In the hallowed heart of the Celestial District, where only the Seven Founding Families resided, moonlight bathed the towering spires of House Caelum in a divine glow. The estate stood as a monument to justice, its domes shaped like open palms reaching to the heavens—an emblem of their beliefs. Among nobles, the Caelum were different. They spoke of duty to the common folk, of sharing power, of breaking the silent chains of oppression. They were noble not just in name, but in spirit.
And for that, they were condemned.
The night split open with screams. Fire blossomed like poisoned roses across white marble roofs. Sword and sorcery ripped through hallways where laughter once echoed. Servants and elders alike fell, overwhelmed by masked enforcers cloaked in shadow and bound by royal seal.
In a quiet chamber, guarded by ancient glyphs and muffled walls, an infant slept soundly in a cradle of starlight. The child—Aurelion Caelum—was the last bud of a house that dared to dream differently.
His parents fought to their final breath. His uncles and aunts shielded their kin with their lives. In the end, only silence remained, punctuated by the crackling of flame and the metallic stench of blood.
King Thalor the XII stood atop the desecrated grand staircase, flanked by the two eternal Royal Guards. His robes of black and crimson fluttered in the heat like the wings of a vulture.
He surveyed the ruin below. "So ends the Caelum folly."
A commander approached, bowing. "The boy was found, Your Majesty. An infant. Shall we—?"
"No." Thalor's voice was sharp. "He bears the mark of the Seven. His blood is bound to the Source. Kill him, and the magic wavers. The balance fractures."
He walked through the carnage, stopping before the chamber where Aurelion slept, untouched by the massacre. He stared down at the infant, who stirred but did not wake.
"Let him grow," the King said. "Let him believe his family still serves me. A weapon with no purpose is easier to control."
He turned to the royal enforcers. "Place him under the care of the old nanny. She's loyal—and wise enough to fear me."
A burst of blue light sealed the memory. Every witness to the massacre was silenced or erased. The tale of House Caelum's fall became forbidden knowledge, struck from archives and lore.
And so, Aurelion was raised within the noble circle, a child of privilege, respect, and mystery. His surname commanded fear, and no one dared utter the truth. Not his tutors. Not the council. Not even the kind old nanny who swaddled him in bedtime lies.
"They're on royal duty," she whispered when he asked about his parents. "Serving the King with honor. They'll return one day."
She never cried in front of him. Never hesitated, even when his bright eyes searched hers for answers. But deep inside, she mourned the truth every time he smiled.
And so, the child grew.
He studied harder than most. Walked straighter. Spoke with quiet grace. People said he was wise beyond his years. But the unanswered questions festered—like a seed buried in ash.
He would live unaware for years, the truth locked away. Until the whispers reached him.
Until curiosity became rebellion.
Until memory returned.
And then, the last son of Caelum would rise.