As the centuries passed, the curse of House Celestis continued to claim lives, destinies, and sanity.
Playing far too cruel a game with the fate of Axia.
It did not matter how many generations passed, how many illustrious names were written into the kingdom's books, or how many victories were celebrated in the great halls of the palace. The curse always found a way to remind them who truly ruled their blood.
At times, a male heir managed to evade madness… but never entirely. And whenever that happened, it was said he had to pay a terrible price, though those who dared investigate it were never able to unravel the mystery.
Some claimed those men were never truly sane, only barely sustained by an artificial, trembling balance. Like a cup on the verge of falling. Like a tiny flame surviving the wind only because the right gust had not yet arrived. Many came to speculate that they drank certain brews that allowed them to remain on the boundary between madness and reason, feeling the soft brush of both within their minds, whispering to them, exacting payment for the borrowed time they had managed to gain.
Others, however, said that living that way was not escaping the curse, but coexisting with it. Breathing it in. Sleeping beside it. Feeling its breath against the back of their neck even in moments of apparent calm, as though something invisible were waiting for the exact moment to sink in its claws and destroy the final shred of sanity that still remained.
But everyone agreed on one thing: one wrong word, one disturbing vision, one act of betrayal… and madness would surface like an open wound inherited from the cradle.
With women, the opposite was true. Almost all of them kept their minds clear, their judgment sharp, and the wisdom their blood promised them. They were the ones who upheld order, who kept the balance, who made decisions when the men began staring into the void for too long and the void stared back at them.
But from time to time, an exception emerged from the deepest part of the abyss.
As though the curse itself wished to remind them that, while it was uncommon, the possibility still existed. That they should not grow careless. That no rule, no matter how ancient or sacred it seemed, was beyond being broken.
On such occasions, without warning, there would arise a woman of the Celestis bloodline who, without explanation, without signs, without leaving room for preparation, took the curse instead of the blessing, unleashing chaos upon all who crossed her path.
A new Mirella…
Though no one ever said it aloud.
Some kept silent because of the consequences naming her might bring. Others, because they feared that by speaking it, by acknowledging it, by giving it shape with their lips, it might happen again. As though the name itself still carried a dark force that had not faded with the passing of years.
And not without reason.
In those distant times, the people of the kingdom did not think in terms of "if it happened," but rather who would be the next victim of madness and how many it would take with it this time.
The wagers were as old as human existence itself, if not older.
And this was one made by fate itself.
Some mothers gave birth while praying in silence that their children would not inherit too much of the bloodline. Some courts celebrated births with smiles and nights of endless banquets, while at the same time sending secret letters to the sages to ask what omens had been seen in the stars. It did not matter how much gold they possessed, how much power they held in their hands, or how many swords swore to protect them: when the blood of Celestis began to stir, everyone watched from afar, hoping not to be the first to fall.
As the centuries passed, the kingdoms grew and changed.
From the heart of Axia arose alliances, tensions, and new territories that were granted to its most loyal subjects; and as they advanced, as their power spread like roots beneath the earth, they encountered the existence of other kingdoms and new mysteries.
Not all survived contact with Axia.
Not all withstood the comparison.
Not all were worthy of being remembered.
But of all those discovered by the Kingdom of Axia, only three truly stood out. And thus, together with them, the alliance of the Four Souls was formed, composed of:
The Kingdom of Axia, cradle of House Celestis.
The Kingdom of the Sun, a land of iron traditions and indomitable warriors, where discipline was taught before language and where honor could be either a virtue… or a weapon.
The Kingdom of Gaia, where magic flowed through every street and every tower as though it were dancing in an endless waltz, surrounding everything with a beauty that at times came close to the hypnotic, and at others to the unbearably dangerous.
And the Kingdom of Obsidian, dark, pragmatic, skilled in rituals, dangerous diplomacy, and merciless architecture; the greatest builders of them all, yet also the most difficult to read. In Obsidian, nothing was done by chance. Nothing was given freely. Nothing was built without concealing, somewhere in its foundations, a second intention.
Together, they seemed invincible.
Together, they seemed destined to rule an era.
Together, they seemed to have reached something close to balance.
But balance among great powers was not peace. It never had been. It was, at best, an elegant pause before whatever might lead them to catastrophe.
And even so, for a time, they all pretended to believe in it.
In order to prevent future generations from being lost to ignorance or improvisation, the four kingdoms established a historic agreement, one that represented, perhaps, the only point on which they would ever truly agree.
They entrusted House Dávila, belonging to the Kingdom of Obsidian, with the creation of three great institutions, pillars of education and power.
It was not a minor decision.
Nor an innocent one.
Nor a casual one.
House Dávila was not just any family within Obsidian. Its name had long been tied to impossible works, delicate treaties, and decisions that seemed to benefit everyone… until, too late, it became clear that the greatest benefit had always ended up in their own hands.
