An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Was Krael worried about the Annual Harvest Offering?

Not really. His produce was thriving so well that he wouldn't need to worry about hunger or the annual offering for another three years.

One could say it wasn't his hard work that ensured this abundance, but rather that of his mother and father. They had a natural talent for cultivation and had made sure to leave behind more than enough of everything. Perhaps that was why he'd been targeted by his uncle.

How he came to know such information could only be blamed on his parents' kindness. While they believed they were sowing karma, they failed to realize they were raising wolves and snakes.

One of the many reasons Krael had dismissed all the house help stemmed from situations like these. It wasn't the only reason, but it often came to mind.

Krael grew tired of watching the town through the stained glass of his carriage. He knocked on the wood.

"Adler, stop here."

"I'd like to ride the steed instead. Prepare it for me; I'll go on horseback."

Adler did not delay. He untied the steeds that pulled the carriage and fastened them properly so the Count could ride comfortably.

He approached the door of the carriage and helped the young lord down.

Krael stretched subtly, his movements gentle after the long ride. His body wasn't used to traveling in carriages. He felt more comfortable in his own skin—as if he was truly using his body for the first time. Whatever changes were happening, he welcomed them.

He noticed the undertones of his skin had darkened considerably, giving him an almost alien aura. A sense of confidence rooted itself deep within him, growing steadily, though where it would lead, he did not know.

He mounted the horse—thankfully, he had boots prepared for the occasion. Adler rode beside him. And considering the size of the steeds, it felt as if they were hovering in the air.

The steeds were warm and gentle to the touch. He wondered where the rumors of them being bloodthirsty beasts had come from.

The steed neighed appreciatively. Krael thought it was sucking up to him, and the notion amused him.

Fastening his grip on the reins, he nudged its side lightly. The horse galloped.

Though heavy beasts, they made no sound as they moved. Adler had dealt with the carriage mysteriously, and Krael didn't bother to ask. Likely some pathwalker ability.

The sky was overcast. The light of the Great Pillar was receding—or was it changing? Krael couldn't discern the transformation it underwent as night approached. From a royal lavender gold, it shifted to an ashen gray, still holding a natural allure.

Yet the direction they headed made the sky seem almost sorrowful. The gray turned bruised as if the heavens themselves were holding back tears.

Adler noticed the change first. His brow furrowed. Had Krael looked, he would've been shocked—Adler rarely, if ever, looked serious. His face was usually a mask within a mask, which always made Krael question his loyalty.

But now his butler was frowning. What had caused it?

The place they approached was less a town, more a village—or a ruin. Gone were structures of sturdy materials. Here, homes were built from clay scavenged from dying fields—unable to withstand the surge. Now, it looked like a wasteland.

Their horses made no sound as they passed people collecting corpses—those not already used as food by the abominations. No one noticed them. Adler had manipulated reality around them, making them unseen by any eyes he did not permit.

Perhaps those that were whole had only recently died—it was hard to tell in such chaos.

Krael had seen sights like this every surge, and he was numb to them, almost uninterested. But then, something caught his attention.

In a clearing beyond the ruins, a little girl knelt silently, her small hands caked in dirt and blood. Her body was bruised and wounded, clothed in rags far too old to provide warmth. Her hair was tangled, her skin hidden beneath grime.

She clawed at the earth, fingers trembling—not from weakness, but restraint. Each motion was deliberate, mechanical—as if trying to forget the warmth of the hands she now buried.

Her parents, once her world, now lay cold in death.

They had died before her eyes, yet she could not weep. She could not scream. Her mother had made sure of it—a final sacrifice to save her beloved child. Maybe it was cruel to let the girl, young as she was, live in a world worse than death, but the mother didn't care.

If her daughter hated her for leaving her to suffer, she would accept it gladly.

A selfish dream, from a selfless soul.

The girl did not cry.

Even though her eyes were hidden from Krael's view, he could feel their vast emptiness. Just like he had been when he buried his father after he was slaughtered.

Her gaze bore into the ground as she buried them deeper, her soul screaming in silence more deafening than any wail.

Krael heard it. Adler heard it. But the world remained oblivious.

The wind stirred unnaturally cold, and a faint glimmer pulsed from her chest—like the heartbeat of something unseen, yearning to break free.

Krael and Adler watched as the ground trembled beneath her hands. It was deathly silent, yet the oceans seemed to rage. The wails of the dead echoed through the land, calling to her, but she ignored them.

She continued, scraping the earth with bare fingers.

She should've taken her parents to be burned, but she didn't. Perhaps because she knew they'd deny her entry, or perhaps because, Krael saw, she'd rather join them than offer them up as a burnt sacrifice to the Worship.

From the tree line, they watched.

Their eyes appeared cold and emotionless—but only to the untrained eye.

Krael, clad in dark silks embroidered with no noble crest, sat astride a black and crimson steed, observing. Was he cruel to watch and do nothing? Perhaps. But to him, this was a rite of passage only she could endure.

She had used her own hands to bury her parents. If that was not true pride, then he didn't know what was.

In some ways, she was better than he had been. At least she acted on her pride. She had done the impossible.

His eyes had witnessed war, death, and grief. But this—this quiet, soul-deep sorrow in a child—captivated him. Her pride was real. And perhaps it was the way the world itself seemed to respond to her, to obey her grief.

The shift in the skies? Likely caused by her. And she didn't even know.

Her power was raw, unshaped, born of loss.

The girl had awakened.

How? He didn't know. One needed Aether to awaken; at least that is how it has always been since the beginning of history, yet here she was—a miracle forged in sorrow.

What would the world do when they got to know what she had accomplished? Would she be called a heretic, a spawn of the lurker, a cursed child? The options were many and nearly endless. To many, the unknown was rather dealt with quickly. Rather kill the innocents than spare a great evil.

He saw himself in her—alone, burdened, shaped by tragedy. His hands tightened on the reins.

Take her in? Make her a ward? Or leave her to fate, to become whatever her pain molded her into?

He watched as her back arched, a soft grey light rippling through the soil, turning the grave into a garden of ash-kissed flowers—unnatural, beautiful, blooming from death. A quiet miracle.

She didn't even notice. She knelt, unmoved, amidst the sway of flowers.

They remained there, the Count and the butler, watching. Letting her finish.

Soon, she fainted. Within moments, she might die from the cold.

The Count tugged his reins, turning away from the fallen girl. He rode a distance before sighing.

"Bring her home, Adler. It'd be a shame if she died from the cold."