Awakening of the Dead

The Kingdom of Gifts

The sun dipped low, bleeding crimson and gold across the horizon, casting the ancient stone spires of the Academy of Aether in long, jagged shadows that clawed hungrily at the cobblestone courtyard below. The air thrummed, thick with murmurs and the buzz of wild, humming magic—a living beast under the twilight. Lanterns flickered awake, unveiling pale faces pressed to windows, eager for tonight’s spectacle.

Elior moved unseen through the throng, a solitary shadow among bright flames and laughter; every step muffled by the cracked stones slick with the scent of damp earth and burnt offerings. Warmth, tumult, and sparks swirled around him, but all he felt was the cold bite of the void where a gift should burn—a blank, hollow ache.

The kingdom pulsed with power—fire dancers spun embers in the air, frost weavers left glittering footprints, whispers flickered, and bolts of light sizzled across eager palms. Yet Elior, empty-handed and burdened with his name whispered as a curse—Dustblood—alone, wandered through a world designed to leave him behind.

His tattered cloak clung to his thin shoulders. He kept his head low, heart pounding in a rhythm that couldn’t drown out the sharp-edged whispers riding the night wind.

A pair of gilded twins with matching sneers drifted close, their voices slicing the air.

“Dustblood,” one whispered, laughter icy and mean.

Nearby, a boy hurled a flame-spark at Elior’s feet; the meager parchment in his hand curled and blackened, smoke rising in mocking tendrils.

Invisible hands, shadows alive with malice, tugged at his cloak, looping around his ankles. The jeers twisted tighter, sucking his breath away, until every set of eyes—students and teachers alike—felt like an accusation pressed against his skin.

He passed a teacher, robes heavy with embroidered runes, who just looked through him as though Elior were already dead. The nickname clung to his skin; not carved in flesh, but burned into the marrow: Dustblood, hollow, despised, untouchable.

His shoulders hunched against the onslaught—each step a death knell between man and magic, between what he was and what he could never be.

In the amphitheater, torches flared and shadows danced up stone walls. The crowd's energy was a living force—hungry, waiting. Elior felt tiny beneath its unblinking gaze.

Children with power stepped into the arena, each performance dazzling. A girl conjured flaming birds that spiraled into a glorious arc overhead; a boy spun frost into intricate flowers sharp enough to draw blood. The applause battered Elior like sleet.

At last, his name echoed. Silence fell. Elior stepped forward, shrinking from the stares, his body anchored by dread. The air itself seemed to recoil from him.

Malrin—the cruel prince of frost—made his move, a wolfish grin twisting his lips.

“Come show us, Dustblood,” he crooned, voice like silk dipped in venom.

Elior’s hands trembled. Malrin’s magic lashed out—a book, Elior’s own, was torn free. Its pages fluttered wildly before blue fire snaked across them, devouring words and hope alike.

From the stands:

“Still zero.”

“Not even a flicker.”

“He’s a curse.”

Each word struck like a knife. Elior felt himself folding inward, knees buckling underneath the weight of their scorn.

The teachers remained silent. The truth was clear: Magic was everything. Without it, you were nothing.

Suddenly, Elior was seized. Hands like iron vices twisted his arms. Shadows—real and illusion—swirled around his legs, dragging him from the blinding torches and jeering crowd.

The hallway to the crypt gaped open—a black, ancient mouth beneath the academy.

“Let’s see if the dead have gifts for you,” a voice jeered.

“Or if you're just another meal,” another added, voice sick with laughter.

Elior’s cries were swallowed by cold stone as he was thrust into the crypt’s looming entrance. The heavy stone door did not simply close; it slammed with finality, runes igniting and sealing the exit. The darkness was absolute.

He stood in a world choked by silence and rot. The air was colder here, heavier—each breath icy, slicing his lungs. His eyes watered, stung by the stench of mildew, old blood, and unspoken secrets.

He took one step, then another, feet skidding on bones and dust. Fingers trembling, he reached out—only to draw them back at the soft give of half-rotted fabric and brittle, ancient bone.

The whispers came, crawling out of the walls:

“So cold… so empty...”

Elior whipped around—nothing but darkness. Yet something pressed close, unseen, its presence anchoring shadows to his skin, to his soul.

A coffin loomed, cracked and ancient. Carved in its surface—

His name. He stumbled, heart clawing against his ribs. A hand—impossibly cold—brushed the back of his own.

Eyes opened in the darkness—black, ancient, hungrier than any void.

“You should not be alive,” rasped a voice riddled with centuries.

Elior tried to run, but the shadows slicked his path, rooting him in place. The corpse unfurled, tattered linens shifting, bones creaking—a silhouette more spirit than flesh.

“But maybe,” it grinned, lips peeling back, “it’s not too late.”

Air thickened, the darkness pulsing with a forbidden heartbeat. Elior’s terror threatened to drown him; every instinct screamed to flee. Yet something ancient, something despairing within, ached toward the promise the corpse held.

“You wanted power, didn’t you?” The corpse leaned closer, cold breath crawling over Elior’s cheek. “Then take it. But understand this—Elior Graves—what comes back is never what was buried.”

The crypt trembled, stone groaning, a chorus of the dead rising to hunger at the edges of the waking world. Every whisper, every taunt, every name—Dustblood, Hollow One, Curse—fell away. In this shadow kingdom, everything had a price.

Elior faced the abyss. The dark did not blink.

He reached out, trembling, as the promise of forbidden power seeped into his marrow.

In the silence, a single heartbeat thundered—a dark, ancient pact forged where hope had died and nightmares were born.