Vinifera's Song

The Cycle of Blood and Death, the second class, Bloodmarked. It was the same name that the labyrinth had referred to me as. I had thought it was a name given to me, but it was a class. 

The world consisted of five known classes:

Forsaken- Those untouched by magic, unable to connect with their Titles. They are normal civilians. 

Bloodmarked- Those who had either awakened their Title and mana or survived the labyrinth. 

Hollowed- Their past selves acknowledge them, causing a deeper connection to the past.

Revenant- A handful exist in this world, fully merging with their past selves.

Dreadlord- The myth. No one knows what is beyond Revenant. Could they ascend to Godhood or become a better version of their past selves?

I focused on the Bloodmarked section, my fingers tightening around the book. Since that was my current level, I needed to know everything about it.

In the Cycle of Blood and Death, Bloodmarked begins the first step. They awaken their Title and Magic, slowly forging their path toward their past selves.

Some develop affinities. Others, abilities. But all Bloodmarked have one thing in common:

Stages. 

All classes possess Stages for progression, but for Bloodmarked, they are as follows.

Firstblood: The moment of realization, the spark that ignites your power, fuels your blood, and shapes your path. 

Veilblood: When the connection to the Title deepens, magic solidifies, and instincts sharpen. The past continues to the present.

Wakenblood: The first acknowledgment from the past. Memories begin to flicker, power resurfacing, and the fragments of the past bleed into the present.

Hollowbound: The final step before becoming Hollowed. The past must fully acknowledge the present. If they fail, they remain Bloodmarked. If they succeed, they ascend into a greater individual.

Some Forsaken can connect with their Title naturally, while some others...unorthodox.

"Still at Firstblood."

I exhaled. 

'Firstblood... Was that when I was under pain when Voidweaving was given to me?'

Flipping over to the next page, I froze.

The next page wasn't a map. It was something far worse.

It was history. 

History about the Forgotten.

At first, it seemed normal, things about battles, wars, and shifting rulers. But that was until I turned to the next page. 

The ink became darker, more jagged more—more distorted. A single title was centered on the page. 

'The Forgotten ____ will return.'

I wasn't sure if it was because I wasn't that adept at reading runes or if it was just distorted. It was like the word was there and not at the same time. 

"Forgotten by time itself, cast out into space. Traveler between worlds, bound to none.

"He was there, yet forgotten. He had existed, yet he had not at the same time. Was he truly a person or just a figment of our imagination? They may have erased him, but he will return.

That is the rite of the Forgotten."

This related to the runes in my back, as well as the fact I had transmigrated. Who was this other Forgotten? What did they mean by being forgotten by time itself?

The books had no more answers after that point. The page just ended there, as if I wasn't supposed to know anymore. All it had was one illustration. Making my palms sweat. A beast, or if that was what you would call it, clad in obsidian. Its head morphed with onyx eyes that could stare a hole through you, even through the page. The runes scribbled all over the last page:

The Owl. 

'RUN! RUN! RUN!'

The words clawed at the back of my mind. Before I knew it, I was soaked in sweat. The Owl gaze pierced me, even through the ink, but it seemed that whoever wrote this book had seen it—faced it.

And lived.

"How strong could this person be?"

I slammed the book shut. 

My breath came out, in uneven pulls.

'What the hell is wrong with this world?!'

***

Splashing my face with cold water, I stared into the mirror. My grey hair hung over sharp blue eyes.

The body was Alric's, yet I felt like it was mine. I could move freely, without hesitation, like someone who had just come into another body. It was terrifying.

But it was a blessing.

If I hadn't adjusted or hesitated, I would have died against that Titan long ago.

Exhaling, I pushed my hair back, tied my apron, and headed downstairs. It was time for my shift. 

Downstairs, Dorothy was preparing the barrels of ale for tonight's full house. Today the Bard was coming. 

Dorothy glanced back at me smiling, "First shift. How are you feeling, Kalen?"

"I haven't even started," I said chuckling.

Dorothy let out a hearty laugh, wiping her hands on a rag before hanging it over her shoulder. "Fair enough. Just don't go dropping any mugs, yeah? The last thing we want is an angry drunk."

Her laughter mixed with the clinking of mugs and murmurs of the growing crowd. 

For now, the horrors of the books and the Forgotten could wait.

But at the back of my mind, it was like the Owl's onyx eyes were staring at me still.

***

As the night deepened, the tavern filled up with patrons eager for warmth, drinks, and a promised tale. Laughter filled the tavern, mugs clinked together, and the smell of roasted meat spread through the tavern. Then the Bard took her place.

She was a striking woman—one with golden hair flowing through the air. Her brown eyes were sharp yet unreadable. She sat on a wooden stool in front of everyone. 

"Hello, for those who don't know me, I am Lyria. I'll be performing Vinifera's Song."

Cheers spread through the tavern as she plucked the first note, and then it became all silent.

She did not sing about glory or hope. 

She sang about blood and treachery.

** "Oh, beware that hand that offers peace, 

For its dagger remains unseen.

Through kingdoms, vast and battles won,

A shadow walked between.

He bore no crown, yet kings would kneel,

He bore no throne, yet empires swayed.

With a white lie turning into a whisper,

His path in treason laid.

The crowd stayed silent. Some leaned forward, some exchanged wary glances.

The Black Oathbinder, sworn and false,

His name is etched in deceit.

He would speak of oaths and break it the very next day, 

A promise made, a blade unsheathed,

A pact he'd never keep.

The kings who placed their trust in him,

Lay hung on his walls the next day.

Their banners burnt, their kingdoms drowned,

In silence, came their fall." **

Murmurs ripped through the audience. Some knew of this tale, some hearing of this for the first time.

The Black Oathbinder

A name spoken in hushed tones, a treacherous being who bore this Title, never kept their word.

A figure lost to time, yet he remained in history.

Some say he may reappear.

**"And so his name carved in ash, 

His kingdom stood on bone.

A ruler feared, a tale retold.

Yet he stood all alone.

Oh, beware of the hand that offers peace, 

For its dagger remains unseen.

Should you answer the Oathbinder's call, 

You shall know the very meaning of what treason means." **

The final harmonious note lingered in the air, leaving everyone mesmerized. Lyria let the silence sit before she finally bowed.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, applause broke the silence, though not the same as before. Some drank deeply, some muttered about past kings and past betrayals.

I poured ale into a mug while being deep in thought. The Black Oathbinder, a name carved in infamy. A treacherous man who always left blood in his wake. He trusted no one and rose to the top through those means.

A man who existed, who could not be erased by history no matter his means.

The opposite of me. 

I was Forgotten.

Shaking the thought away, I focused on what mattered. I need to go to Lannis's Solace in two days. 

And before that—

I needed to get my sword back from Gundr.