Blood Immortal
Prologue

The Spell From Hell

The sky above the fertile kingdom of Vlydyn darkened, stars vanishing. South of the humyn cities, thunder crackled. Icy rain pummeled down, drenching the fields and forests. Clouds rippled, folded, tore apart, and reformed. Lightning struck across the midnight sky, and the ruptured heavens flashed red.

The humyns of Vlydyn were horrified and took refuge in their homes. Fortunately for them, the storm wasn’t as dreadful in the northern kingdom where they resided. The southern regions were more rural, covered with thick forests and abandoned ruins. Far past the dense wildernesses and derelict ruins, at the southern tip of Vlydyn, stood Fal’shar, a citadel along a coastal cliff. It was here where the source of the storm grew.

A deep mist engulfed the stronghold. Menacing waves below splashed against the jutting cliff. Thunder boomed. Unicorns and centaurs living near the citadel’s outskirts scrambled away, trying to replace caverns to hide in. Others foolish enough to linger were struck down by blood-red sparks of lightning. The weather became progressively more violent, yet the stronghold and its towers remained intact.

Despite the citadel being a thousand years old, its charcoal stonework shone as though it had just been built. Inside the main tower stood a spiral staircase; the stony steps led from the bottom dungeon to the spire where a candle-lit chamber lay decorated with talismans, rotten flesh, and blood-spattered runes. On a throne made of humyn bones sat Saldovin Keldoran, leader of the Mor’vyi’dou—dark elves—and master of the dark art of necromancy. His fingers drummed over the arms of his throne, the ornately carved bones feeling like smooth porcelain to his touch.

He eventually rose and walked to the middle of the dimmed chamber, his black robe rustling. In the center lay a magical symbol of a nine-pointed star that he’d delicately drawn using his own blood. Though his face remained concealed by the shadows, the onyx cauldron before him gave out a glimmer of light from its contents, revealing his youthful dark-blue skin, long pointy ears, and dank white hair that drooped to his chest. Staring at the swirling contents, he embraced the wicked ethos of his people—raising his gaunt hands—and began to speak in a diabolical tongue:

“Xia mok vu elis fe’de ock me’iela,” he uttered with composure. His archaic words spun around the spire like a curse, the land around it rumbling and shaking the very foundations of the citadel. “Zye det kel a’dos ve gala kar qon,” he continued, focused without any sign of hatred or indifference.

As lightning flashed through the spire’s balcony, momentarily lighting up the chamber, the cauldron’s glossy pool of death sizzled and bubbled wildly. The crimson rune that Saldovin stood on gleamed. Without hesitation, he slit his forearm using his sharp fingernails, letting his blood trickle into the pot.

Once the blood fused with the cauldron’s contents, an orange-red wisp puffed up into the air. The apparition had blazing eyes, sidelong horns, a chin with thong-like tentacles squirming about, and a rattling tongue. Silence descended upon the chamber, broken only by a chilling hiss and heavy breathing. The apparition’s burning eyes stared hard at Saldovin; they were the eyes of a demon from the nether—the realm of demonic hell.

“You have one chance to explain why I have been conjured here, Mor’vyi’dou,” said the demon, his voice booming and causing the tower to tremble.

“A most worthy sacrifice awaits you, Izabaldo,” said Saldovin, bowing.

When he gestured at the balcony, a slim figure emerged from the shadows. Her opaque blue skin appeared black in the dim chamber. Though several centuries old, she looked young and beautiful, her slender frame swathed in a silky robe that matched the color of her wide amethyst eyes. With dignity, she approached the ethereal demon who glared at her.

“I am no fool!” bellowed Izabaldo, fire blowing from his wispy mouth and releasing an acrid stench into the musty air. “The Mor’vyi’dou have never sacrificed their own kind. Humyns are the only devious beings who would attempt to do such a thing.”

Pain ripped through Saldovin’s skull, forcing him to lurch over in agony. He rubbed his burning nostrils and tried desperately to conjure the right words to appease the hissing atrocity before him. “It is true, oh great Izabaldo,” he finally said. “But our glorious heritage is at stake. My sister, Telaria, has agreed to sacrificing her life for this cause. And though I shall retain my life, I am willing to relinquish my immortality.”

Without a moment’s notice, Telaria was lifted into the air and pulled over to the sadistic demon. Fiery smoke puffed from his mouth, studying his would-be gift. Although Telaria was a dark elf—fearless by nature—she looked stunned by Izabaldo’s actions. She nevertheless made no attempt to flee, offering herself to the demon.

“Intriguing,” grumbled Izabaldo, examining her. “You are no defect. As a matter of fact, your connection to the arcane is stronger than most Mor’vyi’dou.” His eyebrows furrowed as he asked, “Why sacrifice such power?”

“The humyns shame us,” said Telaria, her eyes glistening with hatred.

“That is an understatement,” said Saldovin without so much as a glance. Turning his attention back to Izabaldo, he continued, “Parla’vasa, the high elf princess of Lar’a’dos, has agreed to marry the humyn prince of Vlydyn. I dare not speak his despicable name.”

Izabaldo released the dark elf, laughing. “Prince Aarian and Princess Parla’vasa?” he said with amusement.

“Hear me, oh great Izabaldo: I surrender my life to you!” she cried out, raising her hands in submission. “This union of the eternal race cannot occur. We must prevent this atrocity at all cost.”

“Your eternal life is quite the bargain,” said Izabaldo. “The consequences of my actions shall be on your head, Mor’vyi’dou.”

“I will bear the burden,” said Saldovin without regret. “Do whatever you must to rid the world of this pathetic arrangement.”

Izabaldo snorted and said, “Very well.”

When the demon agreed, he vanished into the cauldron. At that precise moment, Telaria choked and shuddered in midair. She looked at her brother and attempted to speak, only to let out a shrilling screech that echoed in Saldovin’s ears, stabbing at his black heart like a frosted blade. He stared at her for the first time with remorse—not for unleashing a demon upon humynity but because he was sacrificing his own sister.

“Forgive me,” he muttered.

Telaria hovered over the bubbling cauldron, continuing to scream horrifically while her skin slit apart. Then the scalding fire below the cauldron blazed into an emerald fury, devouring her. When she vanished, so too did the wrathful storm fade away into oblivion.