Ashes of a Fool

Lucan layed on the floor, hands and legs wide apart, right there on the ritual circle.

Surrounded by those he grew up with, trained with and those he called his own.

They said the ritual was for him. That the altar and chanting priests were all part of his Ascension, his baptism into the next level, into what he had been trained to be since he could walk.

He believed them.

Of course, he did.

Lucan Malryk, a orphaned boy turned loyal disciple, layed there beneath the midnight sky with stars reflecting in his wide, naive eyes.

They had clothed him in white—ironic really, and told him he was chosen. That the gods had finally opened their eyes.

But what he didn't know, couldn't know, was that his ascension was nothing more than a well-timed execution.

The High Inquisitor, the man who singlehandedly brought him up kissed his forehead like a father would to his beloved son…

Then drove a blade straight into his chest.

Lucan's scream never reached the heavens, neither did it reach hell.

As he collapsed onto the runes, the symbols flared red, feeding not on his power, but on his pain.

He saw their faces, all of them.

Even her Aelira, with tears in her eyes and a knife in her hand.

"You were too pure, Luke," she had whispered as she twisted the blade.

"And purity… doesn't survive in our world."

Then darkness.

But death didn't take him.

No… something else did.

---

Somewhere beneath the altar, in all that darkness, Lucan's soul sank.

And something was waiting... Watching.