The carriage cut through the clouds like a knife, gliding smoothly through the air on a starry night. Inside, its luxurious interior housed King Rogan Black and Queen Gália Black of Sky Reaper. The floating kingdom, a marvel of arcane engineering and a whim of nature, hovered above the clouds, a sanctuary for hybrid races and a beacon of hope in a world divided by ancestral conflicts.
King Rogan was the personification of grandeur, with his impressive height of 2.1 meters that seemed to dominate any environment. He wore masterfully crafted silver armor, with golden details that seemed to pulse with living energy.
In the center of his chest, the Black family crest—a Qilin in a protective stance—was engraved with such perfection that it seemed to come alive under the moonlight. His blond hair fell in disciplined waves, and his golden eyes shone like the sun at dawn, an unmistakable characteristic of the Evolved Humans.
The Evolved Humans were a rare and revered lineage, marked by a physical and spiritual advancement that set them apart from common humans. Endowed with superhuman strength, endurance, and arcane abilities, they were seen as the pinnacle of human evolution. Their physical characteristics were impressive: luminous eyes that reflected their reinforced souls and bodies shaped to face the challenges of both the mortal and arcane worlds.
Among the floating kingdoms of Sky Reaper, Evolved Humans were not just leaders; they were living symbols of power and hope. Rogan, with his imposing presence and almost divine aura, embodied everything this lineage represented.
Beside him, Gália exuded a beauty as dangerous as it was mesmerizing. At 1.8 meters tall, her slender figure and pale white skin whispered of her vampiric heritage. Her red eyes, like molten rubies, shone with an intensity that captivated and intimidated, while her light brown hair cascaded over her shoulders.
The carriage, a masterpiece of engineering and art, was white with golden details, large enough to comfortably accommodate eight people. It was pulled by two magnificent pegasi, their snow-white wings moving in unison as they effortlessly alternated between flight and running.
After the carriage stopped with a slight jolt, Magnus Frost, the commander of the Royal Guard, opened the door with the precision of a disciplined soldier. A 2-meter tall ice elf, Magnus was an imposing figure, his light blue skin as cold to the touch as the glacier ice from which his lineage originated.
His dark blue eyes, like fragments of a winter sky, held an unwavering loyalty to his king and queen. He wore white and gold plate armor, similar in design to Rogan's, but with subtle differences that denoted his position. Magnus's helm, for example, bore a single plume from an ice bird, an honor granted only to the bravest ice elf warriors.
"We have arrived, my lord," he said in a deep voice.
"Finally." Rogan stepped out, stretching his broad shoulders. "It didn't take more than twenty minutes, dear," replied the Queen with a soft laugh.
As they descended from the carriage, Rogan and Gália spotted the Temple of Altharion, a monument dedicated to the Ancestral Arcane Beasts. It was a work of white stone, worn by time, with vines entwined around the towers. Five towers formed its silhouette: a central, larger one, surrounded by four smaller ones marking the cardinal points.
Statues guarded the path to the main entrance, imposing and pulsing with a kind of energy that could only be described as alive.
To the left, the Dragon, the Phoenix, and the Griffin. To the right, Fenrir, Leviathan, and the Qilin. Each statue was unique.
The Dragon, carved from stone that continuously changed color, exhaled golden smoke from its nostrils.
The Phoenix burned with eternal flames that danced between red, blue, and gold, as if all the life of fire were contained within it.
The Griffin, carved from golden marble, had details so fine it seemed about to take flight; around it, invisible air currents made fallen leaves swirl gently.
To the right, Fenrir, a colossal wolf, seemed molded from the night itself, enveloped in black mist that moved like a living cloak.
The Leviathan, made of dark blue crystal, seemed enveloped in a constant flow of water that ran down the stones without ever wetting the ground; its presence exuded an icy chill and ancestral power.
Finally, the Qilin, carved from white quartz, appeared almost translucent, surrounded by small floating clouds emitting a soft light; an aura of serenity and protection emanated from its figure, making it impossible not to feel reverence before it.
Each of these statues seemed more alive than dead, silent guardians of the temple and the history of the Ancestral Arcane Beasts.
"Impressive, as always," commented Gália, running her fingers over the Fenrir statue. "It feels like they're watching us."
"And they are," said Rogan, with a smirk. "Each of these statues holds a fraction of the Arcane Beasts' souls. They are more alive than they seem."
As they walked past the statues, Rogan and Gália discussed the purpose of their sudden visit.
"What could be so urgent that it couldn't wait until dawn?" Gália pondered, her eyes fixed on the damaged temple.
"I'm not sure, my dear," replied Rogan, "but I believe it has something to do with this." He nodded towards the ruined right side of the temple. "More trouble."
"We will handle it, as we always do," Gália assured, placing a comforting hand on his arm.
"I know, it's just that the timing couldn't be worse," Rogan admitted, a sigh escaping his lips. "The war between Frostgard and Eryndark is intensifying rapidly. Frostgard won't be able to hold out alone for much longer."
"Which means we will have to intervene," Gália stated, her voice firm.
