  Thus, the first mortal evil of Aeloria was born.

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  Aeloria: Turmoil of DestinyVolume 1 — The Rise of Nightveil

  Chapter 2: The Damnation of Knighthood

  Valen Nightveil awoke in darkness.

  No warmth stirred his chest. No breath misted the cold air. The light of the sun, once a simple joy, now weakened him — but could not destroy him. In that moment, Valen understood: he had become something new, something terrible.

  Grief and terror clawed at him. Alone beneath the crumbling tombs of his ancestors, he called out — not to gods, but to the Abyss itself. That endless hunger beyond existence heard him, and it answered.

  In his visions, Valen saw fallen crusaders rising from the dust, not by divine command, but by his will. His salvation lay not among the living, but among the dead.

  With grim determination, Valen set to work. Deep beneath the ruined Nightveil mansion, he gathered the long-buried bodies of crusaders — once proud defenders of Aestra's light. Now, they were but brittle relics, waiting.

  Among shattered tombs and broken stone, Valen discovered the forbidden Rite of Damnation — an ancient text long thought destroyed.

  Faded, half-burned words whispered from the parchment:

  "When the primordial evil wills through his blood, the dead shall rise to fulfill his command. Bound by crimson oath and shattered soul, their broken blades shall carve a new age of despair."

  By anointing the corpses with his vampiric blood, Valen sought to bind their souls and forge an army of death.

  But when he performed the Rite, nothing stirred. No hands clawed from the earth. No armor rattled in answer. Failure gnawed at him, and rage became his only companion.

  Far above, in the ruined capital of Solbory, a different soul cried out.

  Caelan Drevin, a boy made orphan by Valen's conquest, knelt before the cracked shrine of Aestra. His fists clenched tightly around a shattered emblem of light.

  "I have no sword," Caelan whispered, tears streaking his dirt-stained face. "No army. Only hatred. Only loss. If you still hear us, Aestra... lend me your strength."

  For a long moment, there was only silence.

  Then — soft as the whisper of a mother to her sleeping child — a voice answered.

  "You are not alone, little one," Aestra said, sorrow heavy in every word. "The brave who fell in my name still watch over you. They will lend their strength... if your heart remains true."

  "But... how?" Caelan asked, his voice trembling.

  "Speak the words," the goddess murmured. "And they shall come."

  And so Aestra gave him the ancient chant:

  "By bond of light, by oath unbroken, Arise, knights of the sacred sun. Your strength, your wisdom, lend unto me."

  With the chant echoing in his mind, Caelan rose from the crumbling shrine, new resolve hardening in his chest.

  "He will kneel," Caelan hissed under his breath. "Valen Nightveil... I swear it."

  Without hesitation, he marched toward Nightveil Mansion — reckless, arrogant, fueled by divine hope.

  In the shattered Grand Hall, Caelan and Valen finally stood face to face.

  The vampire lord, clad in darkness like a second skin, regarded the boy with an expression caught between amusement and disdain.

  "You are bold, little one," Valen said, his voice a low growl that echoed across the broken stones. "Boldness makes a fine corpse."

  Caelan gripped the hilt of his battered sword tighter, his knuckles whitening. "I'm not afraid of corpses," he spat. "I'm here to bury one."

  Valen's crimson eyes gleamed with cold mirth. "I wonder... will you even make it past my shadow?"

  "You'll see," Caelan growled. "Today, even gods will remember your fall."

  A low, humorless chuckle rumbled from Valen's throat. "Many have tried to write my end in blood. None lived to finish their story."

  Without another word, the battle exploded into motion.

  Valen stood atop the broken dais, the shattered moonlight casting a pale glow across his inhuman features.

  "Still breathing, are we?" Valen mused, tilting his head as if observing a curious insect. "No matter. You'll join the others soon enough."

  Caelan tightened his grip on his sword, eyes burning with defiance.

  "We'll see who falls first, monster," he snarled.

  And with a cry that tore through the ruined hall, Caelan charged.

  The battle shook the ancient foundations. Caelan, desperate to win, summoned more and more spirits. Their radiant weight, so pure and heavy, cracked the old marble beneath them.

  With a roar, the floor collapsed.

  Caelan and the crusader souls fell into the catacombs — into the tombs of their own forgotten heroes.

  In that instant, the blood Valen had anointed flared to life.

  The Rite of Damnation awoke.

  The crusader souls, pure and noble, were seized by chains unseen. They were torn from Caelan’s grasp and bound into their rotting remains.

  Where once stood heroes of light, now rose Death Knights — twisted reflections of their former glory.

  In their confusion and agony, the Death Knights turned their fury upon Caelan.

  "Traitor," they cried, voices echoing with ancient sorrow. "Deceiver! You have damned us all!"

  Horror rooted Caelan to the spot. His heart pounded, but some shred of survival screamed at him to move.

  He stumbled, fled — slipping through a crumbling tunnel, the wails of the damned chasing him into the cold night.

  Above the shattered stones, Valen Nightveil watched his new army kneel before him.

  Not by mastery.

  Not by design.

  But by the cold hand of fate, darkness had crowned him at last.