An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

The boy appeared no more than seven years old, only three years older than his sister. Unlike Estrel, whose wine-red hair was laced with golden radiance, his hair was an inverse reflection—predominantly gold, with deep streaks of red.

A minor difference, seemingly insignificant, yet Kyrios knew that one day it would hold meaning. The boy's aura shimmered—gold, laced with a deep red that bled through like metal forged in sacred fire. His golden eyes held an eerie solidity, like polished mineral, and from his irises, a near-imperceptible darkness curled outward like tendrils of smoke.

Kyrios and his Lord both saw it. And they both knew what it meant.

But for now, the boy was simply a child—adorable, despite his sharp, phoenix-shaped eyes. His sunset-gold skin bore the same dusting of jade-grey as his sister's.

Kyrios regarded him for a moment before asking, "What is your name, young one?"

Without hesitation, the boy answered, unburdened by the thoughts of one estranged by the strangeness of time.

"My name is Ares, of Dawn and Blood."

Kyrios' pupils trembled. His thoughts swirled into something unreadable. A weight settling on in his mind, and the air around him changed, imperceptibly.

But he did not press further. Instead, he turned his gaze to the eldest of the three.

This one, at ten years old, bore the strongest resemblance to his father. His features were sharper, his jawline already taking shape, his frame showing the promise of power and strength, his height already towering above those of his age.

Like his siblings, his skin held the same sunset-gold hue, touched with grey jade and faintly shadowed by an almost imperceptible corruptive undertone.

His eyes, however, were unlike the others.

A deep, blood-red—ruby and fire, burning with an intensity that seemed to pulse in the dimly lit room. Yet, within that crimson, a softened gold flickered at the edges, barely visible, a silent contrast.

When he met his father's gaze, he saw something terrifyingly familiar.

Their eyes were almost the same.

But Kyrios' were older, marred by time, by war, by slaughter. His eyes carried the weight of madness long restrained, of battles fought in silence, of the unspoken horrors carved into his soul.

The boy's hair was different as well—a deep jade-grey streaked with crimson, a sight eerily reminiscent of Kyrios' sister, well after her first transformation when the imperial bloodline within her was devoured and defiled giving it a form that may have never been, putting her above that of her fathers family. Becoming a force of nature that drove many mad, when she entered the battlefield, and when she picked up her spear, and angel of death would be born.

And his little son here was reminding him of the times when his blood pumped with regaling fire. A time when he ate and slept off the battlefield, a time when the corpses of those he had slain were all the warmth they would receive, when the scent of blood was the only marker for direction, where the older the blood that hung in the air, the fiercer the battlefield and the more fresh the blood, was where all the excitement was.

A time when wrath was powered beyond all divinities.

Kyrios regarded him, his voice steady.

"And what would be your name?"

The child's voice was cold, detached. But Kyrios was undeterred and even slightly amused, there was a ghost of a smile on his face as though he were a predator playing with his prey just before he hunted. And for a fleeting moment, the boy's eyes trembled. But he had learned to hide it well.

"My name is Kres, of Angst and Gore."

This time, Kyrios could not hide his reaction.

His entire form trembled. This little words holding far more weight than he would have ever though possible. His shoulders felt burdened, his knees holding a weight onto him that he would have rather have never had in the first place.

He remained kneeling, unmoving, his mind a storm of thoughts he could not piece together. His fingers clenched against his knees, his breath unsteady.

And then, for the first time, he raised his gaze.

His eyes—wide, unfocused, trembling—lifted to meet the being before him.

He had once feared what he would have seen in those enigmatic eyes, but now he knew he could not delay it anymore. He had to weather this storm whether he wanted to or not.

He would face the consequences head on, he was a herald first before he ever became a coward.

When he spoke, his voice was fractured, uncertain.

"…They are of my blood, my Lord," he said. The words were unsteady, yet firm, as though he had come to a decision he did not yet understand.

But then, the voice that ruled his existence called to him.

"My Herald…"

The voice was soft, laced with an intent so deep it bordered on sorrow and something deeply unsettling.

Aeris, shivered he could not fathom the thoughts of this being, his mind worked on scale even to this day they had never been able to comprehend.

"My Herald."

The second time, the voice rose—deeper, heavier. The house trembled as the world itself recoiled at His will, at the power of his voice alone.

And then—

The outskirts burned.

The whole outskirts were erased.... gone was their light their sorrow, their fear, their envy, their suffering, it all ceased to exist, as he willed it that way.

None within the walls of Astrea understood how those they had shunned had died. None heard the warning, none heard their screams, nor saw the flames before they were consumed.

The sorrow of madness swept across Astrea, and the outskirts crumbled beneath its wrath. From this day there would only be a lone city surrounded by a darkness, so thick. They will never know that before those days, a land for respite had existed.

Only the small house remained untouched floating on the dark sands and earth as though it floated within a great void. But within the house, nothing had changed, the light still went in the same as it had always had, from the first day it was built from the earth beneath it.

The wind still breezed through the pale windows, and the floor boards creaked under the weight of their bodies.

Only Aeris and his master knew that everything had changed.

And the fates of those forsaken by destiny—those discarded by the hands of gods and forgotten by the will of creation—were devoured by the madness of the being that sat before them.

What He made of them, what became of their broken destinies, was known only to Him—

And to Kyrios.