On the Great Plaza of the Iron-Heart Clan, the ground had turned into a thick, brown soup of mud and gravel. For most of the young men and women standing in the plaza, this was the greatest day of their lives. It was the day of the Rite of the Hollow Throne. It was the day they would finally bind a supernatural spirit to their souls and become true sorcerers.But for Bruce Thompson, it was just another day of being a footstool."Don't you dare twitch, you piece of trash," a voice hissed from above him.Bruce was on his hands and knees in the freezing mud. His thin shirt was soaked through, sticking to his ribs. He could feel the sharp stones cutting into his kneecaps. He didn't move. He couldn't. Above him, his cousin Nicholas stood with one heavy, leather boot planted firmly in the middle of Bruce’s back.Nicholas was everything Bruce was not. He was tall, well-fed, and dressed in silk robes of iron-gray and crimson. He was the golden boy of the Iron-Heart Clan, the favorite nephe

The heavy, gray clouds that had been weeping rain over Oakhaven suddenly ripped apart. But there was no blue sky behind them. Instead, the firmament turned a deep, bruised violet, a color so unnatural it made the onlookers gasp in terror. The sun, which had been a pale coin behind the clouds, was suddenly smothered. A massive, shadowy silhouette drifted across the face of the sun, casting a jagged, six-winged shadow over the entire Iron-Heart estate."What is that?" someone screamed from the stands. "Is the sun dying?"Lady Hestia fell back, her silver staff clattering against the marble floor. She looked up at the sky, her eyes wide with a fear she had never shown in her sixty years of life. "The eclipse... the prophecy of the Bleeding Sky..."In the center of the shattered ritual stage, Bruce Thompson was no longer visible. He had been swallowed by a pillar of black flame. This was not the fire of a hearth or a forge. It was a cold fire, a flame made of pure darkness that didn't

Thirty guards, dressed in iron-plated armor and carrying enchanted spears, began to close in. They were the "Iron Guard," the elite soldiers of the clan. Each of them had a minor spirit bound to their weapons, making their spears glow with various elemental lights."Stay back," Bruce warned.The guards didn't stop. They saw a nineteen-year-old boy. They didn't understand the power they were facing.Bruce felt a pulse of heat from his branded shoulder. The "Brand of the Void" was still there, but it felt different now. It wasn't a seal anymore; it was a doorway. He realized that the Seraph wasn't just a pet he had summoned. It was an extension of his own will.Suddenly, Bruce felt a new sensation. It was like he could feel the weight of every shadow in the courtyard. The shadow of the stage, the shadow of the pillars, even the shadows cast by the guards themselves.“Dominion,” a voice whispered in his mind. It was the Seraph’s voice. “Everything the light touches belongs to the sun.

Deep beneath the wooden floorboards, near the bed, a rhythmic golden light was beating. It was faint, like a dying candle, but it was there.Bruce ran to the spot. He knelt down, his fingers clawing at the gap between the boards. These boards weren't rotted; they were reinforced with lead to hide what was underneath."Help me," Bruce urged.The Seraph used a single claw to pry the heavy board upward. It snapped with a loud crack, revealing a hidden compartment lined with velvet.Inside, there was no gold. There were no jewels. There was a small, leather-bound book with a silver lock, and a small glass vial containing a single lock of raven-black hair.As Bruce picked up the vial, his entire arm began to tingle. The lock of hair wasn't just hair; it hummed with the exact same frequency as the Seraph behind him. It was a "Soul-Anchor," a piece of a living person used to tether a spirit to this world."It’s her hair," Bruce whispered, a tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek.

The air in the dusty attic grew so cold that Bruce could see his own breath. It came out in small puffs of gray ash. A dozen blades made of solid darkness floated in the air. They pointed directly at the throat of Mike, the Head Assassin of the Iron-Heart Clan. The man known as the Ghost of the Iron-Heart was no longer acting like a ghost. He looked like a trapped rat. Mike pressed his back against the heavy wooden door of the attic. His black mask covered his mouth and nose, but his dark eyes were wide with pure panic. For his entire life, Mike had been the predator. He was the man who hid in the shadows. He was the man who made people disappear. But right now, the shadows did not belong to him. They belonged to the boy he had just tried to kill."This is not possible," Mike whispered. His voice was shaking. "You are just a boy. You have no training. You have no magic."Bruce stood in the center of the room. He did not look like a servant anymore. His thin shoulders were straight.