"Yes," Rogan agreed. "They are our closest allies. Our families have been linked for millennia. Not to mention Maeve is there."
"Your sister knows she can count on us," said Gália. "They will ask for help when they need it."
Rogan nodded, but his mind remained clouded with worry. Before the Qilin statue, he and Gália bowed, thanking the mystical beast for its protection.
Reaching the end of the path, inside the temple, the monk Alrik awaited them. He was tall, with gleaming dark skin and yellow eyes that shone in the darkness like lanterns. His orange and white robes were simple but carried the weight of his position. However, what drew the most attention was his left arm, which was no longer there.
"King Rogan, Queen Gália. Thank you for answering the call," said Alrik, bowing, his voice heavy with reverence and urgency. "
What happened here, Alrik?" asked Gália, her voice soft yet firm. She touched the monk's wounded arm carefully, murmuring. A golden light pulsed from her fingers, and the wounded arm began to regenerate, layer by layer.
Alrik sighed, relieved. "Thank you, my queen. The situation is serious. A woman arrived here yesterday, carrying a baby. She said they were being pursued."
"Pursued?" asked Magnus, his hands automatically resting on the twin blades at his waist.
"Yes. But that's not the most alarming part. The baby… he is different." The monk hesitated. "He is not just descended from an arcane lineage. He bears a mark."
"A direct descendant of an Ancestral Arcane Beast?" Gália gasped. "That hasn't happened in millennia."
Gália and Rogan looked at each other, the gravity of the statement clear in their eyes. "Show us the baby," ordered Rogan.
When Alrik returned with the small bundle, Gália took the baby in her arms carefully, holding him as if he were already hers. Her red eyes began to glow more intensely as she murmured. A golden light, almost ethereal, emanated from her hands, enveloping the little one in a radiant cocoon.
For a few seconds, her vision penetrated beyond the skin, beyond the physical, revealing the arcane essence that inhabited that fragile body. It was a powerful, pulsating presence, moving like a storm about to awaken. She examined every trace, every symbol marked on the baby's soul, until her attention was drawn to something on his back.
Turning the small body gently, she noticed a perfect circle with ancient runes that seemed to pulse like a living heart, and in the center, the silhouette of a wolf with bared fangs, as if in mid-howl. The energy emanating from the mark was unmistakable, ancestral, and wild.
"Rogan…" Gália murmured, her voice filled with awe and reverence. "He bears the mark of Fenrir. A direct descendant." She blinked, ending the spell, and the baby opened his eyes, looking at her with an innocent, yet almost… conscious gaze.
The silence was broken only by the baby's soft laugh, as he looked at them with bright, innocent eyes.
Gália was still holding the baby when the monk, visibly distressed, stepped forward. His gaze flickered between the child and the king.
"King Rogan, Queen Gália… I cannot care for this boy. The temple lacks the resources and security to protect him from further threats. He needs you." Alrik's voice trembled, but there was conviction in his words.
"What happened tonight was just the beginning. He carries something too powerful to remain here."
Before Rogan could respond, thunder rumbled in the distance. The sky, previously calm, began to twist into dark, turbulent clouds, as if nature itself had sensed the tension of the moment. Strong winds lashed the temple towers, and the steady glow of the Arcane Beast statues began to intensify.
It was then that it happened. The statue of Fenrir, previously motionless, began to move. First, a slight tremor ran through the pedestal, and then, with a low, deep roar, the colossal figure of the ancestral wolf came to life. Its heavy paws touched the ground with an impact that seemed to echo through the temple. The air around grew denser, as if existence itself was being shaped by its presence.
Everyone froze. The monk fell to his knees, murmuring inaudible prayers. Magnus placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but the king stopped him with a gesture.
The wolf, now fully animated, walked up to Gália, its eyes shining like two golden moons. It stopped before her, lowering its enormous head until its snout gently touched the baby. Fenrir licked the child gently, as if recognizing him. Then, it raised its head and cast a direct gaze at Rogan and Gália—a look that seemed to pierce their souls, laden with ancestral wisdom.
Suddenly, Fenrir raised its snout to the sky and let out a howl that seemed to shake the temple's foundations. The sound was not just heard but felt, a reverberation that seemed to echo through their very veins. The howl brought with it a wave of energy that swept through the place, dissipating the storm in the same instant.
And then, as if nothing had happened, Fenrir returned to its pedestal. The wolf reverted to its statue form, motionless, cold, and silent as before. The wind ceased, and the temple plunged into an almost oppressive silence.
Gália looked at Rogan, her eyes wide. "Was… was that real?"
Rogan took a few steps towards the statue, observing it closely. His fingers touched the pedestal, still warm. He turned back to Gália and the baby, a renewed determination in his gaze.
"Real or not, Fenrir gave us the answer. This boy isn't just special. He's unique." Rogan reached out a hand towards the baby. "He will be ours. And he will be protected as a Black."
"Logan," said Rogan, after a moment. "That will be his name. Logan Black. The heir of Fenrir and the Blacks."
The baby gurgled happily, as if in approval, while the heavy aura that hung over everyone slowly began to dissipate.