But at the time, their prestige was far too great to be openly questioned.
And so three institutions were born that would change the course of the four kingdoms.
First, the Order of Sages, where history, politics, strategy, and ancestral knowledge were studied. There, those who would one day whisper counsel into the ears of kings, queens, generals, and traitors were formed. For knowledge did not always serve to save a kingdom; sometimes, it served to sink it with greater precision into the depths of the abyss.
Second, the Academy of Warriors, where military leaders, swordsmen, strategists, and protectors of the realm were forged. Men and women entered it as hot-blooded youths and emerged as weapons tempered by discipline, pain, and obedience. Some learned how to fight. Others learned how to command. And a few, the most dangerous of all, learned both at once.
And finally, though no less important for coming last, the Arcane College, a place reserved for those capable of wielding magic with precision, devotion, or danger. Its corridors were heavy with secrets. Its masters spoke with the weight of those who knew more than they were willing to teach. And its pupils quickly learned that magic made no distinction between noble and common hands once it decided to exact its price.
There would be no more isolated apprentices or improvised masters.
The new generations would be shaped by institutions as powerful as they were ancient.
Blood would no longer be enough.
Now, training would matter as well.
The world seemed to be moving toward a new age of knowledge and balance.
And yet, beneath that apparent harmony, ambition continued to beat like a dark heart.
Within the Kingdom of Axia, House Celestis continued to rule without interruption.
In the other kingdoms, ruling houses changed like seasons: they fell, rose, vanished, and were reborn.
But no dynasty endured as long or as firmly as the Celestis line.
For Axia did not have only one ruling house:
it had eight lesser houses, each with ambitions of its own, each watching the others… and watching itself in turn.
Communication among them was almost nonexistent.
Distrust was absolute.
Rumors were a form of currency.
Every house had spies in the others, spies within their own spies, and double agents no one knew whether they truly served anyone… or only themselves.
The Kingdom of Axia functioned like a board filled with pieces that longed to devour one another, but did not dare move without the command of the most fearsome thing of all:
the will, the mind, and the lucidity of the leader of House Celestis.
Because as long as that house ruled, the fate of the eight lesser bloodlines—and, in the face of the threat posed by the other three great kingdoms—depended on one single detail:
whether the heir was born to remain sane for most of his reign…
or whether his madness would consume him, condemning them all to ruin.
And although the agreement seemed to have brought prosperity, some suspected that House Dávila had not accepted its role out of loyalty, but out of calculation.
Its architects, scholars, and diplomats had earned the trust of all the kingdoms, so much so that no one questioned their decisions regarding the development of the task entrusted to them. But behind the courtesies, the impeccable manners, and the carefully measured bows, their gaze always seemed to be measuring something more.
Its architects, scholars, and diplomats had earned the trust of every kingdom to such an extent that no one questioned their decisions regarding the execution of the task entrusted to them. But behind the courtesies, the impeccable manners, and the precisely measured bows, their gaze always seemed to be measuring something more.
Something no one could decipher.
Something that did not appear in treaties.
Something that was never written into agreements, because to name it would have revealed too much.
Over time, their influence grew in silence.
They had access to every map, every blueprint, every treaty, and every secret that passed through the very institutions they themselves had built. They knew which children showed promise of becoming formidable warriors, which mages began to stand out too early, which bloodlines were weakening, which alliances were fragile, and which could be shattered with a single word whispered into the right ear.
And although nothing was ever proven, the suspicions never faded.
Because the Kingdom of Obsidian never moved without purpose.
And House Dávila never acted without securing a benefit.
Meanwhile, the stars of Axia began to flicker in a strange way.
It was not the calm shimmer of clear nights.
It was not the natural pulse of the sky.
It was something else.
An irregularity.
A warning.
The mages of the Arcane College felt disturbances they could not explain, as if the decision made regarding education had unleashed the beginning of the end of everything known until that moment.
The sages of the Order wrote warnings that no one wished to read. Some were hidden. Others were buried among dusty texts where time could swallow them as easily as men swallowed their own mistakes. And the few that passed from hand to hand were dismissed as exaggerations born of exhaustion, age, or fanaticism.
And the bearers of magic, without understanding why, began to dream of blood, war, and a storm.
Not just any storm.
One that seemed to come from within.
One that would not fall upon a single kingdom, but upon all four.
One that would not shatter walls… but wills.
The fate of the four kingdoms was sealed.
Only one question remained:
would they be able to recognize the enemy when he stood before their eyes… or would they simply let the obvious signs of a great betrayal pass them by?
Because the enemy was already there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling from the shadows he himself had helped build, still unaware that he would not be the only one to reap the fruits of his machinations.
And with only a single motto, as simple as it was cruel, as seductive as it was threatening:
"Decipher me… or I will devour you."