CHAPTER ONE — REBIRTH OF A PRIMORDIAL
The pain came first.
Not the pain of a blade.
Not the pain of a wound.
But the deep, soul-splitting agony of betrayal.
Prince Arcturus Valtarus lay on cold marble, his fingers twitching as life escaped him in trembling waves. The golden dagger still jutted from his chest, its radiant glow flickering as if mocking him. Blood pooled beneath him—dark crimson mixed with flecks of gold, seeping into carved ritual symbols.
The chanting around him grew louder.
"Sanctus lumen… purga sanguinem… purga daemonem…"
The priests' voices trembled not with fear, but with fanatic devotion. Their white robes were soaked in sweat. Their eyes glowed faintly with stolen divine magic. They believed—down to their last trembling breath—that killing this prince was holy.
Noblemen in ceremonial masks watched from behind a carved obsidian altar. Their whispers slithered across the room like serpents.
"Are we certain he is the one?"
"He must be. The Church would not be mistaken."
"Valtarus bloodline must be purged before the prophecy finds root."
"Kill him—quickly, before the king arrives."
Arcturus heard every word, though his vision blurred and his heart throbbed in weak, dying pulses.
His voice rasped out, barely a whisper.
"You… traitors…"
One of the nobles stepped forward and spat near his face.
"You were never meant to rule. You were born cursed."
Arcturus tried to move. His fingers curled.
He wanted to stand.
To fight.
To tear their throats out with his teeth.
But the divine poison on the dagger calcified inside his veins, freezing his organs one by one.
His mind screamed in silent rage.
Alistair…
Father…
He never saw Calia—the maid—kneeling in the corner, gagged and sobbing, forced to witness the execution she tried to prevent. He never saw Rowan struggling against magical restraints, his arms dislocating as he tried to break free to reach his prince.
He only saw the circle of glowing symbols beneath him, the ritual carving that had been hidden beneath a ceremonial carpet for months.
A ritual meant for him.
"You won't succeed…" he choked out. "My family… will burn you."
A priest slammed the butt of a staff against the floor.
"Silence, heretic!"
The chanting rose.
Blinding golden light shot upward from the dagger, tearing into his spirit. It ripped pieces of him away like pages from an ancient book.
His chest convulsed.
His vision tunneled.
I… don't want… to die…
His mouth opened in a silent scream as the world dimmed to shadow.
Then—
Something ancient shifted.
Not in the palace.
Not in the kingdom.
Not in the world.
But in the void between worlds—where only beings older than creation slept.
A voice emerged.
Low. Powerful. Endless.
"You call… and I hear."
The marble beneath Arcturus cracked.
His blood boiled.
His soul ignited.
Another voice layered over the first:
"You accept… and I answer."
The ritual chamber's candles exploded.
Priests stumbled back, screaming as their divine circles shattered.
"What is that—!?"
"The ritual—something's breaking it—!"
"Impossible! NO BEING CAN—"
But the voice drowned them out.
"You fear death," it murmured into Arcturus's fading consciousness. "You fear failing those who love you."
Yes…
Yes… I fear… letting them die… letting them suffer… letting them—
"If you wish to live," the voice said softly, "I will give you life."
A heartbeat.
"If you wish for vengeance… I will give you power."
A second heartbeat.
"If you wish to stand above mortals… I will restore what was lost."
A third heartbeat—
—and Arcturus felt his soul twist into something new.
Or rather… something ancient.
Something that had once been him.
The voice exhaled.
"Then rise, Primordial."
The dagger fell from his chest with a metallic clatter.
The wound sealed in less than a second.
A tidal wave of shadow burst from his corpse.
Priests dissolved into mist before they could scream.
Noblemen flew backwards into walls, bones snapping.
The ritual markings shattered into dust.
Calia stared with wide, disbelieving eyes as the prince she thought dead slowly drew his first breath again.
It was quiet.
Soft.
Almost gentle.
Then his eyes opened—
—and they glowed with the hunger of a god returning home.
Arcturus rose to his feet, shadows swirling around him like serpents tasting the air. Golden blood steamed as it evaporated from his skin. His expression was calm. Too calm.
He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers.
"So this is life… again."
A surviving priest crawled backward, sobbing.
"N-no… no, the prophecy… the Primordial… it was real—"
Arcturus appeared beside him in a blink.
"I am not a prophecy," he said softly, placing a hand on the priest's skull. "I am the one you feared."
Shadow pierced through bone.
The priest died without sound.
Another noble tried to flee. Arcturus raised a finger.
"Stay."
The man froze—literally—limbs turning to crystallized blood as Arcturus's aura brushed over him.
He walked forward slowly.
Every step echoed with a deep, growing hum—the heart of a Primordial awakening.
He approached Rowan first.
The guard captain's restraints shattered with a flick of Arcturus's wrist.
Rowan fell to his knees, coughing.
"Your Highness…" he croaked. "You—how—what—"
Arcturus extended his hand.
Rowan hesitated, then grasped it.
As the prince pulled him to his feet, Rowan felt something primal.
Something terrifying.
Something beautiful.
"Stand, Rowan," Arcturus murmured. "You tried to protect me. That is enough."
Rowan's eyes brimmed with tears.
"I… failed…"
"No," Arcturus said. "You were loyal. Loyalty is never failure."
He turned to Calia.
Her gag vanished. Her bindings fell away.
She sobbed so hard her voice broke.
"I tried to warn you—I tried to run—I tried—"
Arcturus brushed a thumb across her cheek.
"You survived," he said softly. "That is what matters."
The ground trembled as hurried footsteps approached.
Armored.
Heavy.
Familiar.
"ARTURUS!!"
The doors burst open.
Alistair Valtarus, Crown Prince, stormed in with a squad of elite knights. His blade was half-drawn, his face twisted with dread—
Then everything stopped.
He saw Arcturus.
Standing.
Alive.
Changed.
"…Brother…?"
Arcturus's expression softened for the first time since rising.
"Alistair."
Alistair's sword fell from his hand.
He crossed the distance between them in three desperate strides and pulled Arcturus into a crushing embrace.
"I thought—I thought you were—"
"I'm here," Arcturus whispered.
Footsteps thundered again.
A deeper voice.
One that shook the palace walls.
"MY SON! MY—"
King Aldric Valtarus froze mid-stride.
He stared at Arcturus.
At the melted marble.
At the dead priests.
At the shattered ritual.
At the aura of a sleeping god reawakening.
He dropped to one knee, hands trembling on the floor.
"Arcturus… my son…"
The king rose again, expression turning murderous.
"Who did this."
Arcturus met his father's eyes.
And answered.
"Everyone in this room except the loyal ones."
Aldric's jaw clenched.
"Good."
He placed a hand on his son's shoulder, voice low with pride and fury.
"Tonight… we kill them all."
Arcturus's lips curled faintly.
"Yes," he whispered.
"We will."