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.

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  "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.